This morning I decided to wake up slowly and lazily. I flipped on the TV and started channel surfing, enjoying having Tabby on my tummy and Mr. Meow curled up by my side and both of them as content as me to just hang out. (And it’s rare they decide to get along like that and tolerate each other so I wanted to relish the peace and harmony!)

I don’t know what made me stop on CNN. Dr. Sanjay Gupta was about to come on and something caught my eye about one of the stories he was going to cover. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but it had something to do with a new book out about the history of cancer.

It turned out to be a segment on The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee.

Dr. Gupta interviewed the author. Fascinating. Not sure why no one thought of compiling a book such as this before, but it traces the origins of cancer and this history of those involved.

At one point they showed a photo of the first child to receive chemo for leukemia. It was 1947 I believe. He was two years old. At that time a leukemia diagnosis meant you only had weeks or months to live. Due to a pioneering doctor’s idea, this little boy lived to be just shy of his fourth birthday.

They showed a clip of the mom talking about her son. While it was a great coup for medicine, it still resulted in a tragic loss for her. One she was bitter about, because they’d declared him cured. Yet, he still died.

That really hit home. That’s the thing most people don’t understand about “surviving” cancer. Remission, what I’m currently in, doesn’t mean I’m cured. It means I’m still healing. It means my cancer could reappear. Right now my body is showing signs of being healed and well, but it’s still too early to say cured. I understood why that mother was so upset.

Yet, to her and to the countless others who have lost children, spouses, siblings, and other loved ones I say this: thank you. Just as many soldiers never expected to truly fight in a war, people with cancer have been drafted into the ultimate battle.

Some, like myself, come out of it relatively unscathed. I had four months of chemo and another month of radiation, but I only had one hospital stay and no surgery. I know others who had to undergo far less treatment than myself, and others who’ve endured years of treatment. 

Every day I say a prayer for those going through cancer to find the courage to battle on and the strength for when theirs fails. But I also say a prayer for all of those who have gone before me. The ones who consented to be guinea pigs and test out new treatments. The ones who lost their lives in that quest for health. The doctors and researchers who study the disease and find ways to treat and cure it. The loved ones who have to stay strong and become caretakers.

But they never had faces or names. Some did. Like some of the people I’ve met along my journey. But the ones who were the firsts to do anything, like develop chemo or take it…who were they? Until The Emperor of All Maladies I had no idea. I just knew they existed, but not who they were. Now I do.

What a marvelous book. I’m glad Siddhartha Mukherjee felt compelled to create it. Now I have faces and names to put to my prayer.

Wayne’s out of town on assignment again so last night after volleyball I had complete control of the TV. We both watch Glee but we’re two weeks behind on episodes due to our cruise. (Well, maybe only I am. Wayne sometimes catches up before work in the mornings when I’m still in bed.)

Anyway, I watched the episode where Bieber Fever took hold of the Gleeks. And where Sue got so depressed and joined Glee Club for a while.

At one point Will takes her somewhere to try and snap her out of her funk. It turns out to be a pediatric cancer ward where he sings to the kids once a month.

Kids with cancer get me tearing up something fierce these days. After my experiences with cancer, it breaks my heart seeing children having to endure treatments that can bring adults to their breaking points. It’s just not right!

Anyway, so I was already emotionally vulnerable as the scene started unfolding, but as they got ready to sing and I wondered which song they’d go with, I turned into a blubbering mess as they started singing “This little light of mine.”

That was the song I’d sing to myself to get me through, especially on the hardest or scariest of days. It just sort of came to me the first day I was home from the hospital standing naked and scared in the shower wondering about my future. All I knew was I wanted to live. I wasn’t ready to check out. I was determined to beat this thing and find an inner strength to make it through no matter what.

Suddenly, from somewhere buried inside, I started croaking out “This little light of mine.” It was a song I hadn’t sung since I was probably a child. I don’t even know how I thought of it, but there it was, just coming out on its own.

It was just a whisper at first, but you know what? It felt good to sing it. The lyrics were powerful. They filled me with strength and courage.

