There's a reason Hallmark is so successful. It's not easy to express how you feel about someone who's such an important element in your life. I've been sitting here for 15 minutes thinking about whether I want to hide behind metaphor or humor.
Today is Father's Day. Marty has more than earned his day of honor. He knows the agony and the ecstasy of being a father. With three kids ages 20, 17 and 15, he experiences pain and joy on a daily basis. In the past two years, Marty has earned Mother's Day credits, too.
Marty, you are king for the day. Your grand prize was going to be a brand new refrigerator-freezer, but we finally got that fixed on Friday. Your pickles are saved! After you go to the supermarket and buy yourself something nice for dinner, I'll cook it! The kids may or may not present you with gifts, but will hopefully make an effort to be a little less judgmental. You might actually know something today! I can't make any promises but you might get the respect you deserve, and possibly a new pair of bike shorts.
Happy father's day to the finest father there is. Even when we are pushing you a little closer to the edge, we love you!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Best Friend I Never Met
It is with great sadness that I announce the death of Leah Ryan. Leah died from leukemia yesterday at the age of 44. She lived in Sunnyside, NY. She leaves behind her mother, Arlene, and her adored kitties.
I met Leah on the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Discussion Boards last Fall. She had recently relapsed and was contemplating a transplant. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they write. Leah's voice was very distinctive, and since she's a writer, her posts were wonderful to read. Back in December, Leah sent me an email, our first contact of a more personal nature. She had read my blog in preparation for her own transplant. We became cyber pals.
Although I never met Leah, I feel I know her. She was smart, funny, no-nonsense. She lived life on her own terms, and she died that way, too. We wrote to each other not just about our illnesses, but about coffee, books, our lives, writing, our fears. Like me, Leah was a type-A personality. When I wrote a blog post about how I can't sit still, she immediately emailed me, somewhat relieved that she was not the only post-transplant lunatic making to-do lists and driving herself nuts.
Leah meant a lot to the people who participate on the LLS boards. That's because she was supportive and caring. And of course, funny. Did I mention she was funny? Leah started her own blog after her transplant, and so much of it was hilarious. One particular act of Leah kindness stands out for me. Back in March, when I was freaking out about my perpetual fear of relapse, Leah immediately wrote to me and gave me a pep talk. She also gave me her phone numbers, and told me to call whenever I felt like it. Leah was one of the best friends I never met.
I would eventually call Leah, right after I read on LLS that she had relapsed once more. At the time, I couldn't decide whether calling her would be an unwanted intrusion or not. I had the sense that Leah was a very private person. Truthfully, I didn't even want to make the call, because what was I going to say? Leah being Leah, she immediately put me at ease and we spoke for ten minutes or so. She sounded exactly as I had imagined she would.
Leah, I'm glad you took the time to share yourself with me. Cancerland is a sucky place, but you've made it more bearable. You've touched me.
Peace to you, my friend.
I met Leah on the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Discussion Boards last Fall. She had recently relapsed and was contemplating a transplant. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they write. Leah's voice was very distinctive, and since she's a writer, her posts were wonderful to read. Back in December, Leah sent me an email, our first contact of a more personal nature. She had read my blog in preparation for her own transplant. We became cyber pals.
Although I never met Leah, I feel I know her. She was smart, funny, no-nonsense. She lived life on her own terms, and she died that way, too. We wrote to each other not just about our illnesses, but about coffee, books, our lives, writing, our fears. Like me, Leah was a type-A personality. When I wrote a blog post about how I can't sit still, she immediately emailed me, somewhat relieved that she was not the only post-transplant lunatic making to-do lists and driving herself nuts.
Leah meant a lot to the people who participate on the LLS boards. That's because she was supportive and caring. And of course, funny. Did I mention she was funny? Leah started her own blog after her transplant, and so much of it was hilarious. One particular act of Leah kindness stands out for me. Back in March, when I was freaking out about my perpetual fear of relapse, Leah immediately wrote to me and gave me a pep talk. She also gave me her phone numbers, and told me to call whenever I felt like it. Leah was one of the best friends I never met.
I would eventually call Leah, right after I read on LLS that she had relapsed once more. At the time, I couldn't decide whether calling her would be an unwanted intrusion or not. I had the sense that Leah was a very private person. Truthfully, I didn't even want to make the call, because what was I going to say? Leah being Leah, she immediately put me at ease and we spoke for ten minutes or so. She sounded exactly as I had imagined she would.
Leah, I'm glad you took the time to share yourself with me. Cancerland is a sucky place, but you've made it more bearable. You've touched me.
