I just have to get this out: I hate telling people what kind of cancer I had.

Don’t get me wrong. I never mind talking about my cancer. I’m not ashamed of it like some people are. I had it, it was a huge part of my life, and it always will be. It’s part of the Courtney package now.

However, everyone always wants to know what kind it was. It’s not their fault. That’s how society has conditioned us. We think of cancer by their labels. (And in some cases associate them by the celebrities that had them.)

• Breast cancer. Very bad. Very sad when a woman gets it. Has the potential to be very deadly. Lots of ways to support the fight. Pink ribbons everywhere.
• Lung cancer. The smoker’s cancer. Very bad. Very deadly. Basically a death sentence when you’re diagnosed. Not much sympathy. Everyone assumes you brought it on yourself with your bad habits.
• Testicular cancer. For men only. a.k.a “nut cancer” or “what Lance Armstrong had.”
• Prostrate cancer. Also for men only. Has the potential to be very deadly. Not discussed as openly as many others.
• Pancreatic cancer. Bad news. Not curable. (a.k.a. the “Patrick Swayze one”.)

These are just some of them. The list goes on and on. (Unfortunately.) As do the way we associate them. (Also unfortunately.)

I understand doctors and researchers need to classify the different cancers because they all respond to treatments differently. But for the rest of us?

Cancer is cancer.

It’s scary. It’s life changing. It’s surreal. And it’s different for everyone. Both the treatments and how they experience it.

It’s driving me nuts that some cancers, like breast, are everywhere. It’s like some Pink Ribbon Club now. There are times I almost feel left out that I got lymphoma, a very common cancer in its own right, instead of freaking breast cancer because there’s no “club” for mine! (You don’t see lime green ribbons on products in every store from grocery to department to sporting goods, do you?)

But thanks to my family’s history, chemo and radiation I have plenty of opportunities to join that club at some point in the future. Great. (In case it’s not clear, I’m being sarcastic. I really don’t have any desire to become a member of the Pink Ribbon Club.)

But see there? Anyone who had breast cancer might now be offended. “What, my club’s not good enough for you?”

See what all this labeling has the potential to do? That’s exactly why I don’t like it and why it drives me nuts!

Something I see a lot of people doing when something bad happens to them is asking, “Why me?”

Long before I ever learned I had cancer I had resolved if anything bad ever happened to me, I would not go there –to the “Why me?” pity place.

I always thought, “How presumptuous can a person be to ask that question? What, did you think when you were born you’d get special privileges that would exempt you from suffering life’s tragedies just like everyone else?”

Yes, I always felt it was an extremely arrogant and self-centered question. And, should something horrendous ever happen to me, it wouldn’t even be worth whispering those words.

And I didn’t –not once at any stage in the “Oh shit, I have cancer!” process did I ever go there. I wasn’t even tempted.

However, ever since I’ve survived the Black Cloud’s wrath I find myself asking a “Why me?” question nonetheless. It goes a little something like this: Why did I survive when others don’t?

For example, the other night we watched the Survivor season finale. During the reunion portion of the show they paid tribute to former Survivor Jenn Lyon who died of cancer earlier this year. She was only 37.

Wayne immediately dove for the remote wanting desperately to change the channel. But he was too late. I saw it. Images of the beautiful young woman who once upon a time purposely subjected herself to enduring the elements for 39 days (if she could make it that far) with perfect strangers in a quest for a million dollar prize.

I tried and tried to hold back my tears, to not react the way I always do when I learn of a fellow cancer soldier losing his or her battle with the disease. Mostly I tried to put on a brave face because I knew Wayne would beat himself up for not having changed the channel fast enough to spare me from seeing it.

It’s his way of protecting me. I love him for it.

I could almost feel him holding his breath as he waited for the inevitable: the deluge that always follows. But, as it always does, it finally came.

And with it so did my string of “why” questions: Why her? Why not me? Why am I still here? Why are some cured and others aren’t? Why was I so lucky?

Then we had to staunch the flow of panic that also accompanies these events when I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have had 16 months, two weeks, and a day more with Wayne than I could have had if the alternative had happened.