So I started singing it louder. I started envisioning a light glowing brighter and brighter in my belly and radiating outward. Then I started feeling empowered. And hopeful. I felt like my little glowing light was going to shine so bright on that cancer that it couldn’t help but melt away! I was going to be positively beaming with health, dagnabbit, because my little light was not ready to flicker out. I had a lot of shining left to do, and cancer wasn’t going to steal that from me!

I sang that song a lot. Sometimes in the shower as loud as I could. Sometimes in my head when I got scared at doctor visits. Sometimes in bed at night when worry wanted to rob me of sleep.

Kind of weird. Another theme in that Glee epsiode was anthems. If ever oh ever there was a cancer anthem, “This little light of mine” is it.

Yesterday I tuned into Today right when Willard Scott was doing his Smuckers birthday segment. I always get a kick out of watching it. I can remember back to when he used to do babies, but then they switched it and now you have to be at least 100 to try and get your birthday featured.

I always get a kick out of what they credit their secret to long life to. Some say things you might expect to help you live a long life. Such as, trying to be a good person, going to/serving in church, eating right, etc. Others say things like laughing a lot, gardening, eating what they want.

Some note that they’re still living independently. Others note that they lived independently until a certain age. Willard even mentions that for some over 100 they tried to get on the show before and he congratulates them for sticking around to do it this time.

But yesterday he featured a woman who was either 103 or 104 (sad, I’ve already forgotten) who was a three time cancer survivor. I was floored. And so inspired.

I want to say Willard has noted other cancer survivors who lived to 100 also, and some who even got it very late in life (like their 80s), but a multiple time cancer survivor?

I mean to tell you, that’s one tough cookie. Having watched my mom go through it twice, and finally succumbing to the lung cancer the second time, then just five months later dealing with my own lymphoma, mentally it’s taken its toll. Not every day, but definitely every week, I still have to deal with my emotional scars from it all.

I know if the cancer does come back, or shows up in one of the other forms I’ve been warned I’m at an increased risk of getting now due to my treatments, I’ll buckle down and deal with. But it would be hard. I think even harder than the first time because I’d know what to expect to some extent.

I think it was sort of a blessing not to know just how sick chemo was going to make me or the toll it would take on my body even after it was done. You can read all you want about other people’s experiences and know you’re going to feel “sick” but experiencing it…whew. Different story.

But then if you need surgery, or get sick during treatments and need to be hospitalized…there are so many things that can go wrong during treatment to delay your healing progress. Again, if it does all you can do is deal with it, but it weighs on your mind.

Yet, this woman survived Life, including three bouts with cancer, to live past 100. Wow.

That someone did gives me a hope and way of looking at the future I hadn’t had but have been desperately needing. So glad I happened to catch her birthday of all of them. I sure hope she had a happy one yesterday. She might not know it, but she ended up giving a gift while she was celebrating.

Today I went for my three month check and to get the results of my yearly CT scan. I am overjoyed to announce I am now officially a two-year cancer survivor!

I don’t know why they count it from when you’re diganosed instead of when you’re told you’re in remission, but that’s how they do it. I was officially diagnosed December 31, 2008, so really I’m a two years and change cancer survivor. Hoo Hoo!

Such a relief to get that news. I’ve been feeling strong and back to normal so I didn’t think anything was wrong, but…I’m leery now. Ever since all I went through with my mom and then myself, I don’t just think doctor visits will go routinely anymore. I’m always braced for the alternative.

But luckily today I got great news.

And even though my weight has now set a new all-time record high, my blood pressure was back down to where I like it: 98/68! (As I was getting sicker and sicker before I was officially diagnosed my BP kept climbing higher and higher, which really freaked me out. Now I know it was because I was sick, but back then I didn’t understand what was going on. Now I watch it like a hawk for any signs of it going higher again. I was so excited today to see it back to around the 100/70 mark. It’s a sign I’m in great shape!)

Oh, and I also graduated to checks every four months now instead of every three. And if I make it to three years all clear, I’ll graduate to checks every six months. I’m shooting for that!

My personal nightmare with cancer started two years ago today on December 28, 2008. It wasn’t the date I got the official diagnosis. That would come on New Year’s Eve. But it was the date I was checked in the hospital and knew something was very, very wrong with me.

I don’t know if it feels much longer than just two years ago, or if it’s hard to believe it’s already been two years ago.