Peace to you, my friend.
Monday, June 9, 2008
A Worthy Cause
That's me with my dear friend Karen McIntyre from Central Florida. She came up for a visit on Friday, endured the heat and excitement of the State Meet, and has been wonderful to have around. We took a two-mile jog around the neighborhood early this morning when the temperature was a mere 70-75 degrees. Now it's around 90, which is pretty high for Little Rhody. Humid, too.You might notice we're wearing Team in Training tops. That's because Karen has signed up to do the Team's Intracoastal Waterway Century Ride in October. That's 100 miles on a bike in the steamy Florida sun, all to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I've benefited from the Society in so many ways. Some I can put my finger on: discussion forums, teleconferences, prescription co-pay program; others are less tangible but extremely important: research for new therapies and ultimately, a cure.
Karen could use your help, and you don't even have to get on a bike! Visit Karen's website today and donate whatever you can to this worthy cause.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Sweet (Hot) Victory
A year ago, I had planned to join Mark on a trip to San Diego where he was going to run the Rock 'N Roll Marathon for the Leukemia Society's Team in Training in my honor. Things did not work out that way. I was hospitalized once again for relapsed leukemia, and Mark went to California without me.
Yesterday, I sat in the stands at Brown University Stadium cheering for Mark as he ran the 1500 and 800 meter races in the Rhode Island State Meet. A year had come and gone, and I was miraculously still among the living. Among the living and broiling in 90 degree heat, covered with copious amounts of sunscreen and shaded by two umbrellas. The sun is anathema to me, as it is known to trigger graft versus host disease, something I strenuously avoid. Mark placed second in the 1500m with a personal best time of 3:57. He really wanted a state title though, and that came down to the 800m which had a talented field of of 5 runners in the 1:57 range. In a race that was harrowing to watch, Mark pulled ahead in the final 100 meters to win in 1:56.2.
This was a sweet victory, considering what's happened between last June and this. Here's a shot of my State Champion receiving his blue ribbon. Life is good. Hard, but good.
Yesterday, I sat in the stands at Brown University Stadium cheering for Mark as he ran the 1500 and 800 meter races in the Rhode Island State Meet. A year had come and gone, and I was miraculously still among the living. Among the living and broiling in 90 degree heat, covered with copious amounts of sunscreen and shaded by two umbrellas. The sun is anathema to me, as it is known to trigger graft versus host disease, something I strenuously avoid. Mark placed second in the 1500m with a personal best time of 3:57. He really wanted a state title though, and that came down to the 800m which had a talented field of of 5 runners in the 1:57 range. In a race that was harrowing to watch, Mark pulled ahead in the final 100 meters to win in 1:56.2.
This was a sweet victory, considering what's happened between last June and this. Here's a shot of my State Champion receiving his blue ribbon. Life is good. Hard, but good.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Wanted: Personal Chef
I like to eat. There was a time when I liked to cook. Not any more. The problem is, I can't seem to focus on menu planning, so each day arrives and the question "what's for dinner?" has no answer. We don't go hungry or anything; last night we ordered pizza. I think it's because I so rarely go to the supermarket. I send Marty with a list, but it's not the same as walking up and down the aisles to see what's available, what's on sale, what's new, what's fresh.
A personal chef would solve this problem. He or she would do the planning, the buying, the cooking. We'd do the fun part, the eating. I should not be complaining. When I was at the mercy of the hospital "chef," I wasn't very happy.
When we have guests, which we've been having a lot of lately, it becomes even more challenging. We can't let them starve. We do our best. Me, I'm going through the motions, but my interest in serving wonderful dinners is non-existent. I'm dinner-depressed. Do you think there's a drug for that?
A personal chef would solve this problem. He or she would do the planning, the buying, the cooking. We'd do the fun part, the eating. I should not be complaining. When I was at the mercy of the hospital "chef," I wasn't very happy.
When we have guests, which we've been having a lot of lately, it becomes even more challenging. We can't let them starve. We do our best. Me, I'm going through the motions, but my interest in serving wonderful dinners is non-existent. I'm dinner-depressed. Do you think there's a drug for that?
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Weight
Yesterday was a full day. I crammed so much into it that I was beyond tired when I went to bed and could not sleep. Due to a temporary car shortage (4 drivers, 3 cars), I had to drive the boys to school at 7:15. Normally, my car's up for grabs since I'm usually at home. Yesterday I had places to go, people to see, two miles to run. I went to the library where I work (currently from home) to drop off copies of a grant I filed over the weekend. I made sure to stay in the non-public area. I was fortunate to see several colleagues, all of whom commented on how great I look. Then I went to play mah jongg and have lunch with a few friends. More compliments, more walking the thin line between "I'm fine" and "I'm in a black hole."
