Dale

I usually don’t know what I’m feeling unless I write about it.  When I finally do, I often surprise myself.   Right now, I have no idea how this post will end.  

In 1988, at Lauren’s first birthday party, I met my mom’s new boyfriend Dale.  My parents divorced four years earlier and I was just beginning to forgive my mom for leaving my devastated father after 22 years of marriage.  Dad had moved on, but I couldn’t.

Mom’s previous boyfriend was a loser and I thought this one would be too.  I was so wrong.

That birthday party was at Chuck E. Cheese - a ridiculous choice for a first birthday party.  Many people told me so but I was resolved in my decision to let animatronic bears terrify my first-born.  Looking back at photos, I have to laugh.   Lauren has a sad, pouty look on her face, as if to say, “I would have rather had a small party in my familiar surroundings at home.”   I was twenty-three and clueless about nearly everything.

I was engrossed in the new world of motherhood and oblivious to the fact that this single man was in a room full of strangers wearing a cone-shaped birthday hat with one of those pinching elastic bands strapped under his chin.  At the time, I never thought about how awkward a 38 year-old man should feel in this getup.  He was grinning ear to ear.  

They married about a year later and Dale became Grandaddy Dale, a term he loved almost as much as he loved Lauren and Jordan.   He and Mom moved to Akron, and we were limited to visits every few months.  They always came to Prestonsburg for Christmas, when they would bring pictures of children crowded around Santa (Dale) and Mrs. Clause (Mom).   Dale would begin growing out his beard in the early fall so he would look more authentic.  The tradition was to open presents after dinner on Christmas Eve.  Lauren and Jordan would inhale their food and stare at the Christmas presents under the tree in the next room.  Dale knew this but insisted on just one more plate of food.  The kids would scream, “Noooooooooooo!”  and he would laugh the deepest belly laugh.   He loved Christmas and he especially loved singing in the Christmas musical.

Dale has a deep bass singing voice and such a range that he could sing and harmonize with any professional or amateur, always making them sound better.    I saw this several times during Karaoke when he would ask a reluctant intoxicated patron if he could accompany him/her on their song choice.   As soon as he opened his mouth, we all could see the smile on everyone’s faces, especially the guy/girl that picked the song.   Mom always said she wished she could sing half as well as Dale so she could understand his passion for music and the hours he devoted to the Christmas and Easter musicals every year.

Surrounded by months of family drama, my father was buried on my mom’s 50th birthday.   She was forbidden to attend my dad’s funeral (I told you. Drama.).  Dale took her to his grave later that day so she could say her last goodbye to the father of her children.

When someone dies, everyone (or maybe just me) seems to glorify them and forget all offenses big and small.   I was a Daddy’s girl and unwilling to let anyone attempt to fill his shoes.  Dale never even tried, however, because he never had any children, he often referred to my sister and me as his daughters.  

Jeff and I aren’t handy or particularly fond of manual labor so every visit to Prestonsburg, Mom would always put Dale to work fixing things around the house and digging up flower beds.  Looking back, I’m thinking he must have dreaded coming here.  If he did, it never showed.  

After fourteen years of marriage, Mom died of emphysema. I will always be grateful to Dale for caring for her when she was sick, a gift I wish I could have given at the time.   I knew that he would remarry quickly so I wasn’t surprised when he announced his new love Elaine.

We met her at TGIF when we drove north to pick up our mother’s family heirlooms.  She and Dale were already seated and we walked in looking for them.  To get our attention from across the room, Dale’s new girlfriend and soon to be bride, stuck two fingers in her mouth and surprised us all with a commanding whistle you see when New Yorkers hail a cab or a zealous sports fan cheers at a game.  Gail and I looked at each other and laughed. We knew Dale had met his match and we were both relieved.   Elaine plays the piano and comes from a very musical family.  Dale now had someone who could sing with him at her baby grand piano every day.

No new bride wants to live in the shadow of her husband’s late wife, however, Elaine visited us many times over the years, often at Christmas.  I consider myself pretty progressive and tolerant of situations often uncomfortable for most people, but asking a woman with a huge family to spend the holidays with his late wife’s family is too much to ask.  Elaine, however, accepted us all as her own family, laughing and crying along with the rest of us.

Dale was very emotional.   Whether it was a happy or sad occasion, he cried very easily and unapologetically:  when Lauren asked him to sing at her wedding, he received handmade gifts, when prayers were answered, or seeing me during my cancer treatment...  It’s an endearing quality I’ve not experienced often from a man.  

