Cancer Support Groups Importance Among Patients

When a person is diagnosed with cancer such as mesothelioma, it can be a frightening diagnosis to deal with by the individual. However, support groups are available that are extremely helpful while dealing with cancer. When the individual discovers others are going through similar experiences, the survivor realizes that he/she is not alone in the struggle with cancer.

Cancer Support Groups Offer Understanding

Support groups are a valuable tool for patients dealing with cancer because the people understand what the person is going through as they have gone through similar trials concerning the cancer. The groups offer an open forum for people to talk about their struggles with the others listening with compassion and understanding. When someone else has gone through a similar struggle, it can take away the feeling that the individual is alone with the cancer. Different support groups are offered which may deal with the specific type of cancer the individual is facing such as mesothelioma or lung cancer.

Cancer Support Groups Offer Hope

Cancer can be a difficult burden to carry. It can be tempting for the survivor to lose hope with the cancer diagnosis as well as the other struggles in the individual’s life. In a support group, people are there for each other to offer support and hope to one another, which can be particularly helpful for those facing the reality of a grim mesothelioma prognosis. The hope found with knowing others are dealing with a cancer diagnosis is helpful and offers continued strength while coping with a cancer diagnosis.

Cancer Support Groups Offer Valuable Advice

People attending a support group offer a wide range of experiences as a result of the cancer. Through these experiences, each individual can play a key role in helping others by offering advice about what has helped them in their experience with cancer. Education, which is shared, can offer valuable insight to each member of the group. Valuable coping skills such as dealing with the medical profession and dealing with the cancer side effects and treatment can be offered to the group. This will help each individual grow and learn how to deal with the cancer in a productive manner.

It is often helpful to have other people to support an individual in dealing with a diagnosis of cancer such as mesothelioma. The American Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute provide valuable resources and additional information on support groups located in different areas of the country. There are a variety of formats which these support groups offer. While dealing with a cancer diagnosis, a support group can offer understanding and strength to each individual in the group.

I thought the first call I got from Janis would be like the others — a lot of confused and frenetic energy wanting to talk to someone, ending with no continued contact.  In the past, it was weird for me because I didn’t know whether it was appropriate to follow-up with these women.  I didn’t know any of them very well, and I understand that the path to survivorship is a personal one — you focus on the energy that you feel is healing and will get you through the tough times.  Your bandwidth is limited.  So I let these women define the relationship and whether there would be continued contact.  None of them followed up after a few contacts.  I just assumed all of them found other sources of support and completed their Rite of Passage to become a “survivor.”  Sometimes I received confirmation that, in fact, these women made it through okay.  For others, however, I have no idea how they are doing.

Janis is different.  From our first talk, I realized that her cancer issues were very similar to mine: an awful family history with breast cancer, an unknown genetic test result, and an aggressive cancer that presented at an early age.  She called me despite being a relatively private person and not knowing me very well.  We had an amazing first talk, during which she told me the context of her finding the lump and following up with her doctors, the results of the biopsy and subsequent tests, and how she was feeling after the diagnosis and all the unanswered questions and additional tests on the horizon.  Our conversation was unnerving but cathartic for me.  I found myself reliving my experience but also having the luxury of knowing how the story “ends.”  I know how my treatment ended and what my prognosis is.  Janis is still struggling with all the information being thrown at her and she has no idea whether she will be okay.  For Janis, I think she really appreciated having someone as a reference who had gone through the process recently and who was willing to answer her questions candidly.  Janis has no illusions about the gravity of the situation she is in.  Her cancer is more pervasive than mine was and she is very lucky that she was persistent enough to follow up with her doctors about the lump she felt in her breast.  Unlike me at the same stage as where she’s at now, she knows exactly what the worst case scenario is.  She has two small children and I don’t believe there is a moment that goes by that she doesn’t consider what life will be like for her kids if she’s not around.  I had the luxury of being able to cry and break down emotionally whenever I wanted to.  She had to get off the phone with me the other day to allow her time to regain her composure before her kids came home from childcare.  Janis’ experience and her honesty in sharing it with me has given me insight into how my Mom must have felt during her cancer treatment.

