...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...)

Oh, it's a strange existence sometimes...

Sometimes, I simply forget. Sometimes I get caught up in time, or it's one of those days that perfect moment when I wake up, right before I open my eyes and nothing can touch me. Sometimes I'm laughing and I don't remember. Sometimes.

Sometimes when I forget, I have to pee (which are typically mutually exclusive). But it means I look in the mirror. And immediately remember. I remember that I can't 'pardon this interruption' any longer and the rest of my life is going to be peppered with scans and results and spending time in The Waiting Place. Then again, I'll wait and scan and hope and live for as long as I possibly can...

But sometimes I remember. And at those times, I work hard at not getting lost in the limbo. I'm not sick, but I'm not well (this is pneumonia-related, not necessarily cancer-related). I'm not hideous, but I sure as hell ain't anything close to pretty these days. It's such a trivial thing, but it really screws with the psyche at times to look in the mirror and not recognize the person looking back at you. It's such a small thing - as I'd trade a lifetime of baldness for just that... a LIFETIME... but in the meanwhile? Enough with the bald already. I know I went through this with the chemo, too, and I know it will pass. It WILL pass. (Do you hear that???)

I was looking back at some old entries from a year ago today. Simple curiosity as to where I was last year at this time. I found one from 2/18 where Jill left a comment that said "strong heart, bare head" in relation to my most recent MUGA scan. It made me laugh. Laughter is always welcome. This year? Bald as an egg, still.

Meh, whatever. Life is good and hair will grow (we hope)
Meanwhile, I just need to continue to laugh as often as possible...

Monday we picked up the results of the PET scan I had last Thursday. It was a mess. All sorts of hypermetabolic activity in the lungs and such. The thing is, Dr. Cavalcant had signed off on it, and knowing him, he wouldn't have given us the report without talking to us first if it was bad news.

So we hoped.

Reading the scan report (because of course we are self-proclaimed medical professionals) we came to the conclusion that all the lung and related junk was DEFINITELY pneumonia-related. The report even made reference to something along the lines of infectious disease or something. There were a couple of lymph nodes in the upper abdominal area with slight metabolic uptake, but it was most likely due to the infection. I had a feeling this scan would be screwy due to the pneumonia. But of course, we didn't know for certain.

Now we do. He was thrilled with the scan, all the major organs are clean, and he felt the other stuff, including the lymph nodes was pneumonia-related! Damn pneumonia. Then again, in this case it's a wonderful thing, because it's nearly gone, and NOT cancer. We've had quite enough of that, thank you.

So, the scans are done. And, I gained a pound this week! (Which sounds like a ridiculous thing for ME to be happy about, but I got a little scrawny during the pneumonia process.) The Herceptin continues, because by God, it's WORKING - and I continue to go about the business of living, loving, and growing hair.

There are worse things...
Life is good.

When is the last time anyone out there (aside from you math teachers) gave any thought to simple geometry? I know I didn't. It's been a long, long time. I'm getting old, you know.

Today we got schooled by the radiation oncologist.

He didn't have the MRI results in front of him (not quite sure why) but we relayed the news that the two largest spots shrunk by nearly 50%. Shrinkage is good. What we heard next was even better. He informed us that the measurements we were getting were diameter (or radius, I forget) but in any case, it wasn't VOLUME. A 50% (or almost) reduction in mass equals an 87% reduction in volume. Geometry. Who knew.

We also learned that it's possible that we can see some more reduction in size over the next couple of months as while the radiation is done and gone, the next generation of cells and the generation after that can continue to die off.

What now? In three more months I stuff earplugs in my ears, sing in my head as loudly as I can, and endure the deafening noise of a follow-up brain MRI to see what's going on in there. Should something crop up eventually? We also learned that there are more targeted forms of radiation that can still be used to treat them. But, we're not there yet.

Where are we? Right now, we're stable. We're asymptomatic, and we're waiting for confirmation that there's nothing in the rest of the body. And continue to live.

What else is there?
Well, maybe hair...