All I know is that Wayne was home. Off work and at home, not just in town instead of being out of town on assignment. I had been feeling progressively worse all month, but today was the day I couldn’t take it anymore. I remember laying on the ground on a pillow desperate to hold back my screams of agony.

Wayne was beside himself. If he’d been able to force me into the car he would’ve taken me to the hospital that way. Eventually he convinced me I had to face my fears and go.

So I did. I’ll never forget the ER doctor’s eyes when he came back after finding my CT scan results. I knew whatever they’d found on the 23rd when I’d gone in for a chest X-ray that had revealed something the radiologist felt needed a CT scan right then was bad.

But how bad could it be if no one had called my attention to it any further? They’d let me go home. My doctor had never called. If it could wait until regular business hours resumed on Monday it wasn’t anything to be worried about.

HA! It was as bad as a grapefruit growing in my chest. (Which, later I learned was more like a cantaloupe than grapefruit.)

I was immediately checked in and given my first dose of strong pain meds. Was it morphine already then? I don’t remember. I remember it was the first time in weeks I got some relief though. For a little while. The pain always flared back with a fury in a short time it seemed in those early days.

Then the hospital’s where I stayed for the next four days. Which was sort of nice on the one hand. I was exhausted. It was nice to just lay down and do nothing. To let myself feel ill rather than trying to pretend it was nothing.

I knew it was going to be cancer even before all the tests confirmed it. But I also knew it wasn’t my time yet. This was a trial.

Or at least that’s what I hoped frevently it would all turn out to be. There were moments, like when the doctor said I had excellent chances, “50/50″, that I freaked a bit. Fifty-fifty didn’t sound too good to me. I was either going to live or I was going to die. That’s what I heard. That death was an option on the table at all was awful. Go away!

Granted, it was better than, “Sorry, you have a 5% chance anything we try will save you. You’re just too far gone.” But it also wasn’t the 80% recovery rate I was given later after more tests showed how sick I was –or wasn’t, as the case turned out to be.

So…here I am. Remembering back to that day when Life took a decided turn down a crazy road and my hitchhiker came into my life. What a ride that was! That’s one stretch of pavement I could do without ever seeing again! Same with the hitchhiker that came with it!

I do. I always have. I love making wishes. I don’t care if it’s when I blow out the candles on my birthday cake, when I toss a coin into a fountain, or when I see a star twinkling overhead…if I can make a wish I’m not going to waste the opportunity.

When I was younger I used to wish for silly things:

• to be popular (or even just liked)
• for certain boys to notice me
• to become more attractive

Then I went through a phase where I was very cautious about what I’d wish for, because I learned the hard way that the saying, “Be careful what you wish for” became a saying for a reason. Sometimes you get way more than you bargained for when your wishes come true.

The past few years my wishes have definitely reflected all that went on in my life. When I was going through my nutty time with my mom I wished for peace and strength a lot.

When  I got diagnosed with cancer I wished for healing and strength (especially in the beginning when I was still terrified of needles).

Since I’ve been in remission I find myself wishing things for other people. Like answers instead of uncertainty for my friends having relationship troubles, or hope, courage and healing for others I know facing health problems.

But tonight I read an email from someone who found me via Haunt Jaunts. Her niece was recently diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Her niece is just seven years old.

We’ve exchanged a couple of emails. In her last one to me she sent a picture of herself with her niece. I bawled for 10 minutes straight.

The picture wasn’t sad. It was of them together in the hospital, but her neice wasn’t bedridden. She was standing, her aunt seated next to her, and they looked to be in a playroom the hospital set up.

Even with her little porta cath sticking out of her arm, she had a smile on her face. Just a slight one. Almost a shy one.

Her aunt had enclosed it with the latest details of her niece’s struggle to win out over the cancer. (She’s had a rough time. Much rougher than I had. She’s had to stay in the hospital a lot, and her mom and dad have three other ones to care for also, including a newborn.)

She had another slight setback recently, and as I read about it I cried and wished and prayed that no child should ever have to endure cancer.

I know what wish I’ll be making next time I see a star. Well, the couple of wishes I’ll make. First and foremost for this beautiful little seven-year-old girl to become a NHL survivor. Second, that one day we won’t need cures for cancer. We’ll know how to prevent it in the first place.

