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."

Pandora's Box

So much has happened... where to begin?

Some of you may remember that my doctors have been pushing for a stem cell (also known as bone marrow) transplant. It has been a shadow looming over me since before I began my chemo. Transplant is a very dramatic, month-long procedure where they give me a mega dose of chemo so strong that it kills all cells -- both healthy and cancerous -- and then transplant either my own bone marrow (that they harvest prior to the transplant) or a donor's. I will be in the hospital for at least one month, during which I will be separated from everyone because I will be so susceptible to infections. When my body finally begins making its own cells the pain will be so bad that I'll be in and out of consciousness, drugged up and drugged out from the pain medication. How's that for a horror story? It's like I'm Frankenstein, the cancer edition.

Our silver anniversary

Make no mistake, though; if transplant is my only option to avoid doing this chemo again, I will seriously consider it. However, the initial question must be: Is transplant the right treatment for me?

Last Friday, I flew up to Stanford to meet with a doctor who was the lead author on a study for a new drug to treat my type of lymphoma. She also happens to be the head of the Cutaneous Lymphoma Group at Stanford. Joe, being the wonderful and amazing husband that he is, made all the arrangements, cleared our insurance, dissected and re-packaged all my medical records into a relevant format, and sent it all up to Stanford before the appointment. And then off we went.

First of all, you all should know that these trips are very stressful. We never know what the doctor is going to say. Bad news could come at any time, and wondering if this is the moment we discover something terrible is pretty stressful. Especially for Joe. As a surgeon, Joe is used to being in control of all things pertaining to medicine. Cancer is unpredictable by its very nature, but my particular kind is even harder to track because so little is known about it. I know it makes him worry.

Granted, it didn't really help that I was 15 minutes behind schedule. Not that this was a huge amount of time, but it made Joe extremely anxious. Like, having an anxiety attack anxious. I thought he was going to explode the whole ride there, and especially during the security line. And the anxiety did not lessen once we got on the plane. It just escalated.

By the time we got off the plane and hailed a cab, I could sense an even higher level of anxiety from Joe. We finally get to the hospital, but he looks even more upset as the cab drives off. I simply can't stand it anymore and turn to him.

"Honey, what is wrong?"

He looks at me, obviously very, very, agitated. "Honey, you have to be on time for these things. I arranged everything down to the very last detail. I feel like we have no control over what's going on -- being organized is the only thing that helps me get through these appointments. But when you're late, it throws everything off schedule, and I can't regain my organization. And," he added, "I really wanted to rent a car, but you insisted on a taxi and now we're stuck here, with no transportation back to the airport. God knows how long it'll take another taxi to get here. You have to cooperate with me. I almost had an anxiety attack today. Please." He looked at me, upset.

I immediately felt myself become defensive. It's stressful for me, too. These appointments are no picnic, you know. But, I calmed myself down. He's arranged everything for me. Not just for this trip, but for all of my treatments. He rearranged his work schedule to make it to the red syringe of death chemo days, and all of my appointments. He really has done everything. I should have been on time, and I should have made it easier for him.

"You're right, honey. I'm sorry I was late. I'll try harder next time to be on time. But you have to get over it. This is stressful all around, and we need to stay together on this," I pleaded.

I felt his tension ease a bit. "Okay. Thank you, honey. I know it's a tough situation. I appreciate it."

A few moments later, we checked in with the receptionist. "Do you have any scans you would like to give the doctor to review before your appointment?" she asked.

Oh. We did, but I hadn't brought them with us. I was surprised to see Joe, however, produce a disc with copies of all the scans. Wow. He was really prepared.

The receptionist looked at the disc. "Do you have a sleeve for the disc? I'm afraid it might get scratched."

"Yes, I have one in my bag," Joe replied.

This was the straw that broke the camel's back. The magnitude of how much he loved me felt overwhelming as he produced a small plastic sleeve for the CD. He'd really prepared for everything, even down to this last, seemingly unimportant detail. My eyes filled with tears as we sat down in the waiting room, and I turned to him.

"Honey, I am so sorry I was late and stressed you out. You show me all the time how much you love me. You planned everything out, even bringing a sleeve for the scans. I love you." It was an unusual moment -- I don't really get very emotional, and it's not easy for me to speak about my feelings with such raw emotion.

He turned to me. "Honey," he said quietly.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Please don't lose it in the waiting room. Pull it together," he said with a smile, and laughed.

I started laughing too. "Okay, you're totally right. I'm such a weirdo, losing it because of a stupid CD sleeve," I said, surreptitiously wiping the tears from my eyes.

"It's one of the many reasons I love you. Weirdo," he said, smiling.

After a short wait, we met with Dr. Lee, a very pleasant Korean doctor who put us at ease right away. Right off the bat, I could tell that she was extremely familiar with my previous symptoms, and she discussed my cancer with a knowledge and efficiency that every doctor we'd met before her had lacked. And even better, she assessed that it was premature to go through a transplant at this time, which was incredibly reassuring. It's our first encounter with this cancer, so it's hard to predict what it's nature is. If it recurs within 6 months post-chemo, we'll know that we have a more virulent form of lymphoma. She did stress that it would be helpful to get all the testing for typing done early on, so that if the time comes, we have it ready to go. The most reassuring addition was the fact that she named several new chemo treatments for my cancer. The side effects would be significantly fewer than my current chemo regimen, and they would be alternatives for me should the cancer return.