Time passed... as time passed, the time approached for a follow-up MRI after the radiation. I had this image in my mind, an unrealistic image at that, that the radiation worked as some type of magic eraser and when I got the scan results back... VOILA! No more cancer!!

I'm not sure if I ever really believed that, but it was good to dream...

The results were that the two largest spots shrunk by almost 50 % (17 mm to 10 mm and 7 mm to 4 mm) but they do still exist. There is no way to tell if they are dead spots or live, but they are there, as are some more that were there before. However, there is nothing new and no progression at all.

Greg recalls the radiation oncologist (who we see next Monday) saying that success in this type of treatment is shrinking of the tumors, so by these standards, the radiation worked. The thing with the brain is that it's so different than treating other parts of the body since there is no effective treatment that crosses the blood brain barrier. So we scan and wait and monitor, and if it should start to progress eventually, we deal with it then.

Meanwhile, I live. It's all I know how to do.

This pneumonia thing really threw my schedule off with everything cancer-related. I'm back in for Herceptin this Wednesday, then back for another PET on Thursday morning. It seems like such a whirlwind since the last one - it was just before the 3-Day, just before I got up and told the world that I was still dancing with NED. I had no idea what was lurking inside. But, we deal with it - like we always do. As much as the PET makes me nervous, I know that it brings knowledge, and with the knowledge we can evaluate my options and know what's going on inside, and if need be - how to treat it. I still have an irrational fear that I'll never have hair again...

I hate that this is a part of my life, and always will be. I hate that it has touched so many people that love me. I know that if I tried the rest of my days, I would never make sense of it, so I'm not even going to try.

What I do know is that I'm going to continue to live with everything I've got for as long a time as I've got.
I don't know how to do otherwise...and the truth is?
I don't want to.

The world took some interesting twists and turns...

New Year's Eve was just how it should have been - from our traditional early few cocktails with friends at Caffe Boa, followed by heading next door for some decadent sushi at Sakana, and this time, complemented by a stop at the Bell's party to spread a little New Year cheer before heading home just in time to see the ball drop in NYC. Just as it should have been...

It was a good year, 2008. It was a full year, it was a hard year in many ways as we dealt with far too many medical things, but interspersed with the hard bits were always things that made them seem not so bad... the Grand Canyon and spring training baseball and San Diego and the golf tournament and New York and seeing friends and baseball and weekends camping on the Mogollon Rim and Cincinnati/Kentucky and lots of hikes and the 3-Day, of course, finished off by the most incredible winter wonderland Christmas we could have hoped for.

It was good, despite it all. It really, really was.

This is old news, isn't it. Back to 2009...

We hiked on Thursday and Saturday, Friday I wasn't feeling fantastic, and Sunday I started coughing. Monday I went to work but by the time I woke up on Tuesday, I had a fever of 103-ish. Not so good. I immediately call and make an appointment with my primary care physician (who I don't like anyhow and am firing next time I have to go back there) who looks at me with her unexpressive eyes and tells me I have bronchitis. (Of course, when they take my vitals, my temperature is normal, my blood pressure is fine, and my pulse is normal - stark contrast to the fact that I thought my heart was going to blow out of my chest in the waiting room and the fever at home.) So, we leave, I'm feeling dizzy, I sit down on some chair in the hall and she tells me that I probably didn't drink enough water. Gah. Homeward bound. Two days, and nothing improves. Wednesday night I wake up with 104 and Greg says enough is enough. In to Cavalcant's the next morning...

Nutshell version? I didn't go home for 8 days...
They checked me into the hospital the afternoon of 1/8 and kept me until 1/16. Pneumonia. Not just pneumonia (would I do anything the simple way?) but a SUBSTANTIAL pneumonia.

Strangely enough, in my 37 years and various and sundry health challenges, I've NEVER spent a night in the hospital except for the mastectomy when they surgery was so late they put me in a room and let me go in the morning. This? This was a whole different ballgame...

I learned quite a few interesting things about the hospital during my stay.