And if that doesn’t happen, my wish is that medicine keeps advancing so treatments have higher and higher survival rates with less and less side effects.

My cousin sent me my aunt’s obituary shortly after the funeral. The monsignor had referenced it during the funeral mass, but I hadn’t read it. I asked if someone could make sure I got a copy.

I didn’t realize until I got ready to post it here with the thoughts that follow it that there was also a picture that went with it. My email program doesn’t always automatically open them.

SoI manually opened it and was shocked by the reaction I had to seeing my aunt’s smiling, vibrant face.

That was my Aunt Alice. Not the lady I’d paid my last respects to in her coffin. That version of my dear aunt looked fake and unreal, like a mannequin.

But the lady smiling in the picture was Alice E. Kotso. Known to some as “wife,” to others as “mom,” to their children as “grandma,” to her brother as “sister,” to others of us as “aunt,” to her husband’s side as an “in-law” (though many dropped that and just called her “sister” or “daughter”), to her longtime friend Irene as “BFF,” to many others as “friend.”

And here’s what was written about her:

It is with deep regret that we advise our Membership of the passing of Alice Kotso, dear wife of OFCC Member Joseph Kotso.

Alice E. Kotso (nee Mroch), age 75, of Munster passed away Saturday, July 24, 2010 at Northwest Memorial Prentice Women’s Hospital of Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). She is survived by her loving husband, Joseph of 51 years, 5 months and 17 days; loving daughters: Kimberly and Katherine; loving son, Michael (Leticia) Kotso; nine grandchildren: William and Elizabeth Sears, Nicole Mammano, John-Paul, Teresa, Joseph, Mary Alice, Christopher, and Rebecca; one brother, Ralph Mroch of Denver, CO; several nieces, nephews, brothers-in-law, and sisters-in -law; and friend of 56 years, Irene Henry of Alexandria, VA, she was a college roommate and sorority sister. Preceded in death be her granddaughter, Claire-Marie Kotso.

She lived for the love of her family and especially her grandchildren taking them on trips to Europe and beyond for life experiences. Alice and her husband travelled to over 40 countries, most recently this past May travelling to Korea, China and Tibet. She was the owner of the former Hoosier Travel Agency.

Alice served as first district Vice-Chairman of the Indiana Republican State Central Committee in 1971-72. In 1984, in Dallas, TX, she was a delegate to the Republican National Convention when President Reagan declared the ‘84 convention “The Year of the Woman”. She was also in attendance at five additional national conventions with her husband.

Mass of Christian Burial will be held on Wednesday, July 28, 2010, 10:00 AM at St. Thomas More Church, Munster, IN with MSGR. Joseph Semanchik celebrating the mass.

Friends may call at the Burns-Kish Funeral Home, 8415 Calumet Ave., Munster on Tuesday, July 27, 2010 from 2:00-8:00 PM. Entombment will be private.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests any memorial contributions in her name be made to a Cancer Research Fund or Carmellite Fathers in Munster. www.burnskish.com

It’s a wonderful obituary. It covers the bases. Her family was always her first and foremost priority. She loved to travel. I do believe some of her happiest years was when she ran her travel agency.

But then there’s the stuff that’s left out.

For instance, I once remember her telling me a story about how Uncle Joe suggested she join some kind of women’s group. (I forget exactly what it was about.)

She did. She gave it a go. She said she lasted one meeting and never went back.

“I didn’t have time for all that nonsense. I saw right away the politics, back-biting, and other shenanigans. I don’t have time for that. I have a family to take care of.”

That sort of surprised me. After all, Joe was so involved in politics. It seemed there lives were one social occasion after another. I figured she’d want to be out there as much as possible making more connections for him.

Not so. She’d pitch in and help in limited ways, but she wasn’t going to head anything up on a permanent basis.

And as for friends, other than her very dear friend Irene, she didn’t really let people get close. She’d let them in a little, but not all the way.

Then there’s the other stuff. Like how she knew how to drive a truck (the moving truck/semi kind of truck, not just a regular ol’ truck). That was mentioned during her funeral mass.

