The Chain of Events

There are three reasons it has taken me over a month to make my next post:

1. Chemo kicked my ass.

2. After I hit the "publish post" button I had instant regrets. I had to put a little more thought into this idea. All of a sudden everyone would know what was going on with me... I was exposed, hyper-exposed, UBER-exposed... Will I ever get another date?? I almost deleted it, but I didn't have the energy.

3. I got SO sick of hearing "Oh! I am so SORRY!" Fuck you. I don't feel sorry for you. I started saying "I have cancer. It's not like I'm dying." But I had to stop saying that. I will no longer say that I have cancer. By saying you HAVE cancer it's like you own it, and cancer is surely not mine. However... I have not yet come up with another way of describing it. Somehow, "I came down with the cancer" doesn't really work either.

Many of you have probably also figured out that my phone has been shut off and stored in a cool, dry place since about the end of February. It was either turn it off or let it blow up from OVERringing. Once I started therapy I entered my healing zone and talking on the phone was not an option. Actually, typing wasn't even an option after the poison injections got into full swing. So, I apologize to the throngs of you that were expecting a return phone call. And you probably still won't get it. I realized what I have always suspected; I hate talking on the phone and plan to do very little of it in the future.

So here's what happened:

Jan 28th: That Dr lady really pissed me off. I didn't think it was even LEGAL to tell a patient they PROBABLY have cancer, let alone someone's daughter..., someone who has never even had a cold for longer than a week..., someone who took their vitamins every s-i-n-g-l-e-d-a-y..., someone who was just starting to get a grasp on where their future might take them....... Lucky for me, the friendly neighborhood Delnor on-call oncologist was handy that evening and he popped his head into my room to justify just that fact... indeed, it was PROBABLY cancer. (Side note #1: I had to ask the oncologist what an oncologist was. He was amused. I was not. Side note #2: Once assigned a hospital room, complete with hospital room number and hospital bed, one is apparently property of that hospital and doors mean nothing. I found out that patient privacy and patient sleep schedule is not pertinent in this situation. Always close the door to the bathroom in your public hospital "suite" when you have to go number two or the friendly neighborhood on-call gastroenterologist just might see your goods... yes, I speak from experience. But, haha, he probably didn't really care.)

So I guess the radiologist called the Dr. who called the oncologist who called the gastroenterologist who called my actual primary care Dr. who called my mom and this was all before 11pm that night. Before I was allowed the attempt to drift into an impossible nightmare/panic ridden sleep, I was sent to radiology again, this time for a pelvic/vaginal ultrasound. Fun stuff there. Upon return to my room, my blood was drawn at least 100 times. And maybe 10 more times in the middle of the night. The happy little bitches told me I'd get used to the needle being stuck into my veins. Well, to this day I cannot even get my finger pricked without flinching like a baby and I blame it on all those unnecessary blood draws. Momma was about to find the head nurse and tell her to get her shit together. I was informed that one of the above professionals had ordered a liver biopsy early the next morning.WTF? Why? The "why me?" shit had officially begun.

Jan 29 (momma's birthday): Sweet Princess Di pretended to be nonchalant about waking up on the couch in my hospital room on her 59th birthday. Her only daughter PROBABLY had cancer and she was a year shy of official senior citizen status, but outwardly she was in bright spirits. I, on the other hand, had been flopping around for hours, wondering exactly how much of my liver was about to be sucked through a straw. Some sweet, obnoxiously healthy nurse came in around sunrise to set up my IV. I never really realized that I'd have to be put under for the procedure, and now I was freaking out. She said they'd be taking me right away. Four hours of staring at the needle in my hand later I was wheeled out of the room on my own bed. I wanted to pull the covers over my head in case I ran into someone I knew. I was healthy dammit!!! Let me walk! Momma was by my side the whole time. "Infinite love and gratitude, infinite love and gratitude". She told me to repeat those words over and over again, and the next thing I knew I was back in my room.

