The last infusion

Hooray! My last chemo is finally over!

When I arrived on my first day of my last round, I found my chemo unit decorated by Sharon. It really brought tears to my eyes, because it really felt like I had won this war- i just had to get through this last battle, with my team.

My sweet Sharon

Wednesday night was the hardest night of my life. The pain, the nausea, the neuropathy -- all were worse than before. I just wanted to die. I took some medicine, and just passed out. It was the most merciful thing I could have done for myself. I wanted so badly to go out to eat, to celebrate, but I simply could not.

Thursday and Friday's infusions were nerve-wracking. I seriously thought that my veins would not hold up. But I think my sister was more stressed out than I was. Just before Friday's infusion I told my sister that I was planning on using the same arm I had used on Thursday, which we never do. It's always one arm on Wednesday, the other on the Thursday, and then back to the first on Friday. It gives my veins an opportunity to recover, which is no small matter. Catherine had done a lot of research into vein pain,  and vein collapse, after the trauma of my previous round of infusions. But my veins were already seriously damaged from months of infusions, and Wednesday's was the worst. So I was doubling down on the same arm for Thursday and Friday. It was a gamble, but one that Joe and I had decided was worth taking.

During the infusion, Catherine spent a lot of time engaging Sharon and myself in a conversation about a situation she was trying to understand. Her voice and reasoning were measured, but I could tell how tense she was throughout the discussion. I really have not seen Catherine that stressed out in a long time. I initially thought she was stressed out about the situation, but as we were going home she let out a long breath and confessed her relief that my veins had made it through to the end. That's when I realized she'd simply been trying to distract me from the infusion and the vein pain. The situation she was describing, while disconcerting, was only a cover for her concern for me.

I honestly don't know how she does it. She is so supportive, coming here every weekend all the way from Washington D.C. No other sister is this dedicated and loving. And my veins, as much as they hurt, made it through this last infusion. My body has stuck by me, and for that I am so grateful. As we expected, the bone pain and nausea is the worst it has ever been, but I am so happy that this will be the last of it that I don't even care.

This has been a rough winter, but I still feel so lucky. There are so many more winters ahead for me, and spring is finally here. This was the winter of our little community's discontent, made bearabale by the warmth of their care. Ranging from the constant comfort of friends like Sharon and the generous souls of our MOM's club, to the steady support and care of my family, and of course, the calm love and support of my husband Joe and the effervescent joy of my little boy, Evan, they turned a situation of pain and horror into an expression of love. I feel so light, so positive. I have so many people who love me, and care about me. I cannot help but feel happy.

Every Easter, I usually make my special all-day ham, cheesy scalloped potatoes, baby carrots, and rolls. But because I was having such a hard time with this last chemo, my Dad bought a ham, ribs, turkey, and a million sides from Honeybaked Ham, and we had a feast. We had Easter brunch at Evan's favorite place, The Coliseum at Pelican Hill, and he wore his suit and bow tie. He was so cute, I could hardly stand it!

Hmm... The IPO set the stock at $15 a share but I'm pretty sure their primary competitor is going to go under by the end of the third quarter. Their fundamentals are good, but they have a major cash flow problem. Maybe I should increase my bid. Damn, I got 99 problems, but my breakfast ain't one.

How could I feel sick or in pain when I have a boy like this? So Easter was low key for us, but it was a happy one. But by Sunday afternoon, the pain hit me like an avalanche. The bone pain was so intense, I couldn't even move. I just lay there, feeling crushed, my bones leadened with pain. I was so thirsty, but couldn't drink until my sister watched me for a moment and then appeared with a glass of water and a bent straw to help me drink. She could tell I was in more pain than I was willing to admit. Which meant, of course, that we danced the little "Dance of the Medications" that Catherine does to make it rain pain meds.

Catherine sits down on the couch beside me.

"It looks like you're in a lot pain."

I make a non-committal noise. I am in pain, but don't want to admit it. That being said, I'm hurting too much to have the strength to deny it.

"Do you want to take some Norco?"

"No, it's okay. I don't want to get drowsy."

"You don't have to be in pain, though. Maybe just a half a pill?"

"No," I repeat. "I don't want to get drowsy."

Catherine stays quiet for a moment, before responding.

"How about just a quarter of a pill? The half dose worked really well at the hospital, and we have the pill cutter they gave us. It'll be really easy."

Silence.

"I can just go ahead and cut it and have it ready for you. You don't have to take it now."

I shift slightly. "Maybe later."

"Okay." She gets up to cut the pill. "I'll set my timer for five minutes, and we can see how you feel then."