Janis’ challenge is to endure what I call the “information gathering stage” and to get to the point where her treatment plan is in place and she can invest in it and in healing.  What I’ve realized since talking with Janis is that her challenge has become mine.  I am invested now.  I want to see this challenge through to the end in a way I haven’t since I went through it myself.  This is a commitment I don’t think I could have handled until now.  I’m not sure what has changed.  Perhaps an invested future survivor has made the difference.  Perhaps enough time has passed.  Whatever the case is, I am facing the reality that accompanying Janis on this path will bring up a lot of baggage for me, but I’m ready for it.  Especially if that means I’m helping to pave the path for the next generation of survivors.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agrXgrAgQ0U&ob=av2e.  Clearly they do.

My daily Tamoxifen, though necessary to insure the best prognosis for recurrent cancer, comes with a whole slew of issues resulting from inhibiting estrogen in my body.  The first thing that is driving me bat shit crazy is my menstrual cycle.  Prior to my treatment, I had pretty regular period – my cycles ran just about 30 days, I experienced very slight abdominal cramping that would alert me that I was likely to start my period on a given day, my period would last 7-8 days, and I didn’t struggle with PMS symptoms the way many of my friends did.  Now, my cycle is all over the map — my cycles have varied from 28 days to 60 days, when my period comes there’s no warning, my periods last anywhere between a few hours to 8 days, and I now deal with some of the worst PMS symptoms I’ve ever experienced (e.g. my roommate found me crying for no reason as I was watering my plants the other day).  Though I am grateful that my cycle came back online after chemo, the Tamoxifen is making life difficult in this regard.

The other problem I’m battling is balding.  I’ve sported a short pixie haircut since my hair grew back in after chemo.  Transitioning from long hair to short hair was easy — the shorter hairdo is much more my style now.  However, after my girlfriend Erin from Seattle came to visit me a couple of months ago, I realized that my cowlick is thinning.  Erin pulled me aside before she got on her flight home and tactfully noted that she thought my hair was thinning, based on what she remembered my hair and cowlick looked like before I moved to the Bay Area.  Being as vain as I am, I immediately made an appointment to see a dermatologist.  After reviewing my file, examining me, and sending me in for bloodwork to check for thyroid issues (which came back negative), my dermatologist confirmed that I was showing signs of thinning hair and that it was very likely due to the Tamoxifen.  He explained to me that decreased estrogen may lead to hair loss.  He told me that back in the day people used estrogen cream on their scalps to stimulate hair growth.  It was a very effective treatment.  However, after further research, doctors realized that use of these estrogen creams also brought with it a ton of negative side effects (though even if there were no side effects for normal folks, I’d still likely be precluded from using an estrogen cream on my scalp).  I’m now trying Rogaine to stop the hair loss.  My dermatologist advised me to use Rogaine for men, despite the warnings for women to refrain from using it, because Rogaine for men is more effective than Rogaine for women, and the main side effect for women is increased hair growth in undesirable areas, which can be easily addressed with laser hair removal.  I’m only one month into using Rogaine.  I plan to keep a photo journal to track my progress and see if it helps with the hair loss.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.  Although I embraced being bald during chemo as a natural part of the process, I definitely don’t want to go bald now.

The other problems I’ve been dealing with are all about my boobs.  Although I’ve done my best to stop sleeping on my right side to manage the pain I feel from the likely scar tissue under my right implant, I do experience some sensitivity and pain once in a while.  Also, as I think I may have mentioned in an earlier blogpost, my left areola tattoo has faded significantly.  I need to schedule some time with my plastic surgeon to redo the tattoo soon but just haven’t gotten around to it.

On a bright note, my mastectomy scars are getting smaller and less noticeable, as I have been going into my plastic surgeon’s office monthly for scar abatement treatment.  It’s so weird but so effective — imagine a tiny air gun with medication that is shot into the scar to break it down over time.  My right mastectomy scar, which was pretty thick — almost as thick as my pinky finger is wide — is now almost flat.  My plastic surgeon’s office told me that I have one or two more treatments before I’ll be done.  The scars are exponentially flatter now than they were before I started these treatments.  I’m very excited to see the final result.

For today’s soundtrack I leave you with a song that has really captured my soul recently.  I absolutely HEART Adele, and her cover of The Cure’s “Love Song” is just fantastic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHxDX5L4Az4.