Sometime that afternoon they finally let me leave. My back was sore where they had rammed a hollow needle through my rib cage and filled the hole with styrofoam so it wouldn't ooze liver tumors. (Hey, my imagination was going crazy...) I was told to expect biopsy results in 2-3 days. I remember walking out to the Jeep, it was crisp and sunny, and as I started the engine it hit me that this was all a really messed up dream. We went home and ordered pizzas for momma's birthday, at her request. The nightmare was over and life was back to normal.

Jan 30th: HAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding! When I woke up I remembered I PROBABLY had cancer!!! Dad went about his business and momma and I cleaned ourselves up to meet one of our closest dear friends for lunch. A friend with so much spiritual enlightenment, we would surely glean some pertinent info regarding my next step towards recovery. I remember feeling like I was in a tunnel. I couldn't figure out what was taking momma so long to get ready. Soon she hobbled into the kitchen with tears streaming down her cheeks, she had fallen on the ice in the driveway, but she was ready to go. I got her an ice pack. By the time we reached the restaurant her knee was swollen like a basketball. When we got home she was barely tolerating the pain. An x-ray revealed a broken patella. I wasn't sure if I felt sorry for her or if I was pissed. I mean, who was gonna take care of me now?????????

Feb 2nd: GROUNDHOG DAY, the day I got the call from the oncologist. God being a bit inappropriate??? I think so.

I was on the fence regarding my opinion of said oncologist. I was a little put off by his premature half-ass diagnosis the day of my CT scan, but he was young and handsome. On the other hand, his eyes were sad, like he was trying way too hard to seem sympathetic. After all, to him I was "newly diagnosed cancer patient #1,245,672" and all he saw were dollar signs. (I'll point out the foreshadowing here... this blog may have some not-so-subtle undertones about how I feel about modern standard medicine. So, it's not all about me. The reader may even find themselves learning a thing or two about my fascination with nutrition, health, exercise, fat people, grocery stores, alternative health care, cream sauce, fabulous frilly undergarments, and glucose hungry cancer cells. Not really a disclaimer, more of a warning. Don't read it if you don't like bad words and medical miracles that invoke spiritual belief.) My phone rang well past 6pm and at first I was impressed that he was contacting patients well after office hours. And, on the other hand, WHAT THE HELL??? It's past 6pm! I've already chewed all my fingernails off. Thanks for making me wait, prick! His tone was conversational. I was driving the Jeep down a four lane highway and didn't feel the need to pull over, I was tough and it was just another phone call, I didn't want to give it special distinction.

"Your tumors are all malignant. You have stage four adenocarcinoma (that means it's cancer in a gland) of unknown primary (that means they don't know which gland). There are two fist-size tumors in your liver, one by your gallbladder, and many more smaller metastases (places the cancer has moved to but they don't know why since they don't know where it started) down by your bladder and in and around your intestinal cavity. More than 8, less than 12. (Many of his words were above my vocabulary level. I am recounting it in my own terms. I did not appreciate his patronizing tone. I was ready to hang up on him... for a number of reasons....) You have few choices. Since we do not know where the cancer originated, I suggest starting full-body chemotherapy as soon as possible. Do you have any questions?"

I felt my cheeks turning red. I pulled over.

"No."

"How would you like to proceed?"

"I'll call ya back." Click. It made me feel better to hang up on him. :)

I was over the fence, he was officially a prick.

I have since filled out thousands and thousands of forms, many of them asking the date and type of my diagnosis. I continuously and presently find amusement in writing... Date: Groundhog Day, 2010... Type: Nobody knows.

Groundhog Day 2010 was the day I realized that my life was in my own hands. I had many many many many many (to infinity) decisions to make and I was NOT going to start with traditional and lethal cancer treatments unless they dragged me to the sterile IV room by my toenails. I needed more answers and I needed more opinions. My enrollment into Cancer University had been accepted!