Although Dale and I disagreed on many things, especially political issues, I always knew that he loved us, celebrating all our successes great and small.  

Once I knew that she wouldn’t recover, I had about six months to say goodbye to my mom.  It wasn’t a goodbye, really, just time that I never took before to do her hair and makeup or listen to stories of her childhood.  By the time I had entered the next stage of grief after denial, it was too late to say goodbye to my dad.  One would think that by age 53, I would have learned my lesson.   With Dale, we didn’t see it coming.  It was a massive heart attack- the widow maker. He left for work at 7:25 a.m. as always, kissed Elaine as always and said their “I love yous”.   Two hours later, he was pronounced dead at the hospital.

Elaine later told my sister what I truly believe as the sincerest of all comments, “He’s in glory now…and I know he’s seeing your mom and his dad.”   What an unselfishly beautiful comment.

The Magic of Kindness

For the last week, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell a story- a true one- about kindness, compassion, generosity, confidence, and how important they are in making each of us successful human beings.  Sometimes the success comes in the form of money.  Sometimes, you’re rewarded with a full heart.  If you’re lucky, you get both.

Last week, I got a text from my friend Liz saying, “I have a crazy story to tell you.  Call me when you can.”  

 

“You won’t believe this,”   Liz said.   “Today, a man walks into CASA (where Liz works) and says, “I’d like to make a small donation to your organization.”  He handed her a check for $25,000.   Tears welled in her eyes as she said, “Oh my gosh! This is the single biggest donation that CASA has ever received from one person!  You can’t imagine how much this will help the children!”  When she asked him what inspired him to make such a generous donation, he proceeded to tell her that they had a common denominator:  me. 

Years ago, thirty-three to be exact, this shy young man was eighteen.  He was with a couple of friends in a small town near Lexington. One of his buddies said, “Let’s find some hot, rich, Lexington chicks!”  The clever friends were looking in the Lexington phone book for “children’s” phone numbers.  That meant they were “rich” (J).  We were hardly rich. Mom sold real estate part-time and she certainly didn’t need two teenage daughters tying up her phone line.  While crank-calling random numbers, there was a 50/50 chance a girl would answer.  The first friend said, “I’ll go first.”  He dialed a number. No answer.  The second one dialed a number.  Busy. The shy one dialed a number and it was me.  He hung up.  Later that night, he called me when he was home alone.

“Hello? Who is this?” I said.  Finally a voice on the other end said, “Eddie”.   He never told me at the time how he came to find me or my number. I just thought it was a misdial.  At some point, I asked him his last name.  He searched his room for ideas and saw the name on something he can’t recall.  “Murphy.”  I laughed. “Yeah, right.  Eddie Murphy.”   It wasn’t until I said his pseudonym out loud that he realized what he’d done.  He made a comment about his parents naming him before Eddie Murphy became famous.  I believed him.

We talked for hours every night.  We talked about music, his troubled life at home with an alcoholic father, my abusive ex-boyfriend, hopes, dreams, and goals.  Without the benefit of the internet or text messages, there was no way to know what we looked like.  We didn’t care.  We were each other’s confidante. 

I finally pressed him to meet. 

When the doorbell rang, I remember a shy blondish-brown haired blue-eyed boy standing on the porch.   He later said he thought he was in way over his head.  

“Eddie” and I went to a movie, he met my parents, taught me how to drive a stick shift in his Dodge Charger, exchanged Christmas presents, and I gave him a birthday card that played music when he opened it.  It blew his mind.  Inside I enclosed the following photo- my senior picture.  In 1983, that musical card was cutting edge technology!  He said I had “game”.   He said he was chopsticks and I was Moonlight Sonata. 

 

After months of intimate conversations on the phone and time together, “Eddie” was overwrought with guilt and finally told the truth.  While in his car in my driveway, he handed me his driver’s license.  He wasn’t Eddie Murphy and he didn’t live in Lexington.  “I can’t believe you did this to me,” I said while slamming the car door.

A couple of days later, I drove to his small hometown and asked the first person I saw if he knew him.   He did and I followed him to his house.  “Eddie” sweated bullets while I made small talk with his mom.  He later told me he was terrified that I would tell his mother what he did.  “I know why you did what you did and I forgive you.”  He couldn’t believe I forgave him.

