Too Green for Words

No appetitie. Nausea. Throwing up. Little energy.

But I smile from ear to ear when I look at these pictures.

Pre-Prom Memories at the City of Hope

Behind the scenes:

• Two dress fitting
• Two tuxedo fittings
• Four shoe searches and one return
• Three "underpinnings" searches
• Three tie searches
• One corsage order
• One exhausted mom and dad
  

Different Moments Than I Imagined

Nearly two months ago, on March 13, I wrote these words on my blog:

"For the first time since visiting my general practitioner in early January, a feeling of overwhelming sadness and fear swept over me. Sadness for the things I'll miss in the next few months, especially related to Cindy."

Wise Rose left a comment that has resonated with me since that day: "You will not miss moments with Cynthia, or anyone else. You will just have different moments than you imagined."

Tonight was Cindy's Senior Prom at Arroyo Pacific Academy and I did, in fact, have different memories than I imagined. My friend Terry took the day off from work so she could pick up Cindy and shuttle her from hair salon to makeup artist to boyfriend pickup and home for dress up. All the while Terry played "clock Nazi," reminding stylists and make-up artists and, most of all, Cindy, of the tight time frame involved in making an appearance at the City of Hope before taking off for official prom photos.

I sat perched in my hospital bed intercepting calls and orchestrating the details. "Who's picking up the corsages? I'll call George."

At 5:30 pm, Cindy, Andrew and Terry waltzed through the sun-filled lobby at the City of Hope. George arrived a few minutes later with corsages in tow. A helpful patient care assistant produced some safety pins and helped with the final underpinnings of Cindy's garment.

We took photos of the glowing young couple, decked out in their prom finery. The "totem pole" and I even joined in for a couple portraits.

George rushed to drop off the couple for prom portraits at the Brookside Country Club while Terry and I relaxed in the room replaying the highs and lows of the day.

My recollections of Rose's prom preparation memories consist of Amber and a friend quietly dressing in her room while moms sipped wine in the kitchen. I had hoped to conjure up the same easy-going scene, but, just as Rose predicted, I produced a much different one than I imagined. It's certainly one that none of us will forget.

I don't have a bottle of champagne tonight, but, if I did, I would raise my glass to my friends Rose and Terry, my husband George, my beautiful daughter Cindy and her dashing boyfriend Andrew.

PS I'll post more photos tomorrow.

Commentors: Do you have any favorite (publishable) prom memories of your own or your child's prom?

Back at Hotel Hope for Round Three

Breakfast in bed. Round-the-clock room service. A staff at my beck and call. Unlimited recreational opportunities, including pole dancing, conga line dancing and cable television. Daily in-room "happy hour." A room with a view (of the 210 freeway).

Today I'll check in to one of the five-star resorts of the San Gabriel Valley, Hotel Hope.

I'll check out on Sunday, just in time to celebrate Mother's Day with George and Cindy.

UPDATE: It's 2:15 pm and I'm settled into my room. This time I have a view of palm trees and the mountains, so it seems more "resort-like" than ever.

Loved Ones Recall Local Man's Cowardly Battle With Cancer

Did you laugh out loud when you read this headline from the satirical newspaper, The Onion? I did.

Why is it that the use of the words "cowardly" and "cancer" in the same sentence tickles our funny bones? Comedy critics would tell us that it's the surprise factor or incongruous pairing that produces the chuckles. We expect cancer battlers to be strong and courageous, not weak and cowardly.

All of this has inspired me to think about why most of us naturally ascribe these adjectives, strong and courageous, to those battling cancer. Over the decades, I've known many friends and acquaintances (several of whom have died from the disease) who battled cancer. Each did it in his or her own way, but in every case I would describe the person and their battle as strong and courageous.

And, yet, most of us who are currently in the trenches feel uncomfortable with these descriptors. Jonathan Alter, in his Newsweek cover story about his battle with mantle cell lymphoma, described it this way. “Friends later said I handled it courageously, but they were wrong. American culture rewards cheerful stoicism, a quality that cancer patients usually display in public but find difficult to sustain in private.”

I often think of Alter's words when I find myself crushed with emotions that are contrary to the "cheerful stoicism" I usually display and genuinely feel. After my last release from the City of Hope, I was required to report back on the following day at 8:30 am. I was exhausted. I was dealing with the loss of my hair. My body was covered with unhealed sores, a cheetah-like rash and bruises. My lower legs looked like they were decorated in dots with a red, fine-point Sharpie. (I later learned that this is a hallmark of a low blood platelet count.) I was hideous. As I burst into tears while walking from the parking lot to the hospital, I thought, "I'm NOT strong and courageous. I'm weak and cowardly."

The truth is that I was a person in need of support, a hug, encouraging words, and I got all of those things as soon as I walked through the doors of Hope. And I got it later when I talked with friends who had experienced a similar ride on the cancer coaster.

One definition of "courageous" is "consciously rising to a specific test by drawing on a reserve of inner strength." I like this definition because the implication is that the corageous person doesn't know the reserve existed prior to the "test." When I admire someone else for being "strong and courageous," my unspoken questions are always, "Could I rise to the occasion if the same thing happened to me?" and "Do I have the necessary reserve of inner strength?"

I find myself asking these questions a lot these days. Whenever I see a mom with a young child with leukemia. After I chat with patients whose primary residences are out of state and they are taking up temporary residence in So. Cal. while undergoing treatment at CoH. When I make contact with someone who has undergone more than one bone marrow or stem cell transplant. When I talk with someone whose disease has come back after being in remission.