Or her love of golf and the hole in one she made on a course in Palm Beach. She told me that story on our vacation to St. Lucia. Her eyes absolutely lit up with pride. (As well they should have. She’s the only person I’ve ever known personally to make a hole in one!)

Or how, when I once asked her of all the places she’d been, where was her favorite and the one she couldn’t wait to get back to, she responded by stating her home address.

“I love to see the world, but there truly is no place in it like home.”

And her obit certainly doesn’t convey the grace, sass, warmth, wit, style, and elegance she had. Or the way people just couldn’t help smiling and laughing when they were around her. She had that certain kind of magic to just lift people up.

But that picture finally made it hit home she’s gone. I’ll never get to be in my aunt’s enchanting presence ever again. None of that had hit me quite like it had until today seeing her picture

Aunt Alice, thank you so much for all of the love and memories you’ve tucked in my heart. I am missing you so much.

Me and Aunt Alice when she came for my book launch party. Jacksonville, FL 2004

I’ve been having some “woman” issues lately. Like the past month or so. Actually, it’s been a bit longer than that, but things sort of took a nose dive in the last month in a more noticeable, “uh oh, guess I better go talk to the doc” kind of way.

No one was sure Aunt Flow would even come back after chemo (which threw me into a sort of menopause). But last August it did.

I’ve always had a pretty healthy cycle. It normally comes right on time. But when it came back it was a bit heavier than what it had been. And then around December/January my PMS started kicking in a bit more fiercely and earlier than normal.

Then the periods started coming more. Like every 3 1/2 to 4 weeks instead of 4 1/2 to 5. Then in May it was supposed to come on May 13. Or around there. Nothing.

I had some symptoms, fully expected it, but it never showed. A month passed and still nothing. But, again, I was starting to get symptoms, along with some wicked pains. I chalked that up to my period being late and making up for lost time.

We went to St. Louis to see friends 4th of July weekend and I thought I might die. The drive there wasn’t bad. I was doing so-so. But as the night wore on I felt the pain growing and growing until all I could think was, “This is it! It’s of course going to strike now, when we’re on vacation trying to have fun.”

But…nothing.

And that first night as we drove back to our hotel from our friend’s house I had to pull over and let Wayne drive. I was doubled over and was seriously considering a trip to the ER.

But a few Advil and sleep made things more bearable for the morning. I then popped more Advil because we were headed to Six Flags with our friends and their kids and no way was I going to rain on their parade.

I made it through okay, but I knew something was wrong. I was having too much pain, and a very weird smell (sorry, maybe that’s TMI but it’s part of my symptoms).

I took a pregnancy test because my 3 month oncologist checkup was this past Tuesday. They always have to x-ray me and I knew they’d need to know if there was a bun in my oven. The test was negative.

I mentioned my period problems to my onc nonetheless. They told me I better schedule with my primary.

I luckily got in the next day. They had me pee in a cup and confirmed, nope, not prego, but there was another cause for concern: there was some blood in my urine.

Say what? So what does that indicate?

It could be a cyst, a fibroid tumor, maybe even my kidneys. However, I should be in more pain if it was kidney related. Oh, yeah, and there’s always the possibility I could have another hitchhiker. They took some blood and scheduled a vaginal ultrasound for the next day. (Which was yesterday.)

Lovely.

Hearing the C word of course flipped me out. Especially since my aunt is dying of a female cancer. But Wayne surprised me and went to my ultrasound appointment with me. It really helped because otherwise I would’ve been freaking myself out in the waiting room. Instead, he was there distracting me with funny commentaries about stories on Today.

But here’s the part where “here we go again…” comes in:

Test was yesterday. The radiologist should have gotten them to my doctor by yesterday afternoon. But if they did they never called to tell me.

And of course my doctor’s office closes early on Fridays, so they never called this morning with results either. I tried them at 11:40 (thinking they closed at noon). Wrong. They close at 11:30. ARGH!

So now I have to wait all weekend.

Wonderful. That’s a lot like last time. Except I’m not in near as much pain and it’s not Christmastime.

Hopefully it’s something easier than another hitchhiker. But you better believe I am NOT ready to check out of this world yet. Bring it. I’ve got more fight left in me!

