Drop it like its hot, baby

There was the bell. It was recess time, and all of the children in the class ran out, eager to play. All except for two little girls; Beth Aziz and Elizabeth Ahn. Beth was a rather chubby, oddly hairy little girl, while Elizabeth was a rather awkward, shy Korean girl who didn't say much outside the classroom.

The two girls looked at each other, unwilling to play together by default. Elizabeth took her book and stood in line to play tetherball, a game where it didn't matter if you had a friend because the next girl always played the winner of the game before. But she always took a book with her, in case the tetherball game didn't last long. She could usually be found sitting on a bench, reading a book. Beth went into the soccer field, wandering and exploring on her own.

When her mother picked her up, she asked her usual question, "How was your day at school, Elizabeth?"

The answer was always the same, "Today was a terrible day. Nobody wanted to play with me and I was so lonely at recess."

"Did you test your vocabulary test back?"

"Yes, I got 100%."

"Of course," her mother said, and paused. Elizabeth couldn't tell, but her heart hurt for her little girl. "Next time you should ask someone to play with you at recess."

"Ok," Elizabeth responded, knowing that she never would, and that they would have the same conversation tomorrow after school.

*     *     *     *     *     *

I don't think that those kids were mean; rather, I think that I was too shy and awkward to try and make any friends. And I was too proud to ask anyone if I could join in and play. I figured that if they didn't want to play with me, I didn't want to play with them. Quite frankly, who could blame them for not wanting to play with me? I was a rather homely, shy, and I was the school nerd who always did her homework who always had the right answer, and never spoke out of turn in class.

Today was the first day of our Mommy and Me preschool. Evan approached the class with a little trepidation, as he is generally a cautious child, and a bit shy by nature. I was a bit nervous as well, as perfectly coiffed women entered the room, one after another, with their equally perfect children. Little Evan and his bald mother were definitely the anomalies, and I felt awkward as I watched the other women greet each other with kisses on the cheek and peals of laughter. I sat there, playing with Evan, hating that I felt like I was 8 years old and back in elementary school. The classroom door opened once more, and a rather obese, dark-haired woman walked in with her son. She picked a spot next to me, the only spot still open. Great. I have now reunited with Beth Aziz.

One of these is not like the others...

Today was the first day that I felt so conspicuous. I could tell that a few were probably whispering amongst themselves. Definitely, she is sick. Maybe she is even contagious?

Everywhere I have gone up until now, people have known me as Liz, the attorney, the mom, and the confident, assertive woman. Here, for the first time, I had no previous identity to shield me from the stigma of cancer. I was the cancer patient, the skinny bald girl with a kid. This may come as a shock to many of you who know me now, but I was shy all the way from elementary school, and through high school and college. I didn't have a lot of friends, and it was only after law school and becoming an attorney that I found my voice. And that voice became stronger and even more my own after I met Joe. He loved that I had such a unique voice and personality, and how persuasive it was. He encouraged it, and his love and confidence gave me the foundation to be the woman I am today.

It's funny how fears that stem from our earliest memories, from our smallest selves can re-emerge no matter how much you've achieved, and how much you've overcome. But as adults, we're better equipped to choose whether we want to go back to those places, or re-affirm our present identities as women or men. I am proud of my voice, and the only person in that room who could truly suppress it was me.

So I got up, shook off my insecurities, and started talking to several of the women as the kids were playing. Some were less than responsive, but others seemed interested, and engaged me with warmth and friendliness. And cautious little Evan opened up as he realized that the strange new place was a safe one for him and mommy. He played and laughed and clearly loved being part of the class.

I guess in some ways, I'll never outgrow that little eight year old girl who didn't know how to fit in. And Joe, ever supportive, has told me that I don't need to put myself back in that situation if I don't have to. But I can't wear my cancer on me like the mark of Cain. Living with cancer isn't necessarily something to be proud of, but the strength that it takes to do so is definitely something to be proud of.

Cancer has already taken enough away from me. It's taken enough from our little boy. I refuse to let it take anything more from our family. My hair will grow back, and the faith and love Joe gives me everyday gives me the strength and confidence to overcome every situation. I never retreat- I attack! And I bet I will make some really good friends in the long run. So...here goes, I gonna drop it like its hot, baby. Mommy and Me -- here we come!

A Valentine Vignette

I was feeling quite bad this morning from the red syringe of death, which was administered yesterday. But my sister is coming this weekend, as she does nearly every weekend, so I decided to venture out to the store for some groceries. My mom had Evan, so it seemed like the best time to get some errands done.