Lots of things happened all of a sudden. I forgot that I wasn't happy with my weight. I forgot about my friends that wanted to go out and get wasted. I forgot about the Geneva Police Dept (story may or may not arise in the future. Probably not.) I forgot about my dead end job. I forgot about boys that I had crushes on. I forgot about looking for the perfect new house. I quit returning phone calls. All of a sudden my life was about ME. In a way it was refreshing, still is. In a matter of minutes I realized that I had to concentrate on me or I would die. I was in a zone, albeit foggy. Every second that I was awake my mind was thinking about my next step.

Right now my mind is thinking about how much I have to pee. This was supposed to be a simple timeline of chronological events. I guess I had more to say than I thought.

To be continued.....

Namaste

It's a start... but it's gonna be a journey

The sun is always shining on Maple Park. Maple Park, IL is where my parents, Farmer Dick and Princess Di, happily and lovingly reside. Their single story brick home on Thatcher Rd is warm and efficient. Momma keeps her pantry and her wine rack full, ready and welcome to any stray visitor. Pops rarely lets his heart rate fall or the grass grow around his boots; if the sun is up, there is something that he should be doing, even if it's just sorting the day's recyclables. Farmer Dick calls his little corner of the world "God's Country" and I have challenged that title for years. All my life I have wondered what I did to deserve two such amazing people as parents. They say you actually "hand-pick" your parents before your life begins, so I don't know how I was able to pluck two angels from God's posse without His knowledge. These two reverent beings raised me and my two younger brothers to believe we could be whatever we damn well wanted to be AND told us they would support us every step of the way.

I'm sure they now look back on that decision with humor and long for their young blissful ignorance.

Farmer Dick told me shortly before he dropped me off in front of Thompson Hall for my freshman year of college that I should write a book. I knew that I never had any reason to disagree with him, life has a way of coming at me from extraordinary angles, even *I* find it hard to ignore. And then there was the fact that I was the only kid at W.I.U. unloading all of my worthy possessions from the brown and orange family motorhome (Dad likes to find many uses for his recreational belongings...). I didn't know it at the time, but that aging Leprechaun Coachmen was soon to see it's last bonding Biddle family cross-country adventure and my next big college relocation would be made from Dad's red cattle trailer. I have always walked a colorful path.

What you are currently reading is a manifestation of said book idea. I, in no way, think that my life is so incredibly interesting that it simply must be published. I do not intend to teach you big important stuff or use really big words so you think I'm smart. I have, however, met many MANY incredible people who have joined me in my life's journey that will be included in the stories that are to follow. I haven't decided how this will be organized, if at all. I haven't decided how deep I will delve into my utterly fascinating personal life. But this new journey is exactly that... new. I encourage your ideas, statements, memories, and anecdotes.

So many of you deserve my return correspondence, and I find myself having difficulty coming up with the strength and courage to respond to everyone individually while still protecting myself. I started writing different little stories to different people and trying to come to the same conclusion at the end. I realized how much I was shape-shifting to everyone's personality. Soon the pressure became too tremendous and the letters became a source of exhaustion. It has recently hit me like a brick that many of you don't know who I really am and for some reason I felt the need to protect myself. I wear a condom so thick that I have managed to shade myself from everyone I have ever met, over the years becoming timid around my own opinions, and even worse around the opinions of everyone else. So in order to do this correctly I guess I need to peel back the layers of my own onion. Let the stories begin...

More of this will come out as it needs to, but I needed to find a starting point before I could even engineer my outline. What very few of you know is that I'm like a spiritual hippie throw-back tree hugger freak, and I have tromped around for the last half of my 35 years shielding almost all of myself from the world. And from you. Until now...

Momma raised us on garden grown vegetables and homemade bread. We were denied white sugar at an early age, unless it was in the form of a cube, a cube stored wayyyyy back in the cupboard and only brought out as a special treat for my pony. My brothers and I snacked on celery filled with peanut butter and raisins. We didn't have loads of stupid toys and dolls. We had die cast John Deere pedal tractors and sandboxes, huge snow piles, books, hollowed out trees, and plenty of chores. My momma would never label herself as a "flower child", she was a farmer's wife, but she raised us as close to the earth as she knew how. We were infants when we experienced our first ride through the snow. She had to be outside if the sun was out, and she HAD to take us with her, so she used bailing twine to tie an orange crate to an old rusty sled with runners. She bundled us in every blanket she had and stuck us in that box and then pulled us all over the farm. And all the while my pops was smiling happily from his combine or his tractor or his grain cart, pleased his kids were growing up dirty on the farm.