In the end, I told him I knew that our relationship wouldn’t last. I had plans to become a flight attendant and travel the world.   I don’t ever remember an official goodbye, although there might have been.

Two years later, he opened his own business that eventually grew into a company with more than 500 franchises worldwide.  He eventually sold half of them for multi-million dollars! 

In 2006, the shy boy-turned- millionaire attended a workshop in Fiji in which the facilitator asked the group to write the name of two women who have inspired them in their lives.   First he wrote his mother and #2 was Ann Ritchey, a young girl he hadn’t seen or heard from in over 23 years, at the time.  He doesn’t use social media, however, he likes to read inspirational blogs and stories online.   He clicked on www.takeleaps.com-  a site which belongs to my friend Greg Forbes Siegman, an author and philanthropist whom I met at a KY Lottery sales conference years ago.  Last year, Greg asked me to send a photo of myself with a couple sentences about how I’m taking leaps of faith.  So I did.

One night in late January 2016, the man searched the internet for an inspiring story after his alcoholic father passed away.  He clicked on takeleaps.com and scrolled down the page reading inspirational stories.  He saw this photo.

Ann, Ky: "In 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I took a Leap by starting a blog -- www.KeepingYouAbreast.net -- to share my feelings, while hopefully inspiring others who might be experiencing a health crisis."

He thought I looked familiar but thought that I might be involved with the Susan B. Komen foundation, an organization his company supported.  He clicked on the attached link www.keepingyouabreast.net and read the most recent entry about our trip to the Amalfi Coast.  He had been there and enjoyed reading the story.  He wanted to read more, so he started at the beginning.   When he read the entry which had a photo of Jeff and me at Jacobson Park in 1984 (a year after “Eddie” had called me the first time), he knew it was me. 

 

He has a photographic memory and remembers the smallest details of our months together.   He remembered family names, my birthday, what we got each other for Christmas, and what I was wearing when we first met.  When he read my blog, most of the names were familiar to him but he didn’t recall Liz.  That’s because I met Liz in 1992.   He thought that maybe she was a friend from high school that he had forgotten.  Since he doesn’t forget much, he had to do what we all do when we need an answer to anything:  Google.   He found out that Liz was a Clinical Psychologist, got her PH.D at Stanford, and works at CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates- for children).  He then Googled CASA and felt compelled to give to an organization that advocated for children.   He also wanted to thank the woman who worked tirelessly to make me comfortable, drive me to dr. appointments, dry my tears, cry some tears with me, clean my house, stock her fridge with my favorite foods, and say all the right things when so many tried and failed.  He knew that CASA was close to Liz’s heart, so he wanted to thank her for taking such good care of me.  

Of course, the shy boy is still very much an introvert and a private man.  He respectfully asked me to use a pseudonym (perhaps Richard Pryor, he suggested) and wants his donation to be anonymous.

I have spent the last week walking on air.  I feel like the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes that day in Whoville.    If you’ve read my blog, you know that I don’t believe in coincidences.  A Greater Power was busy at work on this one, perhaps for years.     Those months together were meant for me to teach him confidence and realize that he was worthy of love.  For me, it was a lesson in forgiveness and compassion.  It was a true “coming of age” story for both of us.  As Oprah would say, a “full circle moment”:

The blue-eyed boy became confident and founded a multi-million dollar business.  He “miraculously” found the young girl who was kind to him years ago and realized she had been fighting another battle.  Her friend helped her survive the battle.  He rewarded the friend with a generous donation to a cause close to her heart. 

 

I now know that the cancer was worth it all. Yes.  I’m including the eggplant colored honeydew sized boob following surgery, the hematoma, the drain, the chemo, the 18 months of baldness, the Neulasta side effects, and the fear….were all worth it.  If I hadn’t had cancer, I wouldn’t have posted that photo on Greg’s website and Liz wouldn’t have had to spend a year helping to care for me.  If she hadn’t cared for me, there would be no gigantic donation which will help feed and clothe so many children.   I certainly wouldn’t feel this sense of relief, that I, an insecure young girl at the time myself, did something worthwhile and changed the trajectory of a young man’s life.  What’s more, his donation will do the same for many children.  Imagine, if you will, that each child paid it forward someday, or even one child did, and the cycle continued for another 33 years.  It sure would make those two painful years of my life a short blip in the movie that continues to be my beautiful life.