My friend Chris V. (whose blog is Candid Canine) sent me a very timely article she came across on Yahoo!News: Americans are treated, and overtreated, to death.

Americans increasingly are treated to death, spending more time in hospitals in their final days, trying last-ditch treatments that often buy only weeks of time, and racking up bills that have made medical care a leading cause of bankruptcies.

That was just one of the snippets from the article that resounded with me. The other was an anecdote about a 32 year old woman who’d been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor. She’d undergone two surgeries, chemo, plus radiation. She spent months in the hospital, finally being released and able to spend time with her family, including her two year old daughter, before she died the very next day.

A stunning number of cancer patients get aggressive care in the last days of their lives, [Dr. Martha Twaddle] noted. One large study of Medicare records found that nearly 12 percent of cancer patients who died in 1999 received chemo in the last two weeks of life, up from nearly 10 percent in 1993.

Guidelines from an alliance of leading cancer centers say patients whose cancer has spread should stop getting anti-cancer medicine if sequential attempts with three different drugs fail to shrink their tumors. Yet according to IntrinsiQ, a cancer data analysis company, almost 20 percent of patients with colorectal cancer that has spread are on at least their fourth chemotherapy drug. The same goes for roughly 12 percent of patients with metastatic breast cancer, and for 12 percent of those with lung cancer. The analysis is based on more than 60,000 cancer patients.

The Woman in the Room Across the Hall

When my mom was in the hospice the woman in the room across the hall from her was young. Forties.

When my mom first was checked in the hospice that lady was vibrant. Her room was decorated with pictures, flowers, all kinds of neat personal knicknacks. Friends and family often were with her, laughing and playing games. You’d never have known the woman was dying.

The next week her door was often closed, a note posted on the door: “I love visitors but please limit visits to 15 minutes. My energy is down today.”

The next week her door was closed, there was a book on a table outside her room, and the note on the door said, “Unable to see visitors. Please sign my book so I know you were here. I appreciate you stopping by.”

I’m not sure when she died. That’s when my mom took her turn. But I sure admired that lady. I often found myself thinking, “That’s how I’d like to go out. If I have a chance, and know the end is coming, that’s how I’d spend my time. Celebrating my life with the people who’ve touched it.”

The American Way

I’ve really been struggling with my aunt’s diagnosis. But this article Chris sent today helped me understand in part why. (Besides the obvious reasons.)

The American way is “never giving up, hoping for a miracle,” said Dr. Porter Storey, a former hospice medical director who is executive vice president of the hospice group that Morrison heads.

“We use sports metaphors and war metaphors all the time. We talk about never giving up and it’s not over till the fat lady sings …. glorifying people who fought to their very last breath,” when instead we should be helping them accept death as an inevitable part of life, he said.

I’ve really struggled with my aunt saying, “You know what? The time for treatment is past. I’m going out on my own terms.”

I am most definitely American through and through with respect to the “fight to the bitter end” mentality. Ain’t no way I was going out without a fight.

But I also had hope. If my treatments worked I might just be cured, and the odds were in my favor for that. If that had not been the case…well, I still would have fought. I would’ve held out hope for a miracle.

But now? I still might fight. I’m still young. I still have a lot to do.

Not Quitting, It’s Transitioning

But if I went through aggressive treatments, the tumors didn’t shrink, or, worse, spread, I’d opt to spend my last days peacefully. No needles. No drugs. (Except ones to keep me comfortable.)

Comfort. That’s the key. If I’m lucky enough to have the luxury of knowing my estimated end date, I think I’d do like my aunt. I’d opt for comfort. And a higher quality of life and goodbye time with my loved ones.

Because, lucky for my aunt, right now she’s not in much pain. She just wants to enjoy her kids, grandkids, and her husband during the time she has left. Running to doctor appointments, hospital time, dealing with treatment side effects…it sucks all the good time away.

Like she has all her life, my aunt is living –and now dying– with her trademark style and grace.

This article really helped me put some things in perspective. Chris, if you read this, thanks again for sharing it with me.

Over the weekend I found out my aunt’s cancer is back. It’s a blow I’ve been struggling with ever since. (And in part why I needed a restorative movie weekend to get my mind off Real Life.)