Except I ended up a little different. I didn't want to be in 4-H and I didn't want to spend all my time in the barn. I liked to draw. I drew my way through high school and painted my way through college. And I was good at it (I could guess this is the part where ol' Dick & Di started to second guess their "unconditional support" plan). I was so good at it that it wasn't a challenge anymore, so I figured the rest of my life would be a breeze. I wore black combat boots with miniskirts, I pulled espresso at the local coffee shop, I thought my shit didn't stink, and I wanted to learn everything I could about everything I came into contact with. I loved everyone and wanted MORE of everything. My roots were still on the farm and I think that gave me the little balance I possessed, but I soon started to run around the country looking for answers. I pushed my body daily, both at the gym and after classes. I learned that I believed in God but also in the way of the Divine. I read, respected, and adored anything I could get my hands on written by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, but also by Charles Bukowski, Robert Pirsig, Ken Kesey, and Richard Brautigan. I remember thinking that Benjamin Hoff's 'The Tao of Pooh' was one of the most profound books of it's time (and yes, that's Winnie the Pooh). I studied Buddhism, devoured beat poetry, worked daily on balancing my chakras, and practiced prana yoga. I LOVED to work out, I loved the body that I was in. I ate meat at that time. I recycled everything I used and frequently went to teachings or seminars being held on how to make our beautiful earth a greener place. I thought Earth Day and Arbor Day were extremely relevant holidays. I played in the mountains and meditated on the beach. When all of this caught up with me, I would restore my chi with beer. Lots of beer. I loved to party. I was good at that too...

I soon needed more answers, but I had infinite more questions. I was an art major, and a good one DAMMIT, but I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do about it. I was losing my spirit and gaining a beer belly. I graduated, moved to Boulder, CO and landed a job as the traffic manager/managing editor for a spiritual spoken-word multi-media publishing company called Sounds True. Now I had it all at my fingertips: I studied Caroline Myss and her healing archetypes, Jack Kornfield and his way to meditation, and Eckhart Tolle and finding life's purpose. I waddled my fat ass as far up the mountain as I could and prayed for God's light to show me the way. I poured myself into Rumi, Sufi, and Hafiz. I was entranced by Kamasutra (which I could use a LOT of right now) and I dated boys with stars in their eyes. I never believed in modern medicine or pharmaceutical drugs, I learned how to heal using crystals, essential oils, herbs, and homeopathic medicine. I went to Reiki sessions, hundreds of massage therapists, and the meditation bell always went off at 11am. I was writing poetry, keeping a sketch book, BUT never missing my appointments at the local tavern. Somehow, no matter how much I daydreamed about bathing in the Ganges or hanging prayer flags in the Himalayas, I still couldn't ditch the alcohol induced social life. And it soon caught up with me. My spirit wasn't flowering on the bar stool, and neither was my pocketbook. I left the only job that had given me the most incredible potential to become the person my spirit thought I was, and I came back to IL. "God's Country"................

The downward spiral had begun. I started bartending and I loved it. Being behind the bar was mindless and I got to meet everyone in town. I put down my sketchbook and my book of Rumi. The numbers on the scale started to rise even higher. I left behind the person that I wanted to be and closed my eyes, thinking that if I stopped working on finding "it", "it" certainly would have to find me. And I needed the comfort of my family to do it. I dated a number of swell enough guys, telling myself every single time that they were wonderful and perfect. Only to admit to myself much later that it would never have worked anyway because I was always hiding somewhere. They were all sweet and simple, but I had wayyyy too much going on. I didn't want them to know that I really wanted to go to Tibet someday instead of Hawaii, I didn't want to explain my theories about why we should recycle to save our planet, I just didn't want to share those inner jewels of myself. Or anything about myself actually. I thought it would be too taxing to explain who I was and what I had really done. Instead, I became a socialite. The party girl who's territory was only west of Route 47. I didn't need to think anymore, I didn't need answers and I didn't need to explain anything. Answers took too much effort. I fell into a government job at the county level and I felt the stamp on my forehead burn. I was really a number now. I had benefits. Wow. I went to the bar everyday after work. My "friends" were there and I didn't have to think about what I was doing to myself. The money sucked so I pursued my fruitful government career even further and got hired at the Division of Transportation. Ooooh, NOW I got to punch the time clock using my fingerprint. My dreams had come true.