Good Girl

Yesterday was the day of my follow-up appointment with my oncologist.  I was at the stage in my treatment where I only have to see her every four months.  Of course, there’s still the radiation oncologist and the surgeon if I plan to have reconstructive surgery, but THIS one is always stressful for me.  

Jeff had a deposition in Lexington and we rode together.  He knows how anxious I get when I have these visits so he offered to drive me.  His presence serves as a buffer between Dr. Moss and me.    I can be argumentative with her and it’s sometimes very tense in that tiny room.     Now that I’ve made it this far (28 months since diagnosis), I’ve had a little more confidence in her and have tried to keep my thoughts about natural healing, vitamins, acupuncture, etc.  to myself.   It’s easier that way.  “Honey, go to the bookstore instead of this appointment with me.  I’ll be fine.”   He gladly obliged.

Here’s the routine:  The nurse always draws several vials of blood and takes my blood pressure.  It’s ALWAYS sky-high when I’m there and below normal any other time. She weighs me.  Unlike at most doctor visits, this is NO problem because the scale measures in kilograms.   I am seriously emaciated if you look at the number and think in terms of pounds.   I don’t even have to take off my boots, socks, sweater, watch, earrings, bracelet, and hair barrettes before weighing.  This is brilliant. Why don’t ALL doctors do this?

Dr. Moss asks me a list of questions: “Any headaches?  Bone pain? Coughing? Fatigue? How’s your appetite?”  These questions are to determine if the cancer has spread and metastasized in another organ.  Normally I would look at my watch and say without thinking, “I’m fine.”  Now it’s important I think about each question carefully.   “Headaches? Definitely. But we just got back from Italy a couple of weeks ago and I’ve had jet lag and stress from catching up at work.  Also, I’m ashamed to say that after over four years without a Diet Coke, I caved a few months ago and I now have that monkey on my back again.”  She said that one or two a day wouldn’t hurt me.  I know better. 

The hot flashes continue as my ovaries “sputter” and this might go on for years.  No problem.  Jeff is used to the house feeling like a meat locker.   Same with Miranda in the office.  Dr. Moss said, “Well, I’ll see you in six months when you come back for your mammogram.  Sweeter words have never been spoken.

I get dressed and walk back to the waiting room. It’s filled with yellow-faced patients with oxygen machines, masks covering their noses and mouths, IV poles, and terrified loved ones sitting by their sides.   The receptionist offers me a sucker out of a basket on the counter.  I wondered…did Dr. Moss tell her I didn’t pick a fight today?  

I thanked her and smiled with the Dum Dums sucker stick between my teeth.  I turn around to leave and look at the patients sitting there in a daze.   Was that me two years ago?   I wanted to say. “Hang in there.  It’s going to be ok.”  But I knew better: Sometimes it’s not.   My guilt was overwhelming. How did I make it through this in one piece and so many other don’t?  My mom always said, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”  

I walked out to Jeff’s car and he saw the sucker in my mouth.  “Well. Well. It looks like someone was a good girl today at the doctor’s office!!”
Indeed.

Click here to see some of my husband Jeff's photos from our trip to southern Italy and Sicily: 

Dream Comes True

Forgive me, friends.  It’s been over five months since my last blog post.  Until now, I really haven’t had much to say.  Jeff and I have been working long hours to get ready for our long-awaited trip to southern Italy and my follow up doctor appointments are now 4-6 months apart (Yay!)

Because of your support and prayers, a few doctors, and God who decided I had some unfinished business to tend to, I'm here to tell you about a dream of mine that recently came true.  

* If you go to the blog archive on the right side of the page, find August 2013 and click on "Bucket List", you'll see a blog entry with my bucket list.  I tried to create a hyperlink so you can click on it, but Blogger.com isn't cooperating.

Five years ago, after reading Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes, I searched online for trips to Italy.  There were websites inviting boring geriatrics to hop aboard a huge bus and see all of the ruins.  Not for us, I thought, but could Jeff and I actually find our way around the country alone to see all of the fabulous sites?   Would we actually be able to navigate the Amalfi Coast Drive, which is a Unesco World Wonder in itself?!

The answer came in the next click.  A photo of Stephanie Chance, an exotic beauty, was sitting atop a Vespa with shopping bags in tow. Above it said, “Hop aboard with us and see Italy-two tours a year!”   The more I clicked, the more I knew that this was the perfect tour for us.  I showed Jeff photos of her small tour group having dinner with an Italian family!!  I immediately e-mailed Stephanie asking for more information. She mailed me a brochure and I opened it often, dreaming of a day we could go.  “Maybe when Jordan is out of college,” Jeff said.   At that time, he had just graduated from high school. 