• When you pee in the "hat" in the bathroom and it looks like you haven't hydrated in a month and a half, it's an illusion.
• Food service, at least for those of the vegetarian persuasion, is sorely lacking. Or perhaps it's just that I can't get myself to eat grilled cheese, mac and cheese, or peanut butter and jelly each night for dinner. Fruit only goes so far. Then the nutrition people come up and start telling you you're not getting enough protein. No shit. (Side story - I finally agreed to a scoop of tuna salad, which they decided to bring me as a bedtime snack. WHO brings a scoop of tuna at 8:30pm??)
• The phlebotomists there ROCK. Seriously ROCK. These chicks didn't miss my temperamental, small, rolling, over-used veins ONCE. And believe me, I probably got stuck no less than 35 times over the course of the week.
• A thoracentesis doesn't hurt quite as much as I thought it would. However, I wouldn't have guessed that I had a wine bottle's volume full of fluid that needed to be extracted.
• I wonder how many bags of IV antibiotics I went through? Not to mention the hydration, the potassium, the 2 units of blood...

Finally, finally, at long last they let me come home. Finally.

It was hard. Really, really hard. Ironic, isn't it? I've been through so much with the cancer but this was really difficult. It was hard to be away from Greg, hard to feel so incapacitated and know that there was nothing I could do about it except allow them to keep me as long as they needed and treat me so that I got better. I did learn quite a bit during those eight days though...

I learned patience, or at least, I made an effort to be patient. I'm still learning.

I learned that I needed to take care of myself this time and not worry about everyone else all the time and that work would be there when I was ready.

I can't quite seem to find the words to explain how amazing Greg has been through all this. The hospital stay was the longest we've been apart, and the being apart was hard. The little things - just waking up in the morning, the rolling over in the middle of the night. But he was there every morning after I woke up, and every night until before I went to bed. He juggled trips to the hospital, the dogs, work, fielding calls from friends and relatives, the house...

I always thought I knew how much one person could love another, but I'm continually reminded how fortunate we are that we managed to find one another in this world. There's no way I would have made it through any of this without him.

So, here I am at home. I'm off the antibiotics, and last Friday the doc told me it would be about a week before I saw marked improvement. I'm hoping this is the week. I do feel better, and my fevers have been much lower - only one a day, typically. Progress. Slow progress.

(Kudos to anyone who actually made it through to the end of this novella... yes, I realize it's not fiction but I wish parts of it were.)

THREE WEEKS LATER???

I lost three weeks? I had three weeks. I know they were there. I know I did things, saw people, had fun, laughed, ate, slept, finished treatments, wrapped presents, worked... worked... worked... worked... worked... worked.... worked... (aha! I see a trend).

Somehow along the line I lost track of time and space and who knows what else. It's nice to be back.

Christmas at the Canyon was amazing. Awakening. A virtual winter wonderland. So much needed after burning myself into the ground the weeks prior. It was too much. Too much at a time when too much was going on. And, it's nice to be back. It's more than nice. It's essential.

For my body, for my mind, for my healing, for my world.

I'm starting to believe that the Canyon heals me. Maybe I just want to believe that the Canyon heals me.

Perhaps the magic that seems to enter my body, fill my mind and my soul and my heart and reminds me, even though it's not that I forget - exactly where I am and why I am and who I wake up with each and every day. It's pretty amazing.

I know I am such a skeptic about spirituality and a higher being at times, but out there I felt some kind of something. Some kind of energy. There was something watching over me. I know there are a lot of people watching over me - or perhaps I choose to believe.

It's going to be a good 2009. I'm going to be strong and healthy and vibrant and better.
Stage IV and Stable...
all else is sub-bullets.
There is so much to look forward to.

Still shaking. Still kicking ass and taking names.
Still a bit surrounded in the surreal, and ready to put it all behind us.

Five round downs as of yesterday - halfway home. Today should have been the sixth, but we got the call on the way over that the machine was down. How dare the machine be down. Doesn't it know I have healing to do? Life to live? Things to get on with?

