...Lace Up Your Gloves...

Jennifer Shawn Hoffmann--July 27, 1971-April 21, 2009

Godspeed, beautiful girl. I'll see you on the other side. Goodbye. I love you (so much)...

Someone posed an interesting question the other day. Paraphrased, she basically asked why metastatic cancer patients don't want to "kick the asses" of those who haven't recurred, particularly when they ramble on about insignificant things. Interesting.

I thought about it for a while, because I understood the concept, and my first reaction was, well, even for those of us who don't hear the ticking in the background, quite honestly, there are better things to focus on. Luck is all relative and simply to be diagnosed with breast cancer, you know - appreciating life is one thing. Lucky? Not so much.

Besides - here's a little-known secret: Even being metastatic, I still bitch about random things. About bosses and clothes not fitting right. About family members that are annoying and bad hair (when I had hair) days. Honestly, I'd be surprised if there was a single person with mets that doesn't bitch about something unrelated to cancer. Anyone who has been diagnosed, whether the first time, or the umpteenth, will never get the opportunity to "just deal with this trivial thing instead of cancer" ever again.

I've struggled with this at times. Am I entitled to these trivial problems? Do they really exist? Nine years ago, Monday, I was diagnosed for the first time. It wasn't until 7 years and 4 months later until it came back.
I am the anomaly.
I am also metastatic.

And I have to learn not to kick my OWN ass so much sometimes. You know? It never makes me feel any better.

I feel the "grand scheme of things" is so subjective. Would I rather deal what I did after my mastectomy and the drains and the healing rather than whether or not my brain mets will have stayed stable after the next scan. Maybe. Would I rather not have to deal with any of the above options? Hell yes! But I'm also aware that the horse is out of the barn and that each person's journey is different, their own, and no less significant than anyone else's.

Somehow or another, I still see the glass half full. Hell, I'm still alive and not planning to check out anytime soon.

Sometimes I feel like a failure. As if I've let people down by not being the person I used to be. I know this concept is ludicrous, but maybe I feel I've let myself down. I also realize I don't have much control in the matter at times. Instead, I have to remind myself that I am human. Like the rest of you people.
And that I am entitled to be so.

Next topic. I came into work today to find a card on my desk from a co-worker/friend.

The most beautiful stones have been tossed by the wind and washed by the
water and polished to brilliance by life's strongest storms.

Not fair, making me all teary first thing in the morning. Talking to her a little later, she started telling me how hard it must be for me at times to get bombarded with "how are you" "how are you feeling" "what's going on with your treatment". She had really noticed it at a meeting we both attended a couple of weeks ago. It was so amazing to me that she picked up on that, and really 'got it' from seeing it firsthand and me never mentioning it.

Next. That conference is coming up. The dreaded conference. It's always been the the same people having the same conversations, drinking the same drinks. Now, there's a little twist on the situation. I now also have to be SuperCancerGirl and answer the same questions 653 times. Again. No hair. Again. All the while, remembering to nod and smile appropriately. Sensory overload ahead...

Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the
quiet voice at the end of the day saying,
“I will try again tomorrow.”

- Mary Anne Radmacher

(This is the entry in which she comments on her feelings about outside-the-office meetings... these days.)

I was going to title it "progress", but since in the cancer world, progress (or its variant, progression) isn't always a positive thing, I figured I had better not. Anyhow, back to the random thoughts.

The other night Greg and I went to have dinner with someone (a new friend, now) we had met through a mutual friend. She and our friend became friends in their college days and have stayed close, since. We first met her in last year's Team THRIVR golf tournament, and have since run into her on a couple of occasions while she was working. I'm not going to use her name here, mainly because I haven't asked her and she has a fairly public persona and probably doesn't want to be Googled. Particularly now.

We recently found out that she was diagnosed with breast cancer - she had her first mammogram after she turned 40, and there it was. WTF. Ironically, the last time we saw her before this week was mid-December, the day before she had to go in for a 2nd (diagnostic) mammogram. Prior to that, it had been quite a few months. Anyhow, our mutual friend let us know, and also told her that I (we) would be a good resource if she ever needed one. The expert on everything I've never wanted to know...

Long story short, we exchanged a few emails, discovered we had some very similar personality traits, and Greg and I had dinner with she and her husband this week. She has a very sweet, very supportive husband, and two of the cutest, most polite kids I've ever met (3 and 6).

I really enjoyed talking to them, and I think I was able to answer some of their questions. Like us, they are well-versed on what's going on with it all, yet are cautious not to cross the line of OVER-researching. Her pathology is eerily similar to what mine was when I was first diagnosed in 2000. I sometimes still can't believe it will have been nine years at the end of this month. I realize that each situation is so different, yet so many have certain similarities, particularly when they involve similar personalities and how people deal with crises. I'm still in amazement as to how much progress in diagnostic techniques, surgery techniques, and treatment recommendations have been made in the past nine years. Progress. So much progress. It gives me so much hope for the future.

And then, there's me. Anomaly me. Every now and then I get an inkling of doubt about talking to people recently diagnosed and telling them my sequence of events. I know that I probably would have been my own worst nightmare back in 2000 when I was first diagnosed. On paper, my history looks like the person for whom it never should have come back. Stage 1, no nodes, no family history, 7 years clean...but it did. Then again, 28 is very different than 40, or even 37 for that matter. Also, I feel it entirely depends upon how you are equipped to handle these things, and what type of support system you have. In any case, thankfully, the inkling passes and I can't say that I have ever held back from telling people my entire story - even as it continues to unfold. Even when I see the look of terror from the girl in her mid 30s sitting next to me in the shower line at the 3-Day who has just reached her 5 year mark and thinks she is home free. I have to remind them that I am the anomaly. In the big picture, I realize that I have a lot of things to say that people simply need to hear. The positive things.

Our new friend? She rocks. She's strong and talented and has conviction and faith and love around her and I do believe she is one of the people that will put it behind her as soon as possible. Hell, I did. I do every day, in some ways. In other ways? I'll never have that opportunity again.

There's no putting it behind me because there is no cure. Not yet, at least. Right now, there is also no more NED. Not until they find something that crosses the blood-brain barrier. It's been an interesting transformation, coming to terms that there simply is no putting it behind me, just treatments and scans and waiting and yes... life. That's the important part. The rest are temporary lapses. I suppose that's how I still get to put it behind me at times.

There is, however, stable. Stable is a wonderful thing and I hope to be there for as long as possible. At least until they find that damn elusive cure.

Meanwhile, there's life. And damned if I'm going to miss out on any of it.

(I apparently like to use the word 'damn' when I'm making a point... even to myself. Funny. Never noticed it before...)