Stephanie and I became friends on Facebook and I relished looking at her photos from her twice a year excursions.  Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Months became three years.   Then came D-Day, the day I was diagnosed with stage IIB Invasive Ductal Carcinoma.   Soon after, I began this blog where Stephanie kept up with my treatment, my family,  the undeniable hell of surgery, chemo, and radiation, and my gratitude I tried to find in it all.  

About a year after my last radiation treatment and I started feeling human again, I said to Jeff, “Let’s do it. Let’s go on Stephanie’s trip to southern Italy!  Like having children, if we wait until we can afford it, we’ll never go!”   What I thought but don’t think I said was, “What if the cancer comes back and I’m too sick to go?” 

For decades, Jeff and I have dreamed of going to Italy, specifically the Amalfi Coast and Venice.    Although we didn't see Venice this time (that will be our NEXT trip!), the Amalfi Coast was our last stop on a 12 day adventure this month!   

For almost two years, I've stared at a painting of Amalfi, Italy hanging in my office and dreamed of the day we would stand on that coast and have our photo taken in that exact location.  Well, here it is: 

The painting in my office

                                   Can you find us?

The Amalfi Coast Drive- Mamma Mia!

                                                  Jeff and me on the beautiful Amalfi Coast

Positano-my new favorite place on earth!

Life Returns

I know the exact day it happened.  It was April 11, 2015 when I finally felt a little like myself again.   My friend (and breast cancer survivor) Jo Ann said it happened for her a year after her last radiation treatment.  For me, it was exactly 14 months and 14 days after mine. It could have been the beautiful crisp sunny day, the green that finally began to sprout from the trees, or maybe it was my first trip to Lowe’s this spring to buy some Gerbera daisies. On second thought….no. It was my ponytail, or a semblance of one.  It was about an inch long and I had to sweat a little to cram it in the elastic band, but it was a joyous occasion.  I ran into the living room and squealed, “Look honey (queue the twirl)!  A ponytail!!!”   He smiled, kissed me and said, “I’m so happy for you.  I know how long you’ve waited for this moment.”  It sounds silly, but when you spend 18 months either bald or having some kind of hair crisis, it’s such a relief to finally have a little hair on your head.

My ponytail stub.  :)

  Lauren and Jordan help me through one of the most difficult moments of cancer treatment.

My annual mammogram was April 20.  It’s always a day of dread for me. April 20, that is.  That’s the day my dad died.  A few days later would have been my mom’s birthday and I just felt really sad those few days.  Why in the world would I schedule a mammogram that week?  I’m on edge a few days before, imagining myself walking into that same office where just 22 months ago, they dropped a nuclear bomb on my little world.  

I walked into the waiting room and counted the women sitting there.  There were eight of us.  I thought, “One in eight women is diagnosed with breast cancer.”   I said a silent prayer that I had been the only one in THOSE eight women who was diagnosed with breast cancer and that none of us would get called into that dreadful little consultation room today. 

The technician was very kind and respectful.  I’m sure she’s seen it all.  She placed wire tape over my scars so that the radiologist could easily determine where the tumors were removed.   The technicians, the way they pick up and contort your breasts and manipulate them into the perfect place between the two sheets of plexiglass, resemble a baker with a slab of dough squeezing it into a pie pan.  “How are you doing…emotionally, I mean?”   I felt my throat tighten up and swore I wasn’t going to cry today.  “I’m terrified.  With every headache I think it has spread to my brain.  If I’m aching, I’m sure it’s in my bones. What is this organ? My liver?  I feel twinges sometimes….”  She nodded like she understood.  “I was diagnosed with melanoma a few years ago.  I’ve had several surgeries since then, but I’m here.  And you are too…and we have to live each day to the fullest and put it in God’s hands. Hold your breath…(the machine whirs)……..You can breathe now.  All done.  Have a seat in this room and I’ll come back and get you if we need more pictures.”      I waited for about 20 minutes. The sweet technician with the big brown eyes said, “Everything looks great. You don’t need to come back for a year.” 

“You mean the radiologist already read it?”  She nodded, hugged me, and said she would pray for me.   I wanted to say that I would do the same for her but my throat was burning and I felt the tears coming and I really didn’t want to cry.  So, I nodded and mouthed, “Thank you.” 