I felt good today - better than yesterday, even though I felt fine yesterday too. I don't love the effects of the steroids and the antibiotics, and the slight feeling of being a bit muted that comes with it. The feeling that I'll miss something, that something will pass me by while I am feeling unaware.

We met with Dr. Rads yesterday - and it was a good visit. Seems that everything is moving right along. I need a haircut. I need to take care of this small bit of nonsense before it sneaks up on me in the middle of the night and my seasonal migratory hair ends up on my pillow in the morning.

I fluctuate between seeing the same person in the mirror I always have, or at least the one I saw a couple of weeks ago - and this person that is looking back at me through eyes that have seen too many things change too quickly. What I realize though, is that I'm certain much of it is in my head. It's only to be expected.

It's surreal - as though I am in an alternate existence at times - while at the same time, things aren't really changing. The strange thing is, I haven't really struggled to make sense of it all, I'm just doing what I know how to do. Be. Live.

I felt very optimistic for the future this morning. Optimistic for the next step - as though I won't be mired in this space forever. Herceptin treatment tomorrow, one more round of radiation. Moving on towards the Canyon...

How I can't wait for the respite of the Canyon...

Six more to go.
Kicking ass and taking names so far...
I'm feeling strong, feeling good... feeling like I can take on the world.
Not feeling anything too unusual, safe for the annoying goiter that is now molting and probably causing me more strife than the damn radiation.

I've decided that it's a stylish time of year for neck wraps (whatever works).
Food tastes like food, my body feels mostly like my body, and aside from a bit of jittery-ness that I might be occassionally experiencing from these steroids, all seems to be going along smoothly.

The temperature in my office feels good right now - I am loving the new soft blanket on the bed, even though the dog has apparently taken quite a liking to it, too - and the crisp air feels great in the morning on our walks. There was another shooting star this morning...

Today, behind the mask, I was on the Mogollon Rim with Greg and the puppies... swaying in his arms as the campfire crackled, listening to music, feeling the wind on our faces and the heat from the fire. Willing the radiation beams to work their magic and healing.

And now, for a weekend off, and life to look forward to.

And thankfully, not much more to tell...

It's an interesting experience, this whirlwind of zaps and antibiotics and steroids and work and life and holidays approaching and I tell you, it's not all that unusual.

I keep trying to get a feel for things, to gauge what I might react to, or how my reactions might be different than the norm, but save for a momentary lapse of disorientation yesterday which might have been due to the fact that I was hungry, thirsty, or just a little off kilter - all has been seeming remarkably stable.

I love remarkably stable. Now, let's get these damn scans back to remarkably stable in a few weeks time...

The radiation itself is a breeze - we enter our super secret patient pass code (which I'm sure all of Banner Desert knows of), I scan my card into the reader in the waiting room, and a few minutes later I am unceremoniously announced to come down the hall. They give me the squishy ring to hold onto whilst I am laying on the table, strap on my most beauteous honeycomb mask, and apparently leave the room. I hear whatever song is playing in the background, attempt to insert my own soundtrack, and escape to someplace in my mind, which today happened to be swimming through the water at Havasupai Falls to the place behind the waterfall.

I hear the buzzing, I see the flashes of light changing behind my eyes. I will the radiation to work with every ounce of my being. I smell a faintly foreign smell that I can't identify, and before I know it, the noises stop, the people enter the room, my mask is being unsnapped, someone tells me that I did great and that they'll see me tomorrow, and I head back out the door for re-entry into the world...

We were walking yesterday morning and I was feeling very optimistic about my ability to sail through these treatments and put them behind me once again. And then a falling star shot across the sky. I didn't see it, but Greg did - perhaps it was an omen...

So long as I can walk, and feel the wind on my face... so long as I can laugh and hear my voice ringing in my ears... so long as I can smile and feel the muscles of my face stretch into a grin...so long as I can can love, and have the love beside me of the one I've been waiting for this whole time... one way or another, it will be just fine.

One zap down, nine more to go...

The short version...I went for that follow up PET scan on November 13 - the day before we left to do the 3-Day in Arizona (I still have to finish chronicling the experiences...)