The story is quickly getting out of hand, and OBVIOUSLY, I have left out about 99.5% of the details. We all fall into patterns and patterns quickly evolve without us even noticing. My last long term relationship left me without a home of my own and I found myself residing in Mom & Dad's Maple Park basement. It was an eye opener. Single, 34 years old, and wondering why I lost control. I poured myself into YET ANOTHER physical lifestyle change as a means of finding a little corner of my spirit again. I started working out just as often as I had before. I changed my diet and was at the gym at 5:00AM AND 4:00PM EVERY SINGLE DAY. I was working on uplifting my mind to the place where I thought I used to be. Even the drinking slowed down, a little. I went back to practicing yoga twice a week and had started talking to trainers at the gym about training for a triathlon this summer. By the second week of January 2010 I was running 3x per week, spinning 2x per week, and swimming 3x per week. Plus the yoga, plus a vegetarian diet, plus a push up and weights regimen. I was getting stronger, but my mind wasn't at ease. And I wasn't losing ANY weight. I also felt like shit.

Finally, I had enough, I wanted to excel this time so I needed to find out what was wrong with me. I went to our family doctor (momma works there and got me in at the last minute) on Thursday January 28th because I was ready to confront whatever obstacle was in my way before I continued on this rigorous training schedule. My bloating just wasn't going away and it was difficult to get into some of the yoga poses that were normally easy for me: those were my two complaints when the doctor asked me why I was there. She was concerned, unusually concerned I thought. And then she sent me to the hospital for a CT scan. Not the next day, not the next week, I was to be in radiology at the hospital in a half hour. Naturally, I was pissed because it was girls night and I was looking forward to drinking copious amounts of wine with ladies I hadn't seen in weeks. Apparently it wasn't gonna happen because I had to drink a cup of water-flavored dye and they wanted to make sure it got everywhere it needed to be so I had to sit there for an hour. Anyway, that hour turned into two, the procedure took a while and then I learned that my doctor wanted me to sit in the waiting room until my results came back. Girls night never happened.

I was wearing my fluorescent yellow/green highway maintainer winter jacket and my steel toed winter work boots. I was toasty warm as I was laying on my back taking up four chairs watching TV in the radiology waiting room, looked a little funny, but felt just fine. As I type this my blood has started to run just as cold as it did that night. It was about 9PM and the waiting room attendant informed me that a transporter with a wheelchair would be arriving any second to take me to my room and that I should probably make arrangements with my boss with regards to not showing up to work the next day. I was being admitted because "they" wanted to run more tests. My blood felt like it stopped running, my hands were cold. I thought I was just waiting to hear from my doctor. Apparently, my doctor was already waiting for me in my hospital room. As the events of Thursday January 28th, 2010 unfolded, my personality began to change. As I took my first humiliating and mandatory ride in a wheelchair down the corridors of Delnor Hospital, I was conscious of a thick wave of calm that came over me from my head down. I took off my familiar highway maintainer outfit, changed into hospital scrub pants, and sat for the first time ever in my own hospital bed. I no longer felt tough, strong, or courageous; I needed my mommy. And my daddy. With the doctor standing over me I dialed momma's number. When she answered I was surprisingly calm, not even shaking.

"Momma" I said, "I'm at Delnor. I need you to come here. They admitted me after my CT scan. They want to run lots of tests tonight. They say I probably have cancer."