I reread my post last year on my rebirthday.  I had just moved to San Francisco, my reconstruction was just recently completed, and I had a lust for life that sometimes felt like trying to drink water from a firehose.  And just as how my life at that time was vastly different from the prior year, this year’s rebirthday was also very much different from last year’s.

Since this New Year, I have spent a fair amount of time looking inward and evaluating my life in a more critical way.  I’m not sure what has caused this shift in perspective, but I find myself feeling the need to make decisions for the long term, which requires more planning and honest evaluation and less of a “fly by the seat of my pants” / “throw caution to the wind” strategy.  I feel like the honeymoon phase of my relationship with my new body is coming to an end, and now I need to figure out the answers to some hard questions that I’ve been able to avoid asking while I was in treatment, recovery, and post-recovery celebration.

Some of these “hard” questions include the following:

1.  When am I going to have my ovaries removed?

2.  How am I going to get back on a path of financial health?

3.  Am I making decisions that will help me find an appropriate partner?

I’m not sure what the answers are to any of these questions, but I’m hopeful that my continued introspective thought and analysis will yield some specific (and good) answers soon.   For now, my general plan is to have my ovaries out by the time I’m 40, I recently met with a financial planner, and I’m going to go to my friends’ Second Annual Pimp Your Friends Valentine’s Party tonight.  It will be interesting to see how my life continues to unfold and develop this year.  I just hope I don’t lose the unbridled enjoyment of life that I have built a name for since my diagnosis.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite artists: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QsXa7BOf78.  I don’t believe I’ve chosen any Jeff Buckley songs for my soundtrack until now, which I find amusing, because I believe Grace is one of the best albums of all time.  The tone of the songs on Grace tracks well with my present introspective mood.

My first trip to Punchbowl after my diagnosis came at the end of my hard-fought battle with Karla in 2008.  I had endured six months of chemo and just had my mastectomies a couple months prior.  That trip to Punchbowl in 2008 was extremely emotional.  I made every effort that year to “stay strong” so that my family and friends would not worry too much about me.  By the time I walked up the hill to Mom’s grave that year, I was a sobbing mess.  I was finally able to cry and let out all the stress that year had brought me.

My trip to Punchbowl last year was more reflective.  2009 was all about rebuilding my life.  And my body.  My reconstruction was almost complete and I was starting to feel whole again.  My talk with Mom that year was focused on wondering about what the next chapters of my life had in store for me.  I was excited, scared, but confident that I was going to take the world by storm.

What a difference a day makes.  After climbing the hill to my Mom’s grave last week, I sat on a plastic bag and shielded myself from the rain with a rainbow golf umbrella.  I noted that the umbrella was a fitting symbol, given my recent move to the Bay Area.  After settling in and while trimming the grass around Mom’s headstone, I talked about how this year has been a whirlwind of amazing blessings . . . and tragedy.  I gushed about how I’m finally at a firm that appreciates me, I’m doing work that I believe in, and I’m working with people I respect and care about.  I talked about how I fucking love the Bay Area and all my friends who support me there.  I joked that although I absolutely adore my niece, when she becomes a terror she sometimes has me thinking twice about procreating.  And then I talked about Dad.

When I got off the plane this trip, most of my family was at baggage claim to greet me.  The first thing I noticed was how my Dad has visibly aged since I last saw him.  His hair was more white, he moved much slower, and he looked tired.  Then during my stay at home, I observed that my usually active father was no longer able to walk short distances without winding himself.  As a result, he is unable to do a lot of the things that bring him joy — golfing, driving around to run errands, traveling to visit family on the neighbor islands.  For the first time, the reality of my Dad’s mortality really hit me.

While discussing this with Mom at her grave, I looked to my left and noticed a fresh grave.  Large floral arrangements covered the mound of dirt.  I thought how sad it was for the family of that recently deceased — to lose someone so close to the holidays.  Still staring at the new grave, I told Mom that I’m not ready to lose Dad yet.  I know I don’t get to make the call when he does leave us and I’ll never be ready for that moment, but somehow I’ve held onto the vision of Dad as immortal.  I can’t imagine life without him.  I can’t imagine not being able to call him when I’m having a bad day, or listen to his stories (even if I’ve already heard them tons of times before), or watch him enjoy Willie K’s “Holy Night” on Christmas morning.