Thing is, I didn't feel so great. Nothing specific, just a sense that a weight was pushing down on my chest. I felt relapsy. Every now and then when I feel less than perfect, my mind goes to the dark place where all my fears reside. I think every person who's ever had cancer is highly familiar with this purgatorial zone. Most of the time, I keep the door barricaded, but yesterday I could not. Part of the problem was that my health was the preferred topic of conversation wherever I went. I felt pretty blah, but I didn't want to open that can of worms.
I was also thinking about what I was doing a year ago, lying limp in a hospital bed, enduring my fifth day of chemo. I was supposed to be hosting friends from New Zealand at a Memorial Day barbecue. Instead, they came to see me in the hospital. Yesterday, these friends were in town again, and this time our visit unfolded as planned, with the backyard cookout we had been forced to table a year ago. Naturally, we spoke about my illness, the transplant, my recuperation, the whole nine yards that I'd been trying to forget, especially yesterday, when I felt so listless. It was a long evening, nice to see old friends from another life, but oh so exhausting. I finally crawled into bed around 11 pm and couldn't sleep.
How would I feel today, kicking off the day with a significant sleep deficit? I'm pleased to report that I'm tired but the blahs are gone and the anxiety banished, at least for now. I don't want to add to the cacophony of complaints I hear every day about mostly silly things. I'll continue to put one foot in front of the other, and try to find something to rejoice in each day. Today, it might be something simple, like a toasted bagel with crunchy peanut butter for lunch, followed by a postprandial nap. I could use that nap.
Thing is, I didn't feel so great. Nothing specific, just a sense that a weight was pushing down on my chest. I felt relapsy. Every now and then when I feel less than perfect, my mind goes to the dark place where all my fears reside. I think every person who's ever had cancer is highly familiar with this purgatorial zone. Most of the time, I keep the door barricaded, but yesterday I could not. Part of the problem was that my health was the preferred topic of conversation wherever I went. I felt pretty blah, but I didn't want to open that can of worms.
I was also thinking about what I was doing a year ago, lying limp in a hospital bed, enduring my fifth day of chemo. I was supposed to be hosting friends from New Zealand at a Memorial Day barbecue. Instead, they came to see me in the hospital. Yesterday, these friends were in town again, and this time our visit unfolded as planned, with the backyard cookout we had been forced to table a year ago. Naturally, we spoke about my illness, the transplant, my recuperation, the whole nine yards that I'd been trying to forget, especially yesterday, when I felt so listless. It was a long evening, nice to see old friends from another life, but oh so exhausting. I finally crawled into bed around 11 pm and couldn't sleep.
How would I feel today, kicking off the day with a significant sleep deficit? I'm pleased to report that I'm tired but the blahs are gone and the anxiety banished, at least for now. I don't want to add to the cacophony of complaints I hear every day about mostly silly things. I'll continue to put one foot in front of the other, and try to find something to rejoice in each day. Today, it might be something simple, like a toasted bagel with crunchy peanut butter for lunch, followed by a postprandial nap. I could use that nap.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Ted's Tumor
The public recently had the opportunity to watch Senator Kennedy go sailing shortly after he was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. We mere mortals might be asking ourselves, gee, could I have the courage to face cancer like that, with such dignity and aplomb? Sure we could, at times. We do so everyday, without the paparazzi snapping away. Every cancer patient has moments of despair mingled with triumphs large and small. The despair part's easier to recognize and comprehend, so I won't describe what that's like. There's a cancer saying that goes, I have cancer; cancer doesn't have me. Ted Kennedy at the helm of his boat captures this perfectly, although he might have been thinking: will I be doing this next Memorial Day?
Facing cancer has nothing to do with bravery. You have no choice when the diagnosis is handed down. You just do it. You have good days; you have bad days. You have days when you want to give up. You try to protect the ones you love by keeping your "game face" on. You do not want pity. You want to be treated like you're you, not some poor creature living under a death sentence. You want to laugh, and complain, and eat ice cream.
Carpe diem, baby.
Facing cancer has nothing to do with bravery. You have no choice when the diagnosis is handed down. You just do it. You have good days; you have bad days. You have days when you want to give up. You try to protect the ones you love by keeping your "game face" on. You do not want pity. You want to be treated like you're you, not some poor creature living under a death sentence. You want to laugh, and complain, and eat ice cream.
Carpe diem, baby.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