Our visit to Stanford was followed, a few days later, by a consult with a transplant physician in LA. I tried very hard to be on time, but still managed to be 10 minutes late. It couldn't be helped -- a physician friend of ours needed some legal help and I had to make a few phone calls on his behalf. Joe tried really hard not to get upset, though, and off we went again. After a very thorough history and physical, the transplant physician ultimately came to the same conclusion that Dr. Lee did, which was very reassuring. He made sure that I had the orders to get tested (they took 11 vials of blood!), and sent my sister a stem cell typing kit so we can determine if she is a match. What a relief!

My cheer was slightly marred by the news from my oncologist who, despite agreeing with their recommendations, informed me that if I wasn't going to do a transplant, I needed to complete all 6 rounds of chemo. It was...disheartening. The side effects are crescendoing each cycle, increasing in virulence, length, and speed of presentation. I am dreading each and every cycle. But, on the bright side, at least I don't have to get a transplant. Well, for now.

My family and friends had different reactions to the decision not to transplant. For myself, all I felt was immediate relief. I absolutely did not want to do a transplant, not because I was afraid of the transplant itself, but because I didn't want to be away from my family for a month. I wouldn't even be able to see Evan. How could I stand that? The nurse tried to reassure me by telling me I'd be so heavily medicated I wouldn't even realize I was missing him. How is that better?

But my mom and dad were discouraged. They are of the old school Korean mentality where even though the battle may be hard fought, all the pain and suffering would be worth it if victory could be achieved. They believed (as I did initially) that the transplant would cure my cancer. Therefore, even though it would have been dangerous and difficult, it would have ended my illness and brought this difficult chapter of our lives to a close. And now there is no cure. There's just a "wait and see" approach, leaving them anxious and worried about what the future might bring.

My parents have been so upset, stressed, concerned, and afraid during my diagnosis and treatment. I am almost unable to look them in the face. The guilt I feel knows no bounds. It's hard for me to express those kinds of emotions, though, so my guilt translates itself into annoyance and anger. It's unfair and I know it, but I can't help but wish that their love for me could bring them the happiness they deserve, instead of all this pain. They have been such a strong source of support for me through all of this. Seeing my mother's face wrinkle in pain when she hears I've had a rough day is enough to send me down a guilt spiral. Even when we don't speak, I can see the sadness on her face whenever she looks at me.   I cannot stand it; I cannot face it. How do I deal? How do I help my mother? No one knows pain like a mother knows pain when her child is sick. I feel like I can understand her now that I have a child of my own. But how do I address it? How do I resolve it? I guess my only option is to get better, and do everything I can to prevent the cancer from recurring. But imagining her anxiety about its recurrence; seeing her slave away to make some wonder food that is "guaranteed" heal my body; feeling her shoulders tighten in stress if I even hiccup; these are hard enough now without thinking about them recurring for the next 30-50 years. I want my mom and dad to be at peace, even though I know it's impossible while I'm still ill. My mother and I are so similar in nature that we tend to be the best of friends, but we also fight with a passion unparalleled in our family. I guess as long as we are both alive and kicking, we will love each other and fight each other until the day we die. We nag, we fight, but we also laugh, and love. And as painful as it can be to love someone that much, I hope it never stops.

I love you

I had the best day with you today

Last week was rough. The second round of chemo has almost kicked my ass, but by sheer will and Korean determination, I fought the C-Beast the best I could.

Those of you who know me, know how hard it was for my friends and family members to convince me I needed to hire someone to help me. My mother was the one who finally convinced me, although she probably doesn't know it. I leaned on my mother heavily for help with Evan prior to chemo, and I could see how fatigued she was. Taking care of Evan exhausted me before the cancer diagnosis, and I am 36 years old. I don't want cancer to potentially take two victims! So, we hired Katie to come and help me with Evan and the household chores. She has been great. She is hardworking, smart, and great with Evan.

But, old habits die hard, and although I could not have gotten through last week without Katie, I still have a hard time letting Evan go. I still insist on running all the the errands and going to all his classes together. I am so afraid of missing out on any part of his little life. It had always been just the two of us. And now that he is talking more, comprehending more, and being so sweet and charming, I don't want to miss out on a single moment. Obviously, this has become very difficult, particularly when I am feeling badly. Even going to the grocery store is difficult; I get winded just carrying him from the parking lot to the store. Katie tries to take Evan when she sees how exhausted I'm getting, but he refuses to go to her as long as I'm nearby. I know that my being around makes it harder for her to care for Evan, but I can't seem to help it. I don't want to leave him. I am his mother and I want to take care of him, even when I'm physically able to. It is irrational, but it is what motherhood means to me.

Today was the first day I had with Evan all by myself. I'm near the end of my second cycle, and my pain is somewhat manageable. It was glorious; just the two of us again. We spent the morning playing at our local My Gym, then went to the store where he rode the grocery cart with the car attached to the front for the first time. What a blast! He only protested when I would stop the cart for groceries. I quickly depleted my little store of energy pushing him around, but it was worth it to see his face. Every new marvel, every humorous happenstance, registers on his face like blips of joy on a heart monitor. We finally found our way home where he ate lunch on my lap, and I cradled him as we spun back and forth on our kitchen barstool together. Cuddle time gave way to a brave backyard expedition, stomping around in his shiny red boots until his little body was ready to rest.

I set him down in his crib and we read through the Book of Sleep together, where my genius boy identified the owl, the whale, and the moon. Story time rides on the heels of nap time, though, and pretty soon he looked up and said, "Bye-bye!" I knew that was my cue to let our little man sleep.

"Kiss?" I asked. He lifted up his face.

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And now here I am, exhausted, but the memory of his little kiss reminds me that I wouldn't have traded today for anything. I had the best day with you today, Evan. Mommy loves you, so much.

My darling boy