I ended my talk with Mom discussing my struggles with death this year.  I’m still harboring a lot of anger about Eric’s suicide and I continue to process John’s recent unexplained death.  Eric and John are reminders of how precious and fragile life is.  I told Mom that I sure hope that I am living my life in a way that appropriately honors the second chance I’ve been given.

As I drove home from Mom’s grave in pouring rain, I realized that I would not be able to get a run in outside without getting drenched.  When I got home, I got on Dad’s stationary exercise bike instead.  I dusted it off earlier that week when the rains prevented me from going on my run.  It did not appear to have been used for some time.  Dad talked to me while I was on the bike and told me a story I had not heard before about how he learned to speak Japanese while he was in the Air Force.  My Dad never ceases to amaze me.

When I was done with the bike, he walked over to it and asked me to help set it up for him.  After turning down the resistance for him, he got on the bike for a few minutes.  I smiled, telling him to take it easy and not over-exert himself.

When I returned to the Bay Area, I called Dad when I got off the plane to let him know I got in safely.  He thanked me for calling and then proudly noted that he got on the exercise bike again that day.  He had an energy on the phone that I have not felt from him in a long time.  In this moment with my Dad on the phone, I realized that life is all about feeling like there’s something to look forward to.  Dad has felt disempowered for so long, it’s nice to hear hope in his voice again.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with my Dad’s favorite Christmas song mentioned above: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAMwsBPfRIc .

Receiving a very warm welcome from Nancy upon entering her store, one of Nancy’s friends poured me some tequila, offered me some pan de muerto (bread of the dead) and other yummy Mexican food she and her store prepared for tonight.  Nancy’s store was beautifully decorated with sugar skulls and marigolds, but the most impressive part of the store was the large altar she built to honor her deceased loved ones. The bottom foundational tiers of the altar represented various sides of her family’s deceased, and the top tier represented loved ones lost this past year.  Seeing her altar reminded me of many households in Hawaii (including my own) where altars for deceased ancestors are commonplace.  I’ll never forget the house of my childhood friend, Heidi.  Heidi and her family are Chinese, and her house had a very large altar to honor her deceased grandparents.  Fresh persimmon and/or tangerines were always on the altar and sometimes I’d find burning incense.

Many cultures have specific holidays to celebrate and honor the dead: the Obon Festival in Japan and Araw ng mga Patay in the Philippines just to name a couple.  Many Asian cultures have similar rituals for dealing with death and grieving, and it was interesting to talk to Nancy tonight about the origins of Dia de los Muertos, how the celebration of Dia de los Muertos has changed over the years in the Mission, and what Dia de los Muertos means to her.  It was nice to be reminded that I was brought up in a very similar culture, where paying respect and homage to lost friends and family is truly a celebration, and the acknowledgment of death is an affirmation of life.

All of this comes at an interesting time for me, as I found out recently that a friend of mine who I lived with when I was in law school, John Schmidt, recently passed away.  I lived with John Schmidt and seven other people in the “Big Brick House” on 50th and 7th St. in the U-District in Seattle back in 1999-2000.  John was one of the most sincere and nicest people I’ve ever known.  He was one of the few people I can truly say was really listening to you when you spoke to him.   My friends and I are still dealing with the news of his death, and I suspect I will remain confused and conflicted for a while as we slowly get more information about the circumstances of his passing (we don’t know what the cause of death is right now, as he was only 34 years old and he died unexpectedly).

John’s death has me thinking a lot about my life lately — and also my death.  I have had dreams of being re-diagnosed with cancer but with a much worse prognosis than I received when I was first diagnosed in February 2008.  I have envisioned my death and my funeral more times than I can count on both hands.  I’ve wondered what I would do if I knew I had only months to live.  I’ve contemplated who would actually show up at my funeral.  I’ve pondered who I want to deliver my eulogy.  Although these are somewhat morbid thoughts, I find the mental exercise of visualizing my death and my funeral calming.  These thoughts ground me and remind me that I am mortal.  I will die at some point.  Living life to its fullest requires an acknowledgment that our time here is finite. 