I have an appointment soon with a plastic surgeon.  If he can spackle this hole in my breast, or better yet- transfer some fat from my belly into that hole- I’ll be a happy camper.  If he can do it outpatient so I can get back to work in a day or two, even better.  I’m just now beginning to have a little energy and can’t imagine wanting to start from square one with an extensive reconstruction surgery. My body has been through enough these past two years.

When Jeff was two years old, his mother was diagnosed with cancer. She was a very religious woman and prayed that God would let her live long enough to see Jeff graduate from college.  He graduated in May 1984 and she died two months later.

My dad always told everyone that he’s always somehow known that he wouldn’t live to see 53.   He was in his 20’s when I first heard him say it.   I was 7 or 8 and didn’t worry about it much because 50 seemed really old to me.  He was diagnosed with gall bladder cancer at 52 years and 7 months old and died four months later.   Does our brain have that much power over our bodies?   Just in case, I’m telling myself and everyone else that I’m living to be 100!

Gratitude

It was a perfect weekend.  Jeff and I spent the day outside. He closed the pool and I pruned rose bushes.  Since it was a beautiful day and the side effects (hot flashes) of Tamoxifen are still doing a number on me, I didn't wear long sleeves. 

A rose bush and I had a fight and it won.  I came inside with a bloody arm, took a shower and forgot all about it. 

The next day, when I made it up the steep stairs at the building where I work, I had to sit down at the top of the steps.  That's when I knew I was in for a long day.  Did I overdo it at (rotator cuff) physical therapy on Friday?  Surely I didn't work THAT hard in the yard.  After a couple of hours, everything was aching and my left breast was on fire.  That's when I began to cry and shake.  The cancer is back.  I called Jeff and he left work to take me home.  I was too weak to drive for seven minutes!

 I called my oncologist and my surgeon but they were both booked solid.  My Radiation Oncologist, Dr. Mater, was out of town, so her partner Dr. Matter wanted me to come in immediately the next day.   A four hour drive to and from Lexington for a 20 minute visit?  Yes. We will be there.  That night, my fever spiked at 102.  God bless those people who get 104 degree fevers because they must be miserable!  That night, I slept, if you want to call it that, in Lauren's bed.  I cried most of the night.  80% from misery. 20% from fear. From past experience,  I was way too scared to tell many people about the swollen red breast.  I can hear it now..."That happened to my mom/aunt/sister/granny and the cancer got her that time.  That's what they call it in the country..."the cancer".

Dr. Matter is not only handsome, but he's very kind with an excellent bedside manner.  If a doctor ever says, "bless your heart", "you poor woman", or "It'll be ok.", well...I'm sold.  You know how I love a good shot of empathy and validation.  Jeff who is in the room with me, looks at me with wonder as I make conversation with Dr. Matter. Just minutes ago I was telling him I was more miserable than I was on chemo!  

The redness in my breast and my side and back were likely caused from an infection from the tear in my skin from the rose bush thorn!!  Because my body hasn't recovered yet from the chemo and radiation, any infection is likely to settle at the weakest areas with scar tissue. That explains why my neck and shoulder were hurting too.  He prescribed  an antibiotic and said, "If this doesn't work, we're going to have to admit you in the hospital."  

We had a quick lunch with Jordan and Oriana at Local Taco.  It was a blur.  I was in agony, but I insisted on seeing them..and I'm glad we did.  

Jordan and Oriana 

I've certainly been a bit demanding with God this past year.   I've begged for my health back (getting there), the knowledge and strength to be the best I can be in my new position (getting there), and most of all ....praying my heart out for Lauren. She moved to O'Fallon, MO near St. Louis, in March.  She's been unable to find a position as a sign language interpreter. Someone once told me that as a parent, you're only as happy as your unhappiest child.  How true. After six months, she finally got an interview last week. She just called me today to tell me she was offered the job!

I made sure I said my prayer of gratitude 'cause I read somewhere that if the only prayer you ever say is "thanks", it's enough. It was Maya Angelou, Eckhart Tolle or Oprah or someone spiritual and inspiring like that.   I'm too tired to Google right now.  Anyway,  here goes...