I ask myself these questions every time I think of my friend Wayne, a 65-year-old college math professor, who biked daily from Altadena to LA. After a freak cycling accident in February, he is a quadriplegic. This formerly physical and mental athlete is just now beginning to regain feeling and movement in the tips of his fingers. When I spoke with him two weeks ago, he, like Christopher Reeve, was quick to point out, "I'm still Wayne."

There's no doubt that Wayne epitomizes strength and courage. Could I be as courageous under the same circumstances?

Wayne’s life changed dramatically from one moment to the next with no time to mentally or physically prepare. Mine, on the other hand, has been a gradual adjustment. When my ocular surgeon told me that the tumor on my eye was mantle cell lymphoma, he added that I would most likely be treated with radiation therapy. I thought, "I can deal with radiation, but I don't think I can handle chemo." The next thing I knew, my hematologist told me that I would be undergoing chemo and I thought, "Once every three weeks. That's not so bad. I can handle that." In the end, doctors told me, "You must undergo a high-dosage treatment as an in-patient and you will have a stem cell transplant when it's all over."

By the time I heard these words, I was ready to digest them. If I had heard them right after the initial diagnosis, I doubt that I would have been able to "consciously tap into reserves of strength" as quickly.

When we were going through our turbulent years with Cindy, I was active on a listserve for parents whose children attended the same group of "emotional growth" boarding schools. Parents sometimes posted chilling stories about children who ran away from the programs, which were typically located in rural or mountainous areas. At the time, I thought, "I don't think I have the strength to handle it if Cindy ran away." Two years later, she did just that from a program in Utah. And, of course, I did handle it; I had no choice. It was an excruciatingly difficult time, but we all got through that and other crises, thanks in no small part to others who had been on or were traveling similar journeys.

I find myself wondering the same thing about cancer returning after being in remission - that dangling sword of Damocles that threatens every cancer patient and survivor. Naturally, I believe it when I tell myself that I'm gonna' kick this MCL to the ground so that it never comes back up again. But after Elizabeth Edwards' cancer returned, I heard a commentator state that our society puts tremendous pressure on cancer survivors to do just that. The reality is that cancer sometimes returns, regardless of the treatments and the attitude of the patient.

In spite of my fears, I know deep down inside that I will deal with what I have to deal with when I have to deal with it, with the help of my family and friends. Sometimes I think the most courageous thing we can do is to admit that we have no (or a limited supply of) inner strength and seek out others, both professionally and personally, who can help us through these "tests."

And that, my friends, is no laughing matter.

Oh, no! Here she comes.

Consider yourself warned.

In an effort to make sense of my blood results, corresponding energy/mood levels, relationship to Course A or B, response to Neulasta injections or transfusions, I've created an Excel spreadsheet.

It's a beautiful thing. I've used baby blue to highlight the counts that are within 10% below the low normal range. Counts that dip below the 10% mark are highlighted in warning yellow. The nadir, or lowest point, in blood counts, is indicated in red letters.

I just learned how to add comments (click on a date, and up pop the comments) so that I can correlate my energy level, moods and other symptoms (e.g. bloody nose) with blood counts. I've also added my own indicator, the "2FHR," my heart rate after ascending two flights of stairs.

At a glance, I can compare and contrast Course A and Course B. I immediately see that Course B is bathed in yellow, the warning color, while Course A basks in a less extreme baby blue. I learn that I reached my nadir for both courses on Day 13, and it's all uphill from there. From my anecdotal comments, it's clear that mood is a much more reliable indicator of my energy level than blood counts. (Another reason to PACE myself, in spite of how I feel.)

I can also use this data to plan my social calendar and schedule manicures. I can't take the risk of cutting cuticles with low white blood cells (risk of infection) or low platelets (risk of bleeding).

On the other hand, could a sudden dip in lunch dates and social engagements be in direct correlation to my desire to blather on about my spreadsheet?

I find all of this endlessly fascinating, but not everyone shares my zest. If you see me approaching with an Excel spreadsheet or a laptop computer, you may want to change directions. But, hey, if you really want to make me happy, just ask, "May I see your spreadsheet?"

Flora-Cani Yoga

Not so long ago, if I didn't sweat, raise my heart rate, burn some calories or flood my brain with endorphins, I wasn't interested in participating. The meditative quality of yoga made me crazy. Unable to clear my mind during class, I resorted to filling the blanks by making mental grocery lists or counting to 100, then 1,000, like an out-of-control obsessive compulsive.

Even then, I realized that the more you hated it, the more you probably needed it.

But that was back in the BC (before cancer) days. Now I look forward to my weekly session with Yoga Deb. She comes to our Altadena home and garden every Saturday morning for an hour of Kundalini yoga. Debbi describes this gentle yoga as "a spiritual garden, complete with breathing, postures, meditation, mantras, and deep relaxation, all designed to integrate the mind, body, and spirit."

As you can see from the photographs, our garden and canine Betty play a vital role in the yoga session. I know it's Kundalini, but I like to call it "Flora-Cani Yoga." I think it could catch on. Betty frolicks. Bees buzz. Lavender sways in the breeze. The fountain splashes. The sweet scent of David Austin roses wafts through the air. It's a doggone therapeutic environment.

If you're interested in joining us, contact Debbi through her website or email me privately, and I'll give you the details. Hope to see you at Flora-Cani!

AND after readng Karen's clever comment about "Flora-Candy Yoga," I have to ask: Please describe YOUR fantasy yoga class.