John’s recent death has reminded me of my mortality and also has reminded me to take better care of myself.  I worry that my break from Karla has made me flippant of the continued care I need to take of myself to maximize my chances that I will not die of recurrent cancer.  I recently went to see my gynecologist (who is also a breast cancer survivor) to discuss some issues I have been having with my periods (which are totally irregular right now because of the Tamoxifen I take every day) and tracking for ovarian cancer.  I was pleasantly surprised to find out that Kaiser Permanente has a program to match me with doctors from gene counseling, plastics, breast surgery, and gynecology to discuss with me my continued care and tracking for recurrent cancer.  My first appointment with this team is on November 12th.  Although I am scared to hear what these doctors have to say, I think it’s the right move for me to step back into a position where I am illuminating the potential threats to my health to understand them better rather than running away from them or conveniently forgetting about them. 

Happy Dia de los Muertos, John.  I miss you.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with a Radiohead song, as OK Computer was a well-played album in the Big Brick House, and this song is fitting for today’s post:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RByvzmmEFiQ.

On Saturday night, a few girlfriends and I met up with my new friend, Gabe, and his friends at a bar in my neighborhood.  Shortly after settling into our seats at the bar, one of Gabe’s friends, whose name is escaping me right now, got a bit irritable and wanted to go home early.  Gabe, my girlfriend Claudia, and I moved over to where he was at the bar to encourage him to stay for a bit longer, and during our conversation he made a snarky comment about my “fake boobs.”  Gabe, who I met recently (and who does not know about Karla) giggled a bit.  I raised an eyebrow to the guy and Claudia flashed the dude a look of shock.  Claudia then turned to me, shook her head, and said, “Cat, now you have to tell the story.  They’re going to feel awful.” 

I felt extremely uncomfortable, but I proceeded to tell Gabe and his friend about Karla, chemo, my double mastectomies, and the reconstruction process.  Gabe’s face went white and he immediately apologized.  Gabe’s friend stared blankly at me, speechless from the TMI I just shared with them.  It was clear they felt awful, but I have to say it did not feel good sharing my story in that way.

I’ve always been fearful of people who don’t know me judging me.  It’s been a neurosis of mine since high school.  Now that fear is more specific — I worry that people who don’t know about Karla will judge me for my big boobs.  People at my gym have flashed me questionable looks when I wear tops that expose any cleavage, but I’ve never been called out the way Gabe’s friend did this Saturday.  Although I know it’s wrong, I still feel a bit of guilt about asking Dr. Paige to make me as large as he could make me.  And my interaction with Gabe’s friend this weekend made me realize that I am still dealing with the consequences of getting the boobs I asked for and also that I need to be better prepared to deal with chachies who don’t know any better.

Please don’t laugh at today’s soundtrack , but it is fitting for today’s post:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGL2rytTraA&feature=av2e.

As I may have blogged about just prior to and immediately after my mastectomies, I have never identified my sense of beauty with my breasts.  I’ve always been small-breasted and was teased as a teen for having “mosquito bites” as breasts.  My striking feature (at least in my eyes) has always been my hair.  I’ve always had long, silky hair that was Pantene commercial-worthy.  So although losing my breasts was a shocker, losing my hair was more devastating when it happened.  I’ll never forget the day I started losing hair at an exponentially higher rate than I was used to — my shower drain clogged within a few minutes of running water over my head and I could pull out large chunks of hair.  Erin and Martin came over the next day to shave the rest of it off.

I then spent the next six months virtually hairless, stripped of the one thing that I thought made me beautiful.  During this time, I was forced to redefine my sense of beauty.  And it is telling that the ladies in my Pilates class at first thought I was a Buddhist monk.  The lesson Buddhist monks learn by shaving their heads — to lose the vanity that comes with hair — is a lesson I was forced to learn during chemotherapy.  I could no longer hide behind the false sense of security that my outward appearance usually afforded me.  People could see straight through me if I let them, so I needed to be strong enough to meet their gaze and smile back without any armor.

I didn’t realize at the time that my newly reconstructed breasts and extreme weight loss would become my new armor.  When consulting with Dr. Paige, I told him I wanted him to make my reconstructed breasts as big as he could make them, in part because I wanted to get the “biggest bang for my buck,” so to speak.  Losing my breasts in the way I did made me feel entitled to go bigger and better this time around, because my breasts would never be the same, even after the reconstruction.  The reconstruction process took longer than my cancer treatment took and was difficult and emotionally draining the whole way, so when the process was finally complete, I reveled in it.  I bought tops and dresses that would show off my new boobs and I talked about my boobs all the time.  I’ll be honest — I was obsessed with my new boobs for a long time and still am.  I’d never had anything like this in my entire life and now that I had them, I was so excited and happy to be alive and also to have this new sense of beauty bestowed upon me.