 Thank you, God, for allowing the people interviewing Lauren to see how gifted and special she is.  Thank you that this wasn't a cancer recurrence.  Thank you for Alexander Fleming, the inventor of penicillin.  Thank you for my husband who has taken such good care of me these past two days and always. Thank you for my co-workers who have worried about me these past few days and give me the daily encouragement to keep going.  Thank you for my son, who calls me regularly on his walks between classes just to check on me.  Thank you for the friends and family who are just now learning about my near death experience.  Slight exaggeration, God.  Only slight.  And God, I still love my rose bushes and am thankful for them. I'll just be more careful next time.

A Year of Change

“This year is going to suck,” said Dr. Brown, the radiologist at St. Joseph Breast Center in Lexington.  That was one year and 21 days ago.  386 days.  Lauren and Jeff, who were both in the room, heard her say it too.  Her words, abrasive like sandpaper, I'm sure sounded differently in HER mind. She was trying to prepare me for the next 12 months.  In some ways it seems like yesterday, but actually, some days were longer than others.  As Navin Johnson said to Bernadette Peter’s character in the movie “The Jerk”: “The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days…..“   Yes.  That about sums it up.

Prior to that day, I would have thought they were crazy if anyone had told me that in the next 55 weeks, I’d be diagnosed with stage IIB breast cancer, have a lumpectomy, another surgery to remove a hematoma, four rounds of chemo, 33 radiation treatments, watch my Mini Cooper burn to a crisp on the shoulder of Mountain Parkway, lose my former boss and co-worker, get a promotion, watch helplessly as Lauren and Jesse pack and move to St. Louis, lose my beloved dog Buddy, and a former co-worker who took his own life this month. 

It turns out that my Mini Cooper fiasco is the biggest topic of conversation surrounding my blog posts.  I still have no idea what caused it.  I paid off what I owed on the car and bought a 2005 Volvo (borrring) that has some issues, which of course didn’t arise until I had the car a couple of months.  Sometimes, when I press the brake, the horn honks.  It’s really embarrassing at stoplights.  Many have asked if I sued the manufacturer.  I'd be a terrible plaintiff. "Were you injured in the incident?" the defense attorney for Mini Cooper would ask. "No. I'm fine," I'd say with a smile.  This is what my Jeff, the lawyer, envisions. He's probably right.  And quite honestly, I agree.

I still can’t talk about Buddy without crying.  I’ve had many pets in my lifetime, most of them for ten years or more. Buddy was only in my life for four short years, but never have I loved a pet so much.  His tired, old body just gave out. Buddy’s vets Dr.’s Mark and Melanie Greene were kind enough to come to our house to put Buddy to sleep, one of the few benefits of small town life.  We all four cried while saying goodbye to one of the sweetest dogs ever.   He died on July 1, the hottest day of the year.  Jeff stabbed at the parched clay dirt for thirty minutes before I joined him by the grave.  Sweat was pouring off of him as we viewed the progress, only about 1/6 the size of Buddy’s “casket”, Walmart’s biggest Rubbermaid container lined with pillows and his favorite ball.   I said, “I have an idea.  Why don’t we have him cremated?”  Jeff looked at me and said, “You think of this NOW?”  While he was outside digging, I called my sister Gail, who always has 25-30 cats (no exaggeration at all!), along with a big Great Pyrenees dog.  She suggested Bluegrass Pet Crematorium in Lexington.  We brought Buddy to Gail and she and my brother-in-law Shane were kind enough to take him for us. We just couldn’t do it.  Bluegrass Pet Crematorium returned him in a beautiful carved wooden box with an imprint of his paw pressed in clay.  I still haven’t decided if we’ll bury it.

Now, for hopefully the last two big events of the year:  rotator cuff surgery was July 3 ....

                                                  

 The view of the top of my shoulder.  The exposed bone (left) is in the middle. The photo on the right was taken post surgery.

and ….gulp…my boss Bob Little, V.P. of Sales, is retiring August 30. 

I feel so blessed and honored to know this man- a true leader, motivator, and a friend to everyone who crosses his path.  At each meeting, he leads the troops in prayer, thanking God for our safety in our travels, blessing our meals, and praying for guidance.  The man has charisma and some humongous shoes to fill.  I’ve learned so much from him these last 19 years, all of it taught by example.  I’m so happy for him and sad for the KY Lottery.

