When I posted this on FB the other day I was sitting at a computer bank that’s reserved for patients & families at M.D Anderson Cancer Care Hospital. (I love M.D Anderson. They saved my body, now I’m working on my mind.) I was typing with this big IV in my left arm that bruised my vein. It was the same vein that my PICC line has been in and as this bruise came to the top of skin and swelled, my body remembered procedures and that time of sickness faster than my mind would let me.

All of a sudden I was ‘patient’ again. It was strange. It was flashback without the flash.  It was fast-forward for the next day I had endoscopy which would require sedation and another IV. The last time I had endoscopy the doc found cancer.

I was alone on this trip to MDA. When my husband and I looked at schedules, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, at least, the best choice.  I wanted to feel independent. Prove I was ‘strong’ (see other post). I called my husband at one point to whine, and did. Then I called my sister to whine but couldn’t stand the sound of my own whining so we talked about roses and gardens.

When I called my sister I sat outside with a stranger. The hospital is always chilly. She seemed frail to me. I did what I do at MDA, I asked her what kind of cancer treatment she’s coping with. (I think we cope with treatment rather than battle cancer, who needs war metaphors?) She said lung cancer, then quickly added, I”m not a smoker!”

I said: “I wasn’t even thinking that.”

She said: “So many people do.”

“Yes, but that’s blaming the victim for their disease. No one asks for this!” I held up my hands to the hospital, those in treatment walking around with face masks attached to IV poles, the hats and heads cleared of hair.  People are diagnosed with MS, Ataxia, ALS, among other life threatening diseases and there is immediate compassion. In the cancer world, lung cancer and colorectal cancer, and I assume skin, one gets support as well as a thread of ‘what did you do wrong to get this horrible disease’ which sticks, no matter how much one tries to not take such thoughts in.

This woman was told by her first (not MDA) oncologist that she had six months to live. She asked him, what’s the treatment plan but he said there was really nothing. She cried in her office and it pissed him off. She and husband went home and called the doc’s nurse asked “What would you do if it were your mother”. The nurse said: “Oh I’d walk her across the street and take her to MD Anderson!”And they did. Six years ago. Six years of life. Stage Four lung cancer and six years of living.

Like me she has chemo-brain. . .yes I still have issues with memory and peripheral neuropathy.  . . she relies on her partner to keep her meds in order and dose her at the right times. We are the same and different. I sat in the sun with her feeling six years. Feeling my almost three years from when I first heard the word ‘malignant’.

Later, I posted to FB. I drank my barium, spilled some it on myself which required me to need to change into scrubs.  I finally went to my friend’s house around 7:00 PM, knowing I had to stop eating and drinking anything at midnight. I had to return there by 7:00 AM for my scope.  I moved through Friday appointments in a fog of anesthesia and the weight of pending results from the tests. It was exhausting. I forgot to take care of myself well.

I called my husband and said: “This was a bad idea.” I was on my cell phone, I took a room at our favorite Econolodge and ate comfort food, zapped in the microwave and drank lots of water.

Four days later, I can tell you, my biopsy is negative.  My CEA is elevated. I”m half way to six years. There is no expiration date anywhere on my body and my docs at M.D Anderson mean to keep it that way.

My computer is fixed yet old. There is only so much this machine will do and so much I want to do with it, yet, it works. Kind of like me right now.

I was asked recently what did I do all day. . . I write. I read. I do some cooking. I do stuff. I am embarrassed by the question because I feel like I should be working for money. That I’m not doing enough.  I told her this and she said: “Why? That sounds great!” She’s right, it is great that I can be home and do some very deep recovery from the past three years. It’s a gift and I’m grateful. Grateful as well to be reminded.

Saturday I turned 51. I had four celebrations that match who I am now. Thursday, it was with Charlie on stage with friends, Cowboy Johnson (his birthday too!) and Bradley Kopp. A joyful group of people, noisy restaurant. This is my Austin birthday.

Friday I drove to Oak Cliff (that’s next to Dallas, just so you know) and spent time with a friend and her children one and three. There is nothing like being around small children to make you focus on the present. And, as is my karma going to Oak Cliff, things happened and the original plan went out the window. But my dear friend and I, ate popcorn and chocolate, we watched a documentary on the french competition for head pastry chef.  We were together.

Sunday night, after I drove home, I met up with some lady friends for nibbles and Texas Martini. And talk.  This little dinner thing was intentional on my part to take care of myself. I knew my husband would be out Sunday night working and I didn’t want to come home to too much quiet.

Then Monday I drove out to Johnson City to my friend’s ranch and she made me dinner. Oh such a good cook. . . and we drank wine. And we laughed a whole lot under the clear starry Texas sky. There is something very special about the sky here. For one thing, there’s lots of it because the trees are not tall nor are the buildings. While I love the memories of a childhood tramping around in woods of white and grey birch, oak and maples. I treasure the cool, deep shade in summers then and there it cannot be reproduced. So, now, seven years in Texas, I return to Austin and crave the sky, especially at night.

My friend wanted me to stay another night but I needed to return home. I’d gotten my wander lust satisfied. I had a wonderful birthday weekend but no cake. This was not planned but who needs cake when there’s a great pinot on the table and you’ve had your fill of crawfish bisque?

I used to have disappointing birthdays. I was third child in a chaotic household. We did have a traditional cake from the local IGA. It was yummy but it was a family only thing. I know one year, when my mother was absorbed in my father’s drinking, that it was my sister who made sure there was cake and gifts for me. As I grew up, I couldn’t say want I’d want to do. I didn’t feel entitled. I also wanted to be surprised. . . that fantasy where someone reads your mind and gives you the party you dream of.  That young woman was relying on others to make her happy on the inside, fill a hole that only she could do.

There have been great years, don’t get me wrong, but somewhere between 31 and 51, I learned who I was on the inside. I learned what makes me happy. That I can choose to be happy, even when things are hard. And for me the word ‘happy’ includes: Contentment. Joy. Bliss. Sweet-Sad. Sharing. Acceptance.