I also reveled in my new waistline, as I lost 45 pounds during the chemotherapy and recovery process.  I didn’t realize how fat I had become until looking at photos of me at John and Emily’s wedding in Tulum, Mexico, which took place a little over two months before my diagnosis.  Cancer forced me to change my diet and exercise regimen.  My four-dress-size-smaller frame added to my new boobs put me in a body that I had no idea how to handle.  I felt like a hunter who had been using a shotgun her whole life being handed an AK-47.  And like the hunter trying out that AK-47 on game for the first time, things got messy with me and my new body too.

Which brings me to the revelation that is the topic of today’s blog post.  My reconstruction and resulting weight loss, although a necessary part of making me “whole” again, has also had the unfortunate effect of allowing me to take on a new “armor.”  In the same way I was able to hide behind my beautiful hair and allow that to be the focus of my sense of beauty, I have allowed myself to get caught up in the superficial aspects of my new body.  In short, I have lost sight of the lessons I learned during chemotherapy when I was stripped of every shred of beauty I thought I had.

I came to this revelation while at a large party this weekend celebrating Claudia’s graduation and completion of her PhD, Jae’s 35th birthday, and Andy’s 30th birthday.  As is my M.O., I was dressed well with an outfit that showed off the best parts of my body.  I reveled in the attention I received and allowed myself to be distracted by several boys in the room throughout the evening.  But the next morning, as I nursed my hangover, a wave of depression came over me as I realized that my engagements with the boys that night, and quite honestly with most boys I’d engaged with since moving to San Francisco, were superficial.  I remembered how different my conversations with people were when I was bald and hairless, with black fingernails and toenails.  Superficial conversations didn’t last very long.  If someone was going to be able to have a conversation with me, they would have to dig deep and be very real, because a “how’s the weather” conversation seems silly when you’re talking to someone who clearly has a lot more going on with her than the mundane aspects of day-to-day life. I loved the conversations I had with people who I had come to know during my treatment and those who had the courage to come up to talk to me to ask me about my story.  I wore my flat chest and bald head proudly, because I knew that I had to let my inner light shine in order to have people really see me.  And more specifically, I knew that once I let my inner light shine, wonderful things and amazing conversations would happen.

I’m having more superficial conversations than I would like as of recent late, and I think my new body makes it easy for me to continue to engage in that way with others.  I would like to get back to earlier lessons learned and remember that my true sense of beauty is not my breasts or my new body.  I would like to find my inner light again.

For today’s soundtrack, I leave you with this remix of a song that haunted me as I contemplated my move to San Francisco:  http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1291402088807885648#.

Megan’s Mom went into the hospital just a week ago complaining of pain that the doctors had originally thought were gallbladder stones.  Come to find out, it was a tumor in her liver that the doctors could not pinpoint the origin of.  The doctors tried several approaches over this past week to address the tumor and control the cancer, but it was a case of Murphy’s Law as each attempt failed.  Then yesterday, after going through one session of dialysis, she went into cardiac arrest and passed away.  Her death comes not more than a week since I received word of her mysterious abdominal pain.

Megan and her Mom were extremely close.  I had the pleasure of meeting and hanging out with her at Troy and Megan’s wedding several years ago.  She had a great spirit, was always smiling (and had an infectious smile), and was very enthusiastic to meet Megan’s friends.  I found her to be absolutely charming and a great confirmation of how my awesome friend Megan came to be the amazing woman that she is.

I felt a huge sadness after learning of Megan’s mom’s illness and health battles this week.  I am exponentially more depressed since hearing of her death.  I cannot begin to fathom Megan’s experience, having been by her Mom’s side during this whole ordeal and watching the last moments of her life play out.  At the very end, as Megan explained it to us tonight, she told her to “Just go.  Go as fast as you can.” 

I have engaged in “crisis management” by visualizing my Dad’s death, which I know will happen sooner or later, but that excercise has never felt as real as it did today.  I have always been close to my Dad, and ever since I moved out of the family home our relationship has just gotten stronger and stronger.  After my diagnosis and throughout my treatment, I felt my bond with my Dad solidify even more.  The thought of losing him causes me more pain than I can express in words.  But it will happen, potentially soon, and I don’t know how well I will handle the moment he leaves me and the aftermath. 