We knew I was coming back to results on Wednesday and I hoped to have the same 'miracle patient' reaction from my oncologist this time around. Not quite yet. While there were absolutely no areas of hypermetabolic uptake, there were two small 'attenuated' areas in the brain that the scan report interpreted as 'can not rule out metastases'. So, my oncologist sent me for a brain MRI to rule out the mets. At the same time, something showed up that has been showing up on the last couple of PETs. A few spots in the bone that looked to be 'evident of treated metastatic bone disease'. My oncologist has never been convinced that there were bone mets, and in any case, the treated disease was never a cause for concern. However, he ordered a total body bone scan anyhow. I've been doing pretty good... I know this whole disease charts an uncertain course, and that just because I have been fortunate enough to be NED for a while, doesn't mean that it will stay that way... one can only dream.

So, I finally got in with the oncologist last Wednesday. The good news is that the bone scan came out clean. The brain MRI did not. Apparently there is a smattering of sub-centimeter foci on the brain...

Ironic that the chemo worked so well on the rest of the disease that there is nothing left, but that damn blood-brain barrier worked, too...He got me immediately into a radiation oncologist, who we like very much, and I start today with 10 rounds of whole brain radiation (WBR).

First came trying to breathe. Then we cried. Miracle patient, or normal human being, this weekend we did what we do best... continue to live our lives.

I am comforted by many facts... by the fact that I was asymptomatic when they caught it. By the fact that the rest of the scans are completely clean. By the fact that the original mets responded very well to the treatments. This is what I have to depend on. It sucks. It simply sucks. But I will fight and scream and kick and live with every ounce of my being for as long as I have.

This is two weeks - and a little more baldness - and then we go on with the business of living, whether or not the scenery has changed.We have no choice in what we are dealt, but we have a choice in how we deal with it. And although Greg and I have, and will continue to have, the hard, scary times...I will never give up the fight.

So, I lace them up again, and continue to fight. I'm trusting what they tell me, and I'm going to battle through. I'm strangely comforted at the fact that it doesn't involve chemo and compromise to my immune system, my strength, or my daily activities. Perhaps I am misguided, but until I know otherwise, this is how I choose to approach it. I hope to dance with NED once again - but first I hope that this is simply controlled and stabilized. And I'm still counting on the rest of those 50 happy years.

Time to take the first step towards conquering the world... again.

http://www.08azbreastcancer3dy.blip.tv

Laced tightly... ready to roll...

Day two found us waking up much more refreshed and much less achy than we anticipated being. I'm not certain if I felt really, really good this year or if it was the fact that I felt really, really crappy last year, in retrospect. Whatever the case, it was a new day, and we headed off to see the world.
Day two took us through our very own 'hood most of the day. We were continually impressed by the outpouring of support from the community... the amazing people at the cheering stations...the impromptu cheering stations that surfaced...
Between Steph and Michelle, and the Spitza family, not to mention the kindness of strangers along the way, we were feeling pretty loved. It's a good thing, too... Day Two is always the longest day. Yet again, full of laughter - of stories - of memories being made - of preparing to speak that night...

I was ready. We had perfected my speech, and I was ready. By the time we did one last run-through, it was under control. Still, the small matter of not only speaking in front of 2000 people, but managing to keep it together without bursting into a weepy mess of tears still loomed large.

Somehow we managed to not only get through it, but be truly amazing. I'm still surprised that I didn't fall apart during Greg's intro, but somehow I made it - somehow we both did - and the celebrity that followed the rest of that night and the next day, I wasn't quite prepared for.

Started off bright and early with the alarm going off at o'dark thirty. We had told Scott that he didn't need to set one, and he soon found out that our grind-and-brew coffee maker sounds like the Luftwaffe is landing on his head...

Not surprisingly, we picked up a new honorary teammate in front of the restrooms before closing ceremonies. Kristi was a solo walker - the rest of her team had either fallen off the face of the earth or fallen ill in some shape or form. We immediately took Kristi and her Dirt'y Girl t-shirt in. One of her first tasks as honorary team member was to take a picture of all of us, which sounded simple enough - until we noticed that she had the camera accidentally pointing towards her own face... hilarity ensued, and we got a couple of great photos with lots of teeth out of the escapade.

