A Year: 12 Months, 56 Weeks, 365 Days

Within the week I will turn 54 and I will honor the day I was told I had cancer. It’s a lot to absorb within a few days but so is my life these days. I received a call from my doctor that will forever change my life one year ago. It’s a call NO ONE wants to ever receive. I have been told that one becomes a cancer survivor the day they are diagnosed. Since, I have spent 38 weeks out of last 56 weeks undergoing chemotherapy, survived three surgeries, and can now say I survived cancer. I hope it’s forever, but of course the frightening thought that I may be among the 20% of women who will experience a metastatic re-occurrence, will forever follow me and Liz as we try our best to find a “new normal”.

They say, “never a better time like the present”, and life with cancer will drill those words into your brain like nothing else can. And so, I’m pleased to let you know Liz and I have decided to leave the home we have known for over two decades and re-locate to our condo in Fort Lauderdale. And it’s a good thing.

I have called the DC area home for almost 30 years. I moved to the area immediately after college in the winter of 1986, to work for Senator Harkin as an unpaid intern. After a few months with no income, I moved to the Boston area and fell in love with the Red Sox – staying in contact with the Senator’s office and hoping for a paid opportunity to work in his office.  That opportunity came in 1989, and I have lived here ever since.

I met and married my wife here, I have filled my resume with incredible opportunities here, and conversely have had my heartbroken professionally too many times to mention here. And I have worked for and beside tremendously talented individuals here. I have made life-time friends here. I grew my village here. I have lived a full life here. I also was diagnosed with cancer here. 

The decision to re-locate our lives closer to my brother and his family, to warmer weather, to a less stressful atmosphere, to a condo – on the wonderful intracoastal with a view of Atlantic Ocean - we spent blood, sweat, and a few tears to remodel to our heart’s content has been comforting. Leaving our friends, our neighborhood, the wonderful District of Columbia and all it affords culturally and historically, and the superb medical teams we’ve both been able to cobble together over decades will not be easy. But nothing truly worth your time is ever easy.

Professionally, I don’t know where I’ll go or where I’ll end up. I have been privileged to join a few Boards and to work on a few projects with special nonprofits in the south Florida area already, hoping to lend my voice, my experience, and my love of management to hopefully make a positive difference. The importance to give back and to lend a hand has surfaced to the top of my “to-do” list.  

My 53^rd year has been a year for the ages. It’s been horrifically tragic and wonderfully uplifting. As it comes to an end, I can honestly say I understand who makes up my village. I will not take any moment of any day for granted. I see the world - my world - clearer than I ever have. I recognize that my time on this earth is measured, and that many women diagnosed with me are not here to celebrate another day. So I’m really happy to see my 54^th birthday. 

Lift a glass to me on my birthday, January 19^th and again on January 24^th to honor the day I became a cancer survivor.

And make plans to visit us in Fort Lauderdale! Go Vikings, SKOL!!!!

Happy New Year - Happy New Beginning

Yesterday I took the last of my cancer treatment. Chemo has now ended for me. After an entire year of chemo, surgeries, doctors and meds, I can say my treatment for cancer is over.  Now, I will see my oncologist once every three months for blood work and for a discussion of how I feel. Every three months for the next three years, this will be my cancer-screening routine. The months, weeks, days, and minutes in between I will struggle to find the new me and to live my life free of cancer - and as free of worry of its return - as I can.

I have found monthly support groups with other survivors and intermittent one-on-one counseling to be extremely helpful. I practice my mindfulness mediation every day. Focused on the here and now. I search – and hopefully find - what the day provides for me to be as happy, healthy, and in the moment as possible.

I have been told by survivors and my doctors that time out of treatment can be the most difficult. More than once, my oncologist has mentioned this and to “let her know” if it gets too overwhelming. During treatment, your days are scheduled for you. Doctor appointments, treatments, medicine schedules - all meant to fight the disease - are structured for you. Your job is to stay the course, pay attention, speak up, and follow doctors' orders. Once treatment ends and hopefully you are declared “disease free”, your medical team cuts you lose -  in what seems as a quick and cruel fashion -  to rediscover yourself and to find your own path in this new life you’ve been given.

So that’s where I am. Figuring out what and how much cancer has changed me. Whittling away those things that are no longer important to my happiness. Determining how much stress I can handle, how much excursion my body can take, how to deal with disappointment without feeling defeated.

Anyone of us can be gone tomorrow. Today, I’m as cancer free as you are. But those of us who have stared at having no tomorrows have a deeper understanding of how precious each day can be. Living a life satisfied and content. Not taking anything, anyone, anymore, for granted can open up new possibilities and a lightness to how to live a life. 

I look forward to a tomorrow, but I live for today. I breathe deeply and see more sharply. Putting off until tomorrow is no longer in my vocabulary. If you knew me before cancer, you may not understand me as well afterward cancer. But I invite you to try. Be my friend. Listen to my fears without allowing them to frighten you. Just hang out sometime over a beer or a glass of tequila.  

Happy New Year. I’m really glad to be here with you.