While hanging out with Megan and Troy we discussed whether or not it would have been better to have had more time to contemplate and prepare for Megan’s Mom’s death or to have had her Mom die unexpectedly with no warning.  There really is no great answer to that question.  Listening to Megan talk tonight showed all of us that she made the most of the time she had with her Mom, supporting her all the way and never letting her forget how loved she was.  But here’s what’s more awesome — Megan did that with her Mom even before everyone learned of her Mom’s recent health issues.  And that is a lesson we all can learn.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — we don’t get to choose how or when we die, but we sure as hell can choose how we live.  We can choose to be caught up in the minutiae of life, be overly critical of ourselves and others, and spend time worrying about the things we haven’t done.  OR we can choose to live our lives in a way that, as my Dad puts it, eliminates the word “IF” from our vocabulary.  Stop talking and start doing.  Stop worrying and start enjoying.  Megan told us all tonight that the lesson she has taken from her Mom is to “just be good.”  So simple, yet so profound.  I am grateful to Megan and her Mom to, again, remind me of these very important lessons.

Today’s soundtrack is a song I heard on the radio today and one that I think is fitting for today’s post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TO48Cnl66w.

But today I was given the opportunity to appropriately contextualize the minutiae.  I received a major reality check after returning to the office from a site inspection in one of my cases.  My boss’ wife, Brenda, has been battling cancer for the past year.  I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her on several occasions in my four short months at the firm, and whenever we see each other we have a great time catching up.  She has an amazing spirit and lust for life, and I always enjoy spending time with her, even if it is for a brief moment at an attorney event with a bunch of other suits and their significant others.  Today, Brenda’s oncologist told her she has 2-3 months to live.  The cancer has spread to her liver and may have metastasized throughout her chest wall.

Suddenly, everything I had been worried about today — difficult opposing counsel in one of my cases, boy troubles, financial woes, and weekend plans — evaporated as I was reminded of a word I had not heard or considered in a long time: mortality.  I’ve earlier blogged about my very first meeting with Dr. Paige, during which he reminded me that the worst case scenario for me was death.  I had not contemplated death as an option at that point, and I struggled for a long time with his words.  I was angry — how dare he not be optimistic and supportive like my other doctors were?  I was confused — I felt like I had lost my center and did not know how to feel or interact with people anymore.  And for the first time, I felt scared.  I was not ready to face the reality that I might die at the age of 32.  Not with all the things on my life list that I had yet to do!

Dr. Paige’s blunt words to me may not have been the best package to present his message, but I soon realized that his message was an important one for me at that time: it’s one thing to be optimistic and positive about your world, but it’s quite another thing to be so blinded by optimism and positivity that you lose all sight of the reality of the challenge ahead of you when you are battling cancer.  The risks are real.  Cancer kills.

I have the luxury of having addressed the risks and conquered my battle with Karla for now.  I cannot imagine what my world would be like if I was told that Karla was back and that I had a finite amount of time to live.  Brenda faces that scenario now and has chosen to take on an aggressive chemotherapy regimen that has a 10% chance of success.  I admire her will to live and to fight, and I wonder what decisions I would make if faced with the same information.  Although I may not be able to answer that question now, I do know that I was reminded today to be thankful for everything I have, stop worrying about the small stuff, focus on the bigger picture, and really enjoy life.  After receiving the news about Brenda, I went back into my office and sat at my desk, staring at my computer blankly.  I then averted my gaze out the window to watch the beautiful setting sun on Lake Merritt, closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, and breathed out a blessing to the heavens thanking it for all that I have.  After that breath, I spent some time regrouping and reprioritizing my life.  I still have a lot more work to do in that regard, but for today, it felt good.

Forgive me if I’ve already used this song for another day’s soundtrack, but it is very fitting for today’s post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6Lp4w8wyy0.  This happens to be my Dad’s favorite karaoke song.  And on a related and jovial note, I was recently told that it could cost you your life in the Philippines if you choose to sing this song in a karaoke bar but other patrons don’t think you did the song justice: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/07/world/asia/07karaoke.html?em.  Yet another reminder that cancer is not the only thing that kills.  Psycho karaoke patrons do too.