After an interview with Channel 3 news and the remainder of opening ceremonies the walking began...

Soon after our departure, we were greeted by Stan (of chemo room fame) and Darlene.
He's back on chemo after a brief respite. His latest scan showed that it has spread everywhere, and for the first time in the 10 years that he's been battling, Stan is in pain. Dr. Cav is trying a new cocktail, a different combination of drugs he has already tried, in the hopes that this one may take. They're also looking into clinical trials. We saw them yesterday at the oncologist's office and were talking a bit about the state of things. Stan expressed his feelings of frustration - that every weekend, everywhere there is a race, a walk, a climb, a pancake breakfast to raise funds toward research for various cancers but yet, where is the cure. I suppose it comes from a different perspective, when all you can remember is chemo after chemo and the knowledge that after a while, there are no more chemo cocktails left to try, even though the funds toward research is providing for better therapies, fewer side effects, better long-term outcomes. Still, WHERE IS THE CURE?

Back to last Friday... we were walking, and talking with people around us. It was late in the day, and nearing 18 miles of walking. Everyone was getting tired and a guy with a group behind us was joking that they are walking to find the cure, and wouldn't it be great if we just could walk around the corner and "LOOK! There it IS! WE FOUND IT!! Phew, we can stop walking now..."

Wouldn't it be great....

We're back from another three days of walking and thinking and laughing and dreaming. Of hopes and of aches and of memories and of inspiration. Each of my experiences has been so different, even though they have all been filled with a common goal, and common themes. This year was no exception.

How can one find the words to describe it? How do you come back from three days like we just spent, and while you try to convey the message to someone that wasn't there - there are some things that even photographs can't quite capture.

I lay in bed last night, trying to fall asleep, and smiling at the things that were running through my head. Who knew that peanut butter and jelly on crimped white bread was the breakfast of champions? Short sheets and streakers and former Olympian tent neighbors. Scott's shvoogie patrol and permanent spot in the medical tent and funky tights - always making sure to eat, drink, scratch, and pee. We learned the correct pronunciation of Moushey (Mow-SHAY) and took on a new teammate for next year. Searching for tiny rum bottles in convenience stores without luck. Broccoli after-effects and hording Biofreeze. Savoring the once-a-year deliciousness of Tecate and Cornnuts - as mentioned, some things you simply can't explain. A moment of silence on the Mill Avenue Bridge. Luminaries on a chilly Sunday morning. Remembering those not with us, and loving the ones that were. Greg summed it up on Friday morning...

You cry a little at the beginning, you cry a lot at the end, and along the way you meet the most amazing people and hear the most amazing stories.

This year, that rang true more than ever - and it will take more than this one entry to talk about some of them. The brother and sister who had lost their mother last year. The 35 year survivor that was diagnosed at 28. Alissa, in the shower line, who had just reached the 5-year mark. Barry, walking every event, with his inspiration being that he was simply part of the human race. The Scottsdale firefighter who sees my truck every day. Michael from the MotoCrew who may get an entry of his own. The woman that turned 66 on Sunday and who was a 22 year survivor. The Gear and Tent crew member who gave me an angel last year and who this year told me it had all come full circle. Mostly, the amazing people I had the opportunity to spend three days of my life with. There are so many more stories to tell.

Yesterday, I think we were having a bit of "day after Christmas" let-down. You experience what we have for three days, and then you come back and are sort of... regular again. It's dissipating slowly this morning and I look forward to sharing some of the stories in entries to come.

Meanwhile, I have been mostly distracted from the fact that in a couple of hours I'll find out whether or not my stay of execution has been extended through 2009. I feel good. I feel strong. I know that isn't always a harbinger of the fact that there is nothing growing inside. In a couple of hours, I'll know for certain. Either way, whatever that paper says, whether or not I'm still a miracle patient - we'll deal with it.

We always do.