I nod, and Catherine sits down with the timer on her phone. Five minutes pass.

She cuts off the timer before it can shrill out its alarm. "How do you feel?"

Catherine waits, quietly, as I struggle between my pain and my dislike of the medicine. Finally, I look towards her.

"Am I stressing you out by not taking the medicine?"

"Yes. I just don't think you have to be in pain when we have ways of relieving it. It doesn't help anyone."

"Okay."

Catherine hands me the pill, which she's had ready by her side, places the end of my water glass' straw against my lips, and down it goes.

A few minutes later, Joe comes in and weighs in on the Medication Dance. "A quarter pill? Liz, even one of those whole pills is just a half dose, which is practically nothing." I don't respond. "Take the other quarter pill, at least. Come on, Liz. It's not a good idea to just sit there in pain." Catherine weighs in with her agreement, and they both offer the timed waiting option once more.

Ten minutes later, too tired to argue, I take the second quarter of the pill -- and, of course, I'm drowsy. But, the pain is a bit less, and I'm able to actually sit up and engage my dad in conversation when he comes by. In spite of it all, I'm actually glad I took the medicine.

I honestly don't want to be difficult. But a part of me doesn't want to mask everything with medication. I take so many pills, so many times a day. Pain is a part of this process, and I have to accept it. It gets tiresome always medicating myself. Life is short, and Evan changes and grows every day. It's hard enough to give up this time with him and my loved ones. Giving up even more to the medication is hard to take.

Another day down, and another day of pain that I will hopefully never have to go through again. In the long run, it's all worth it. And it's the last infusion! Hooray!!!!!!

Happy Easter, everyone!

The last cycle

It's Tuesday night, and tomorrow marks the first day of my last chemo infusion. The worst day. As the time of the infusion draws near I can feel my emotions coursing through me, leaving behind streaks of pain like the blood pumping through my charred veins. The last round was pretty rough, even for me. The toxins have left their mark. My veins still hurt, even now, and I wonder if they'll manage to make it through these last three infusions. Just one last round. That's all I need.

Why just one? Well, it turns out that -- after suffering through a PET and CT scan -- my cancer is now officially in remission. A part of me feels happy for the news (it's certainly better than the alternative), but I find it difficult to truly celebrate until I'm well and truly done with chemo. At least this round of it. Now, it's just a matter of keeping it away!

My friend Sharon asked me what I wanted to do with all my "cancer stuff." I have three wigs, countless scarves, and a ton of literature. My mom and Sharon bought me all my scarves when I shaved my head, knowing that I needed a way to look and feel relatively normal, even without any hair. Now, when I look at those scarves, I don't think cancer. I think of Sharon and my mother, and how much they love me and how they've been there for me throughout this whole ordeal. How Sharon cut her own hair off in solidarity with me, and it turned out to look so beautiful. When I look at the plethora of pamphlets and books, I think of my cousin Christine, and how she went to the Lymphoma Conference, taking copious notes -- even recruiting her friends to take notes and ask questions -- while gathering all the information she could from all the speakers. When I look at my humidifiers, and my heating pad, I think of my sister and Joe, taking care of me every day and every weekend. I don't think cancer. I feel love. So I am going to keep all of my scarves, bought for me lovingly by Sharon and my mom; I am going to keep my heating pad and humidifiers, bought for me by Catherine and Joe; and I am going to keep all the literature, lovingly gathered for me by my cousin Christine.

Time is ticking away, and pretty soon I'll be hooked into the IV at the infusion center, wondering if my veins will last. It feels nearly over, though, even if it's not. So the other night I turned to Joe, and I commented, "It will be so nice to finish this last treatment, huh?"

He replied, "Oh yeah, for sure."

"I hope I get through it okay." Who knows what the next few days will bring?

"You will, honey."

We sat quietly for a while, each of us reflecting on the cancer and what it took from us. I looked at him with a crooked smile. "It wasn't so bad, was it?" I asked, smiling.

He looked at me square in the face and replied, "Are you f*-ing kidding me? It has been totally awful! Take your pick -- the 12 straight days of nausea, the bone pain, the vein pain, or the neuropathy. It's been hell!" We looked at each other and laughed.

The smile faded away from my face as I asked, "It's been hard for you, hasn't it? Watching a loved one in pain, and feeling powerless to stop it. I don't know if I could have been strong if you were the one in pain. It would have killed me inside. Thank you."

He grew quiet before replying, "Well, it's not nearly as hard for me as it is for you. You were the one going through all of that."