As usual, I pushed a cart into Bristol Farms and started my rounds through the store. Partway through I see a familiar face -- one of the store's managers, who I frequently run into on my grocery runs. I pause and flash him a smile.

"Good morning!" I chirp. He paused before replying. I'd been moving around pretty slowly before seeing him as a result of my nausea, and I could tell he had noticed.

"Good morning," he responded, his tone slightly more serious than mine. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," I said. "It was a rough chemo day yesterday, but I'm slowly bouncing back today. I decided to venture out to the store instead of laying at home feeling sick and sorry for myself." I smiled to take the sting off the words.

He nodded in agreement. "You know, I always see you coming in, and you were always so beautiful, and had the best smile for everyone. And then one day I saw you walk in, and you had no more hair." He hung his head down, slightly. "I shed a few tears for you that day," he said.

I opened my mouth to reassure him, but he raised his hand to forestall my words. "But I see you here even now, with that same smile, and that shows me what a beautiful person you really are. You are in my prayers," he said.

I felt touched by his heartfelt words and empathy. "Thank you so much. I think having a positive attitude about it is the first step. It's hard to stay positive sometimes when it hurts so much, but you can always keep that hope inside you to keep you going. That, and all my friends and family who love me and support me, always. Thank you so much for your kind words -- you will always see me here, smiling!" I smiled again to prove my words.

A little while later, at the checkout, and I saw a bouquet of red roses among the bagged groceries in my cart. "Oh, I didn't purchase those flowers," I said to the cashier. "That must be a mistake."

"Oh, no. Eric wanted to give those to you for Valentines day," the cashier said to me.

It was such an unexpected gesture, I hardly knew what to say. I was so moved by his thoughtfulness and support. I guess God is always watching over me, even when I feel so alone and helpless. Even when I'm in so much pain I want to cry. Thank you Eric, for making my day a whole lot brighter.

Happy Valentines Day!

There is NO throwing up in the infusion center

Yesterday was the terrible red syringe of death day for chemo. As if the color and vein pain it induces wasn't enough, the memory of the intense pain that filled my body afterwards filled me with dread. We went to In 'N Out for burgers the night before and I had to force down every single bite. It felt like a last meal.

"Should we get two more hamburgers and eat until we are sick?" I asked Joe.

"Uh, if you want to," he replied, looking at me strangely. He knows that red meat hasn't appealed to me for months, and now here I was, asking if we should get more.

"Well, I don't think I could anyway. I'm just so upset. It's my last meal before all the ugliness begins tomorrow," I said in a small voice, looking down. I gazed distantly at the white plastic of our table, and watched Evan out of the corner of my eye. He was having a fine time eating french fries and totally ignoring his burger, except to periodically poke a hole into the top of the bun.

Time waits for no woman, though, and sure enough, the day arrives and we're getting ready to go. Joe and Sharon have been my consistent companions for the first day of chemo, and they knew I was nervous. To be honest, I was scared. But the world is always easier to take with your loved ones around you. We sat in the infusion center's waiting room, passively waiting to be called, when I was approached by an odd looking woman with extremely blond hair and very plumped-up lips.

"Excuse me," she said loudly. "But I have to tell you that you are a very pretty girl. Do you have cancer?"

My hand went up to the lovely Diane Von Furstenburg scarf that Sharon bought for me, which was currently wrapped around my bald head. Um, is she an idiot? Obviously, right? Hint #1: I am bald. Hint #2: I have a head scarf on. Hint #3: We are in a chemotherapy infusion center.  Duh. "Yes," I replied, in a fake-friendly voice. "I do."

"Oh. Well, you are very beautiful," she said. I opened my mouth to tell her she was beautiful too, as she obviously invested a great deal of time and money into her plastic appearance, but the words just wouldn't come out of my mouth. An awkward pause lay between us. I guess she was expecting me to pay her the same compliment, too, but there are limits to what a person can force herself to do in one day. I thought she might say that she had cancer, as well, but she instead jerked her thumb over to the gentleman next to her and said, "So does he." She continued to flap oddly in his direction until he looked up, surprised.

"Oh!" I said, trying to disguise my own surprise. Imagine volunteering someone else's cancer! What is going on?! Can this get any weirder?

"What kind do you have?" the blueberry-lipped collagen lady asked in a long tones.