I know I’ll never have an answer to any of my questions. I’m not sure I’d really want to know the answer anyway. But this is what I do know:

I know I’m here thanks to many factors: the scientists and researchers who invented the treatments that saved my life, those patients who went before me to perfect the treatments, the doctors and nurses who know how to correctly administer them, friends and family who lent their strength, support and comfort when mine was weak, and even my own Life Force willing me not to go out just factored in.

Most of all I know the “Why not me?” feelings I have is survivor’s guilt.

I know all of that, but it’s never enough to keep me from wondering it anyway.

Blessings to you and your life, Jenn Lyon. You accomplished whatever you were put here for faster than those who loved you would’ve preferred. I hope their memories of you provide comfort as they mourn your passing.

I watched a bio of Shirley Temple Black on Biography channel the other day. It was actually a re-run. I’d seen most of it before.

But not all. Or if I’d seen it, I spaced it. Because one thing I was shocked to learn was that Shirley Temple was a cancer survivor! In 1972 she found out she had breast cancer and ended up getting a mastectomy. Then she ended up talking publicly about it –during a time when it was still taboo to talk of such things.

When my mom got cancer she refused to talk about it. At least with me. (I was only 12 at the time though too.) But I do recall on several occasions her saying, “Cancer is not something people talk about.”

This was 1983. But my mom was 50 something by then. She was from that era when they didn’t talk about cancer in polite society –or any society really.

But Shirley did. And in the Biography profile of her they said it was because she did that other women went to go get checked out.

Shirley Temple’s been a lot of things, but she also might be remembered as a pioneer on the cancer awareness front.

(And once again I found myself counting my blessings that I live nowadays. I can’t even imagine bearing societal pressure to keep hush about my cancer. I’d never have made it!)

When I heard I had cancer, having it freaked me out. I’d heard tales of people throwing up the second they received bad news, but I’d never done it myself –until Diagnosis Day (a.k.a. D-Day.)

And since I’d just lost my mom to lung cancer five months earlier, and was well aware the tumor in my chest was gynormous, I figured I’d most likely be a goner too.

After all, I was having to do some of the same stuff I’d just gone through with my mom as her caretaker. The being out of breath. The coughing so hard I was spitting up mucus and blood. Needing breathing treatments every four hours.

That’s what scared me the most. Visiting her in the hospice. Waiting and watching to see if she was any worse today, any nearer to the inevitable end we knew was coming, and seeing all those other people and their loved ones going through the same thing…waiting for the goodbye they both dreaded and welcomed. (Because there comes a point you wish the end would hurry up. You just don’t want to see your loved one suffering anymore.)

Confronting the idea of death at only 38 was frightening enough. It didn’t seem fair. I hadn’t got to do so many of the things I’d wanted. I never finished my other books yet. I hadn’t gone to France. I’d never gotten to use a bidet. And really? The last year of my life I had to remember was caring for my mom and fighting with my sister? I know Life’s not fair, but what a crappy way to end it all with all that toxic mess as my finale.

But what scared me most was the deterioration I knew was coming. I’d seen it. I didn’t want to go out that way.

The only good thing about it is I’d have a little time to say goodbye. To tell all the people I loved and who had influenced me during my life how much they mattered to me.

But the getting sicker and sicker part before the end came? I didn’t want to go out like that. I didn’t want my last days on Earth with Wayne to be spent like that.

Although, now I’ve come to realize I’d do what I did when I found out I had cancer: I’d let myself freak, then I’d embrace my reality. If that’s how I’m meant to go out, not much I can do about it –except find the blessings and make the most of them with whatever time I was given.

Last year around this time one of Wayne’s co-workers gave him a Magic Bullet. Well, it was intended for the both of us.

I had just started chemo. I couldn’t eat much. I didn’t feel like eating much. However, I had a hankering for banana shakes. Not with ice cream or anything. Just a simple blend of bananas, milk and a little bit of vanilla sugar.

However, I didn’t always have the energy after whipping up one of my banana shakes to clean out the blender. Wayne was doing most of the dishes at this point.