The Meaning of Giving Thanks

I struggled to get the numerous storage bins down from the attic on my own. Liz had offered to help me – and she usually does as it’s normally an annual two-person gig - but I sensed an urgency I could not immediately explain to do it on my own, so there you have it.  The first thing I wanted – had – to do was unpack the tree.  It’s a small, kinda gawky, sad thing of a tree – but its ours. Half the pre-installed lights gave out a few years back and all I had to re-string it with were lights with a white cord and so, you guessed it, it could look better. But its OUR tree.  Actually, it was a gift. 

With the tree put together, set up, and plugged in, I next tackled the ornaments.  I love gathering ornaments  - like keepsakes - from our travels around the world.  Each ornament on our tree brings a significance from our past as a reminder of a life well-traveled and well-lived.  Taking them out of their crate. One by one, I spend time with each of them, remembering where in the world we got it, how we enjoyed the trip, the travel, the people, the food, and the joy of discovering it in a tucked away gift shop, from a wonderful street vendor, etc., and adding it to our carefully curated collection.

Last year, at the end of December, I had my annual mammogram. I’ve had these uncomfortable appointments for almost 20 years and they become a bit routine – and as most women can attest, an annoying routine. This one, however, not so much. After the mammogram, I was asked to enter into a dark room where a technician sat looking at a computer screen. She moved the screen into my view where I saw what I guessed was my boob - duh. On the screen, I could make out the outline of what was my left breast from the side view. She pointed at what looked to me to be a tangle of bright lines, closer together than the other swirly bright lines on in the image, and she asked if perhaps it was scar tissue as a result of a traffic accident or if I had had any other sort of trauma to my breast. Not recalling anything, she said the image looked a bit suspicious and recommended an MRI to rule out anything “bad”.

We spent last Thanksgiving in Mexico that year, trying to calm down and find a sense of peace after the election. I developed shingles as a result of the stress of the election results and sent most of my time in sunny Mexico in the shade and in a lot of discomfort. We returned home a few weeks before my mammogram appointment. Prior to the appointment, however, I unpacked our holiday decorations and put up the tree. My first MRI was scheduled for the end of December.  By this time, I had an inkling this was not “normal procedure”. I had had sonograms as follow-ups to mammograms a few times before, but never an MRI. Perhaps, I thought, this was just the hospital being overly cautious and “nothing to worry about”.  But I was worried.

I usually leave my holiday decorations up and lit for all to see until after the New Year.  As I was taking down everything at the end of that first week in January 2017 and carefully packing away the ornaments, I had some pretty dark thoughts about whether this would be the last time I would get the opportunity to unpack the ornaments, reminisce about their meanings, and place them on our small, gangly, but beautiful tree. I remember crying “quiet tears” as I lovingly stored these mementos of our life way and thinking that Liz may be on her own to unpack them next. I came close, but did not, leave a note lovingly tucked inside to her.

My second MRI – this time with a “fun” biopsy thrown in to REALLY get my attention – was mid-January 2017. By this time, there was clearly nothing “normal” about any of this. I tried to keep a calm and relaxed pace through it all, but deep down I knew all these procedures would not have a happy ending.  And of course, we all know what happened from there. Diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer shortly thereafter. Followed by 20 weeks of chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, and 18 weeks of preventative chemo to top off a very shitty 2017.

So, as I unpacked my ornaments last week, I thought back to the time a had carefully packed them in between MRI appointments last January. Thought about my fears of not seeing another Christmas season, thought about my heartbreak of Liz unpacking them without me.

“Gratitude” is a word widely used this time of year. The time of “thanks giving” should be a time to reflect on your god-given gifts of health, family, friends.The word has a deeper meaning to those of us who have come much too close to the realization that life is precious, and tomorrow is NOT a given. There is no more taking for granted those in your life are special. That traveling to other countries and learning about other cultures make you a more well-rounded individual contributor to this planet. That the color of a deep blue sky brings a smile, the warmth of the sun can bring tears of appreciation, the breeze through the swaying trees reminds me of my granddad, the sight of a beautiful red cardinal is a sign my grandma is watching over me, and the comfort of a hug from a stranger can bring shear contentment, are gifts. Gifts to be recognized, appreciated, and NOT taken for granted.

Back to that other “gift”. I lost my mom in 2012 at 66 years of age. That same year, Liz turned 50 and picked a trip of a lifetime to celebrate – a trek to the Base Camp of Mt Everest.  Yep, THAT Mt Everest. It truly was a trip of a lifetime. And a trip that almost cost me my life. As luck would have it, I developed blood clots in my legs and eventually in my lungs as a result of descending too quickly while being dehydrated. I spent the remainder of 2012 in and out of hospitals and unable to travel over the holidays.  It was devastating to me not to be with family during Christmas. 

That same year, we happened to share a cleaning service with friends. 

One of who lost her mother that same year. As they were going through her mother’s belongings, they came across this small, plastic Christmas tree. Instead of tossing it, they finagled their way into our home with the help of our mutual cleaning service, put up the tree, and left a few but meaningful ornaments on it for us to find upon returning home from work. A beautiful sentiment that I can only image of reciprocating to another in need of joy and hope.

Gratitude means living a life fully and loving unconditionally. 2017 has sucked in so many ways. It’s also given me a gifts. Appreciation for having a wonderful and supporting wife, family and friends; Contentment for being cancer-free at this moment; and Hope that I will see many more Christmas seasons, unpacking and packing our ornaments.  Indeed, THE gift of gratitude.