Bob Little, Leader Extraordinaire

It’s just been a rough year.  I’m trying so hard to stay positive, but the curve balls keep coming.  My first of several dozen physical therapy sessions (for the rotator cuff) at Highlands Regional Hospital was this week and I’m already drained. It’s not the physical therapy that drains me, but their attitudes. No one seems to want to be there.  Normally, when I meet people like this, I’m constantly wondering, “Why are they so unhappy? What can I do to change their mood?  Are they always like this? Is there anything I can do or say to make them smile?”  Seeing them laugh becomes my mission.   But that requires a lot of energy, which I need to conserve right now.

Several years ago, at a KY Lottery Sales Conference, we had a key note speaker who talked about the impact of positive/negative thoughts on others.  As a demonstration, one sales rep was asked to leave the room for a few minutes.    The speaker asked us to think negative thoughts about that sales rep.  As difficult as it was to imagine this guy being anything but fun-loving and energetic, a room of maybe 75 people collectively were told to concentrate on this guy’s laziness (what a joke!) and how much we disliked him.  A few minutes later, he was called back into the room and asked by the speaker to extend his arm and hold it out straight in front of him. She said she would try to force his arm down, but he was supposed to keep it rigid in front of him.  The room chuckled as we tried to imagine this older woman forcing a thirty-something year old man’s arm to his side.  She actually did it with very little effort.  The volunteer said, “What? Do that again!”  And she did…several times.  The volunteer was asked to leave the room again. This time we were told to think positive thoughts-how handsome and charismatic the guy is, what a hard worker he was, and how much we admired him.  He re-entered the room and was again asked to extend his arm and resist her force.  This time, the speaker’s arm was quivering as she tried to force it down.  I was sitting close enough to see the veins in his arm bulge as he tried to resist the woman’s force. She tried using two hands.  That arm wasn’t moving.  Afterward, our skeptical group was asked to perform the same experiment on the person beside us.  The group at my table laughed incredulously, amazed that our thoughts had so much power.  Years later, I met Nadina, my naturopath.  She’s performed this test on me many times over the years to assess my nutritional needs and my body’s weaknesses.  Some see it as hocus pocus.  I find it fascinating.

In the midst of typing this blog, I magically, not coincidentally (don't believe in those) received a card in the mail from my friend Sylvia. How could I not smile?

That being said, I know that a positive…and negative attitude are contagious, so I decided to switch physical therapists now.   I need to recover as quickly as possible from this surgery.

Many say everything happens for a reason and that we’re all here to learn lessons from life experiences.  It’s too soon to list those lessons now because I’m still learning and living them.  My longest hair, which despite the fact that I just had it relaxed, is a curly mop.  Before I had it, um, "straightened", I looked like Androgynous Pat from Saturday Night Live. 

Androgynous Pat

 Now it's a whopping 2 ½ inches long and full of cowlicks.  After Lauren and the folks at Cha Cha's spent over an hour trying to force the cowlicks to lay in the right direction, I was given a 'do that I could go to the store wearing without a stranger saying, "Are you through with chemo? Or even worse, flash a pity smile. I decided I didn't have that kind of time, nor mobility in my arm.  I'll just have to continue "wigging" it for awhile. 

 To add insult to injury,  I’ve gained almost ten pounds after starting the Tamoxifen (an estrogen receptor blocker) and the hot flashes from it are driving me insane.   I have to stay on it 10 years, says Dr. Moss.  At this rate, in 10 years I will weigh exactly 372 pounds.  But I’m here.  Dr. Moss said that that likely wouldn’t have been be the case in a few years if I hadn’t had that mammogram when I did.  Sure, I’m a little vain, but every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of the last year.  I just want to move on with my life.  I have a trip to Italy with Jeff to make someday, future grandchildren to spoil, Jordan's college graduation, and a challenging new position at the KY Lottery.  I don’t have time for cancer, shoulder pain, or bad attitudes. 

What I do know for sure is that I’m really blessed to have had so many people support me with kind words and prayer these last 56 weeks.  I’ve learned who truly cares about me and who has my back.  Although I’ve cried a river this year, I think I’ve laughed a little more too.  I’ve made some new friends.  Several of them are like me, at the mercy of God and their oncologists.   I pray they’re as blessed as I have been.    

Many have asked. “Is it over?” Lord, I hope so.  Once I recover from the  shoulder surgery,  the fatigue from radiation (which they say starts to subside a year after the last radiation treatment), and totally forget about my complications from my surgery last August, I might have reconstructive surgery to fill in the hole I now have in my left breast.   Spackle would work nicely. 

For now, I’m taking one day at a time, nurturing my tired body and my positive attitude.