Along with working his day job, taking care of cleaning cat boxes and walking Murph three times a day, picking up groceries, fixing dinner, doing laundry, cleaning the house…I wasn’t able to do much back then. Cleaning out the awkward blender left him belly aching.

Well, his answer was just to throw the parts in the dish washer. But fat lot of good that did me when we weren’t running it every day. I’d have to ask him to help me clean it. (My left arm was useless and trying to do things one-handed drained what energy I had that much faster.)

His co-worker Rosemary had the answer: the Magic Bullet.

I’d seen them on TV and thought they looked neat, but I was wary because it was being peddled in infomercials. Can’t trust what you see on TV and all that.

But Rosemary had bought one and loved it. LOVED IT! She said we absolutely had to have one so she ran out and got us one.

It didn’t take but one use for Wayne to see why Rosemary had been raving. No awkward pieces to clean up anymore!

And he quickly started whipping himself up his own version of Slushies…just juice or Gatorade with some ice. He was making those from the moment he got up until he left for work, and that was among the first things he’d do when he cam home at night.

Yes, we’ve greatly enjoyed the Magic Bullet ever since. It’s a Happily Ever After Small Appliance story.

But I got to watching the infomercial again the other night. They were doing all sorts of things with the Magic Bullet. Including grinding coffee.

Not that I’m a coffee connoisseur. I only drink it occasionally, and always decaf. (It doesn’t seem to upset my tummy like regular coffee often does.)

Anyway, I’ve always wanted to grind my own coffee at home and then brew it. Just to try it. Mostly because anytime I can play with my food I’m on it! Grinding looked fun!

Sure, I can use the grinders in the store. But to have one at home would be neater. Plus, then I could see if it really does brew a fresher cup.

So when I saw that was one of the things we could do, I bought some decaf beans and went hunting for the other blade. (Wayne had stashed all the parts that came with our Magic Bullet because he was the one to unpack it.)

Anyway, I found it PLUS all the other shaker tops and stuff that came with it –which I also saw demonstrated the other night and didn’t even know we had!

WOOHOO! More playing with my food to come!

And how was the grinding process and the resulting cup of Joe? As fun as I’d hoped (maybe even funner) and DELICIOUS!

Woohoo! I had my three-month follow up with my oncologist today.

Chest x-ray? Fine!

Bloodwork? Fine!

BP? 96 over 68…I’d say that’s pretty damn FINE!

Aches and pains? Fine! (None! So better than fine!)

Breathing? Still doing it! (I have asthma so sometimes it flares up and requires me to suck on my inhaler, but overall I’m still doing okay!)

The only thing is my ding dong weight. They didn’t say anything about it, but I’m back up to 188. Grrrr.

But I’m still alive and kicking so…I’m just going to have to be fat and fine with it!

Today I had a delightful lunch out with my friend Karen. She and her husband are up from Jacksonville for a big photography conference at the Gaylord Opryland.

But today at lunch she broke some very sad news. Her friend Marie, who had been battling breast cancer for the past four years, died last week. Today was actually the memorial service.

Karen hadn’t wanted to tell me. I never even met her friend Marie, but she was an inspiration nonetheless. She wasn’t even supposed to live the last three years she did. But she kept setting goals for herself, and she willed herself to meet them. At least three times she’d been put on hospice and told she had less than six months. This time she willed herself to live to see the New Year, but that’s all she had left.

When I was first diagnosed last year, Karen told me all about her. She used her as an example of why it was so important to keep a positive attitude. Because it really could help.

It did. In two chemos my tumor shrunk from grapefruit-sized to golf ball-sized. Not all of that was my positive attitude. Much of that was because of the medicine and the astounding number of prayers.

But keeping hopeful, inspired, and motivated? I used Marie as a benchmark of how important that could be.

So Marie, I didn’t even know you, but you made a HUGE impact on me nonetheless. I know it was much too early for you to go. You’ve left behind a huge hole from what I know from Karen. Everyone who met you loved you. And from the sounds of it you had quite the family. I know their hearts are grieving. I hope you’ve found peace from the pain. That you suffered all you did for as long as you did…you were one tough cookie! But your will and grit, combined with your zest and optimism, have had an impact on reaches even further than you can imagine. Thank you for setting such an amazing example of how to live with cancer until your dying day.