Joe has never talked about how he felt about all of this. I have encouraged him to talk about it, but he doesn't find it easy to share. It's odd for him, as he really likes tackling problems and issues through dialogue. I've asked Joe, along with my sister, to share some of their thoughts here on this blog. I hope they do. I have a feeling they have a lot to say.

Now for Round 6 tomorrow!

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!

You are my sunshine

My dad and I have always had a special relationship. I have been daddy's girl since I was born. He was my hero, my protector, my everything. When he would go to work, I would sit on the curb and play with his pajamas until he came home. And when he arrived, it was like Christmas and my birthday everyday. In second grade, I even shaved my face the day before school pictures so that I could be handsome like my daddy. I wish I had the photo, but needless to say, I had cuts all over my face in that school picture.

There is one memory that stands out above the others. My dad is a very hardworking man. He immigrated to the United States with nothing, and now has built his own business. That doesn't happen by accident. He worked hard, long hours, then and now. So he wasn't able to be around as much as other dads were when I was growing up. But one evening, we were sitting in our backyard, and he asked me if I knew the song, "You are my Sunshine."

I replied no, and he began to teach me that song, line by line, until we were singing together, over and over again. Just me and my dad, having some father-daughter time. It is one of my most favorite memories, and one of my favorite songs.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am -- all grown up, and yet sometimes I feel as helpless as that little girl who idolized her father. I began my third cycle of chemo on Wednesday. It was horrendous, and it still is. Chemotherapy is typified by nausea, but it seemed like the Zofran and Compazine were really keeping it under control until now. I guess it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with me.

The neuropathy (needle-like pricks of pain) was bad. It was more intense than before. Even holding a glass of water was too much; the pain was so intense it felt like it was shattering in my hand instead of placidly holding liquid. All the while, the nausea roiled and built in my belly until I ran to the bathroom to heave like I've never heaved before. Twice. Joe suggested I try walking, which actually helped the neuropathy in my legs. But my hands continued to sting incessantly with pain.

Fortunately, the neuropathy had resolved itself by the next morning, and I felt a bit better. I was exhausted, but at least I could use my hands. I had an appointment to see my oncologist, and it was then that I found out that if I wasn't going to take the transplant option, I needed to complete all 6 cycles of the chemo. Perfect timing.

It's Monday now, and the side effects just keep coming. Mucositis (inflammation and ulceration of the mucous membranes lining the digestive tract) has sunk in for the last few of days, and I'm unable to eat anything. I cannot even drink water without pain. I cannot taste anything, and the texture of food is like sawdust. Weird, right? I actually spit out chocolate cake. Who spits out chocolate cake?

This is one of the first times my parents have seen me in real pain. I try to hide it most of the time, but it was so consuming this time I couldn't downplay it. I saw my dad make almost an imperceptible grimace when he saw me. It hurt him so much to see me in pain. He has been quiet source of support in all of this. He seems to understand that peppering me with questions just worsens my stress. But I could tell it hurt him to see me.

Yesterday we went over to my parent's house, and I immediately lay down on the couch, too tired to even pretend I felt alright. I lay there, curled up, but when I reached out to grab his hand he immediately came over to sit next to me. I closed my eyes, pretending to rest. But all I could hear in my head was the song, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine..." and silent tears slipped through my closed lids. I was afraid to look at him, afraid he'd see my tears. But I felt his pain.

He gave me a letter today. It detailed all his hopes for what he wants me to do during this time. He is so observant and he notices everything that has been going on. He is worried I am not accepting that I am sick, and that I am doing too much.

"I hope you think about your life, not only for today or tomorrow, but in future. Try to draw a bigger picture for your future. When you take care of yourself for a few months [then] there is nothing to worry about all of us. You want to concentrate to fight over lymphoma for a few months and be healthier than before. All we want for you is to recover and be healthier as soon as possible. You don't need to drag yourself to take care of us while you are suffering from sickness and weakness due to the chemotherapy and medication. Please don't pretend you are not sick or not in weakness. We all know you do that sometimes. Most of times.

I really hope you understand and read our mind. All we want from you is that you take good care of yourself very well and see you healthier than ever so all of us can enjoy our life with you. That's all."

He does know me so well. I know I do try to go on like I am not sick. But to give in to the sickness would make me so sad. I have to fight it, and keep fighting it. I refuse to be that sick person if I can help it. I know that I am fighting a difficult disease, and that I'm not the woman I used to be. But I will become stronger.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy, when skies are gray.

You never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don't take my sunshine away."