I really wish I could remember when she was first diagnosed. I want to say September 2008. I know it wasn’t terribly long after my mom passed, nor was it terribly long before I discovered mine.

My aunt (Alice Kotso is her name if you care to send love and light her way or keep her in your prayers) is a rare breed of woman. On her outside she’s as coiffed, polished as poised as they come. But inside she’s tough as nails. There’s not much that gets passed her, and not much she’s afraid of.

If anyone could beat cancer into remission, it was her. But she was always afraid her cancer treatments would affect her already existing health problems. She reluctantly agreed to chemo the first time around.

This past May they found another tumor. They operated and told her she needed chemo again. She refused. They suggested radiation at the very least. She refused again. She said she was putting it in God’s hands. She left for a three week trip to China with her husband, but instead of getting better she only got worse.

She had ovarian cancer to start with. She now has leukemia, which they suspect was caused by her initial cancer treatments. The very thing she feared most happened.

Now the cancer has now spread. They’re running tests to find out if it’s the ovarian or the leukemia that’s spread. They’ve basically said it’s definitely terminal, but there may be some kind of treatment to slow it down.

Except she doesn’t want to do it. It’s not that she wants to die exactly. As she tried to explain it, she’s 75, she’s lived both a very full and blessed life, and if it’s her time to go out she wants to go on her own terms. She already experienced the indignities and hardships chemo brings. She doesn’t want to put her body back through that. Nor does she want to be treated like a sick and dying person.

I respect that. Chemo sucked. The first two treatments weren’t too bad. The last four almost killed me. Or that’s what it felt like. Uncontrollable throwing up. Shitting myself. Having so little energy just trying to eat a couple of spoonfuls of soup used up so much energy I’d nap for three hours.

She had it even worse. She had to have a blood transfusion when her white cell count fell too low. And losing her hair was a devastating blow. She’s always been a beautiful woman who prides herself on her vanity. Suffering the indignity of her looks being totally robbed from her was much harder on her psyche than it was on someone like myself who’s never known what it’s like to have looks matter like she has.

Sunday I was pretty torn up about it. Mostly because she’s the only one who understood what I was going through. Even after I hit remission I confessed to her that I, too, feared the future. The day when I might not start feeling quite right again. Or worse, feeling just fine but on a check up visit being told “It’s back.”

She understood the anxiety that gradually starts escalating about a month or so before the next scheduled check up. She understood the mood swings and impatience with “healthy” people. (Meaning, non-cancerites.)

Better than anyone she understood me ranting about how we get this one shot at life, and, yes, you can go at any time. In a car accident, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being done in by some wacko on a shooting spree. Or maybe just having a massive heart attack.

Those are terrible, sudden ways to go. But learning you have cancer is worse. I was so, so, so lucky to have a kind that could not only be treated, but potentially cured. I’m not fully cured though yet. I won’t reach that status for another 4 years –if I’m lucky.

Aunt Alice understood that. She was in the exact same boat. She’s now transferred to another one. One we’ve both been made painfully aware exists thanks to others sharing their cancer horror stories.

Like her good friends who lost their son after his brief battle with pancreatic cancer. He lived maybe four months after being diganosed.

Or our neighbor who just lost his brother. He’d gone to see the doctor because he was constipated. He thought he’d get an enema or something. Wrong. He, too, was diagnosed with cancer. A late stage one. He was immediately referred to hospice. Just two weeks later he succumbed.

There was also the lady at tennis. Her sister went in for fatigue. She’d been stressed, working hard. She expected the doctor to tell her she needed a break. Nope. End stage breast cancer. Three weeks later she was gone. She had just turned 37.

It can happen that fast. And when you’re confronted with that kind of death sentence, even if you get a bit of a stay like myself, it changes everything.

People often tell me having a baby changed how they viewed the world. That’s what cancer’s done for me. My aunt is just another example and reminder to myself that I’m living on borrowed time at this point. Maybe my stay will become a full fledged pardon and it won’t be cancer that takes me out.

I don’t know. All I do know is I can’t take anything for granted. Not my health, not those I love, not my passions, and most of all not my Authentic Self. My life has to honor that and be a tribute to all those who’d love to have their lives back and chance of fulfilling their heartfelt destinies restored.