Tomorrow I go in for a three month checkup. I haven’t been in since last October. This will be my first non-scan follow-up. (There will be blood work, and possibly a chest x-ray, but no CT scan.)

I hope I’m still doing fine. I feel good, but there’s always that niggling of “what if” now. Maybe it’ll go away one day. I don’t know. The trauma of all I’ve been through is still fresh.

But I am alive, and as long as I’m alive I will live each day like Marie did: bravely, with a smile, and above all a can-do attitude combined with a will of steel.

Rest in peace, Ms. Marie.

In Fat and Fine With It? I wrote about how I’ve been heavy for years now, even though I am physically active.

When I was going through chemo a neighbor stopped by with info about a healthy eating program. It was basically a raw vegan diet. She said she did it and it works for her. She’s never had cancer, nor has she ever had a weight problem.

I know she meant well, so I accepted the pamphlets and thanked her for stopping. However, I was a bit miffed.

She never asked what kind of cancer I had. She never asked what I ate. For all she knew I could have been a vegan who loved indulging in French fries too much!

And I don’t know if being overweight contributed to my cancer or not. Wayne likes to harp on me that it probably didn’t help and I need to take better care of myself in that respect. He may be right. And I do appreciate his concern.

However, from 2007 into 2008, especially 2008, I experienced some of the most intense stress I’d ever faced. It was all self-induced. I shouldn’t have let things get to me like I did.

Still, it happened. And I remember often feeling my blood. A few times I felt my heart hurt in ways I was sure was a sign I was about to have a heart attack. I also remember saying often that I was so stressed and upset it felt almost toxic. How I could feel my blood burning at some points.

I wasn’t all that surprised to learn lymphoma was a cancer of the blood. It made sense to me. I knew the feelings I’d had had been toxic! I’m convinced it was the stress that led to the cancer.

Which for me is why I place as much value on my mental health as I do my physical health. I even came up with the affirmation “Happy cells are healthy cells” to remind myself of this. I’m determined to never let myself feel that kind of stress ever again!

On this date last year Wayne came with me to the doctor for what would be my fourth visit in a month. At first it was because my cough wasn’t getting better, then it was because I was complaining of the ever-increasing pain in my shoulder, then it was because my left hand went numb.

She finally ordered a chest x-ray and a shoulder x-ray. Wayne took me over to the hospital to get them done. I could barely stand by then. The pain was incredible.

And that’s when I knew something bad was wrong.

After the chest x-ray, they did my shoulder. Then they came back to do some more of the chest. Then I was asked to wait while someone else came in to get some more info. Then they left and someone else came back to say the radiologist saw something suspicious and I needed to come with them to get a CT scan.

I also needed contrast, which meant a needle. That was my first time meeting Julie, one of the CT techs. I told her about how I get dizzy, then sweaty, they I feel like I’m going to throw up but end up having diarrhea a lot of times when needles are involved.

She said, “I won’t let that happen on my watch.”

And she didn’t. I made it through, no problems. I cried, but she just handed me some tissue and said, “Let it out. This is scary. But you will be fine. People are on it now.”

Then I was free to go home. They told me they’d send the results to my doctor who would then contact me.

It didn’t quite happen that way though.

But that’s for a post to come…

It’s not as bad as it used to be, nor does it happen as often, but I still have my freak-out days. The days when the fact I’ve had to deal with cancer weighs heavy on my mind. The days I don’t feel so hot and think, “It’s coming back!”

But I try to find ways to work through it. Sometimes finding peace and remembering not what cancer took from me, but what it gave, comes in unique forms.

Like my end of the year photo montage project. I’d found One True Media earlier in the year. I have Windows Movie Maker and could have used it to do the same thing OTM offers on their site, but they had neater graphics, transitions and effects. Plus music.

I had a blast picking my favorite images from this past year and putting them together in what I think turned out to be a really neat montage. One that showcases all the love I was surrounded with, all the fun I had, and why I always, but in particular this year, have a lot to smile about.