"I have lymphoma," I said.

"So does he!" she said loudly. I look around nervously.

"What kind do you have?" he asked in a moderate, even tone. "I have Hodgkins."

"Oh, I have T-cell Lyphoma."

"Oh," he responded.

Thankfully, at that moment the nurse called my name and I was saved from further conversation with the lip-plumper lady and her cancer-mate. I left, saying goodbye.

Hello, dahling. You are a very pretty girl...

And so my day continued. I actually retched this time just after they administered the red syringe. They brought me a throw-up bucket, and ran in with a shot of something that made me very sleepy. It was Ativan, which is known to enhance the effects of my anti-nausea drug, Zofran. But Mama it knocked me out! Made me dizzy too. I couldn't believe how fast those nurses moved! But I guess there is no throwing up in the infusion center. Come to think of it, I have never seen anyone throw up there before.

Finally, it was done, and I was able to go home, where I slept for several more hours. I woke up to find that my friend Heather, who brings me meals even when it isn't her turn on the MOMS Club dinner list, had actually made us a bolognese sauce, complete with an enormous fruit basket, bread, and salad. Wow. I feel so lucky to have friends like her, but I'm not sure I was able to properly express my gratitude. Unfortunately, my body completed what I tried to do at the infusion center, and without those sprinting nurses, I finally threw up. Fortunately, I can tell her thank you now -- thank you so much, Heather. I can't tell you how much I appreciate all that you, my friends, my family, and everyone else at the MOMS Club do for me.

It's strange. Cancer makes you feel so bad, but it can also bring you some unexpected moments of happiness drawn from the love and care people show to you. It's like it cuts through all the formality and allows people to really open up and be mindful, and thoughtful, about telling you how much you are loved. First, there's Joe. He takes such good care of me -- I know that Evan and I are always on his mind and he's always trying to think of ways to make our lives better. But I also have my wonderful friends and family who are always praying for me, and thinking about me. Not a day goes by when I don't get an email or a text from my cousin Angela, my cousins Christine and Albert, or my sister Catherine. And Sharon is at almost every infusion. I am one sick, but lucky gal.

Speaking of which, I think I may need to call it a night.  The neuropathy in my hands and the roiling in  my stomach is keeping me from typing properly, so I guess I will have to just post this and one more item before signing off. I am buckling myself in, because this is indeed already a very bumpy ride!

Death hates bacon cheeseburgers and fries

It has been a tough cycle. After not being able to eat for over a week, I was reduced to a mere 97 pounds. I slowly started to introduce food back into my stomach, taking care so I wouldn't make myself sick. Okay, so -- full disclosure -- my first meal was a bacon cheeseburger with chili cheese fries, and after a few bites I was terribly, terribly sick, but I definitely learned to be cautious after that! Suffice to say that meal was a net calorie loss. Luckily, I have gained some of the weight back since then, and am currently at a more reasonable 102 pounds. I'm okay with that. Even if I wasn't, I can't seem to gain more, so I might as well be happy with my current weight. Food just doesn't taste the same, and even when I eat my favorite foods, I can't seem to eat very much of it. But, I have chased Death away again. Hooray! I am titanium! (Cue David Guetta and Sia music)

Death hates bacon cheeseburgers and fries

This has been a fabulous week.

I still tire easily, but I am able to eat (enough) food, and most importantly, take care of my Joe and Evan. Joe's parents were in town for this weekend, and it was just what I needed to gather my strength for my fourth round of chemo. Unfortunately, because of chemo, we have not been able to see them for several long months, so it was a very welcome and exciting visit.

Evan was so very excited to see his Sittee and his Grandpapa. He received a lot of brand new toys to play with, and got to spend time with two grandparents who dote on and spoil him endlessly. Who wouldn't love that?

I think that it was also good for Joe. He is such a strong source of support for me, but I worry that he isn't getting the help or emotional support he needs to support him through this, as well. I know that it is hard to see the person you love in so much pain. But I could tell he was able to relax a little with his mom and dad here, even quoting a little Robert Frost with his mother during dinner (I prefer Edgar Allan Poe myself- I am so much darker than he is- hehe). I told mom and dad to come out again, anytime. Whether I am feeling good or feeling badly, they will provide comfort and support for Joe. And for that, I am always grateful. I guess that's one of the few constants we have in life -- death, taxes, and love. Mom, Dad, I loved every moment of your time with us. Please come back again soon.

So much love!