Round 4—Catch Up

Hi all, I'm here getting number 4 chemo. I think today while I have computer time would be a good time for a catch up. Lots of things have been happening in the last few weeks.

First of all, oh man, I have to tell you about the demise of my cleaning helper. Remember I hired her a few weeks back? Yes, she is already no longer in my employ. Wow, was she something. Of course it makes me question why I often hire people with such exocentric behavior... there must be something, because her problems really are not that much of a surprise if you know many of my employees past.

I had such high hopes for her. But, from the first day she showed up, I started to get worried. I really wanted to give her an honest chance though. She had a lot about her that was really likeable. She showed up about 15 minutes late the first day... well I figure something may have happened; traffic, she got lost... something. But being late on your first day isn't so good.

Once she arrived, I showed her the schedule of what I wanted her to do each day and got her going. No excuse for the lateness, I let it slide. Shortly after she had started cleaning, when no one else was around, she asked about the cool little beanie hat I was wearing. They are cool check out www.cjhats.com. They are handmade by a woman who survived inflammatory breast cancer and went a year with no hair. She now makes a living selling hand made head coverings on eBay and on her website. How's that for a big F-U to cancer? And they are wonderful.

Then the new girl—on her first day—whips off her wig. Yes you read that right… wig. She is nearly bald on top in an unusually uneven way. She then tells me she has that disease where people pull out their own hair. Huh? Okay, I've heard of that, but don't know much about it. She tells me how she wears hats sometimes too; but that when she first started wearing wigs some girls at school were hassling her and told her they would try to rip it off... so she took the wig off and said "now what are you going to do? I ruined your fun didn't I?" Whoa... gotta respect that don't you? That made me really want her to stick around. That sounded strong, and tough, and cool to me. But I didn't miss the irony of her mom having had chemo and no hair and then she gets this disease where she pulls out her hair??? Hmmmm...

After that shock she kept cleaning... sort of... well... um... she loaded the dishwasher. I kept saying, “Oh you need to do this or that,” while I was trying to work on some paperwork. But, it took my full attention just to tell her what to do. I guess my list of duties was too vague. To me, do the dishes also means clean out the sink after you scrape the food off and put them in the dish washer. But as Linda pointed out to me, "hey she did what you asked." So I was careful to give her more direction. The next time she was supposed to clean my bathroom and bedroom. I was very careful to give her detailed, albeit verbal instruction. I would have to say that after she had she pronounced herself done and gone home, that she had cleaned about 10% of my bathroom. I couldn't even see anything she had done in my bedroom, except maybe vacuum a 2-foot path down the front of the room... maybe… kinda… sorta… if the vacuum wasn't working very well.

The next day she called and asked if she could bring her 12-year-old sister because they didn't want to leave her alone at their house. This seemed like a red flag to me so I said "no." She didn't come that day.

The next day she came at her usual time—20 minutes late. This time she wore a tank top and she had horrible, scary looking cut marks on her arm and in her cleavage. So she does both, cuts and pulls. Oh man, oh man. This I have also heard of, but didn't know much about. But I gotta tell you that stuff is hard to look at. I never asked her about it. I was too afraid too.

This time I was determined to give her explicit directions. I walked around the room with her and gave her a verbal list. After she loaded the dishwasher and said she was "done" in the kitchen she went to start on my downstairs bathroom. I walked down with her and gave another verbal list. I pretended I was talking to someone that had never cleaned a bathroom before. I went so far as to explain that when you clean the sink; move all this to one side and clean under it with that wonder cleaner, then move it back and move all the stuff on the other side and clean under it, put the stuff back so it looks nice and clean the sink and the mirror. Then do the toilet. Clean the bowl with the brush and then clean off the seat and under the seat and so on. So far she seemed to understand it all.

So about 10 minutes later she says she is "done" again. So I go back to look at it while she is still there and about fall over. She moved the stuff on the sink to one side and cleaned under it; okay… but she didn't move the stuff back, didn't do the other side, didn't clean the mirror, hadn't cleaned the floor; but the tub and the toilet looked okay... sorta… kinda.

I pointed that all out to her and she made a few excuses about that's how she does it at her house or whatever... then she went back to finish. About ten minutes later she appears again and says "done." I go look again; no clean mirror, no clean floor and she left all her cleaning supplies out and scattered all over the room. And I mean she thought she was done enough to leave. Now I'm really worried. Finally I get her back for round 3 in the room and she still misses the mirror and leaves her cleaning supplies out.

The next day she is a no-show again. I don't remember why... does it matter? I decide to give her one more chance. I wrote down a very, very detailed check list. I'm thinking she is ADD so if she has a paper to look at it will help. And it did! She did a fantastic job that day. Everything was perfect! I even saw her down on the floor to clean behind my toilet! Yay! I was so happy. Yes this will work, right? So what if she had to leave part way through to run something mysterious to her uncle who has an office just up the street, the end result was just what I needed.

The next day... no show. Next day... no show. The reasons don't really matter... goofy stuff. Sister things, doctor appointments, weirdness. It was hard to keep up with all of them. She also consistently kept up having to leave once she got here— odd.

So she finally comes on another day while I have some friends visiting so I didn't really get to chase her around nor did I want to chase her. But she was doing rooms she did before so I thought it was okay. I was wrong; back to 10% of the job being done. She spent a long time in my room so I figured she was working hard like that one good time... well... no... that didn't happen. I can't think what she did up there all that time. Adrianne said "well you do have a lot of interesting things up there; she's probably looking around..." Hmmmm. Perplexing.

More no show days go by. She shows up again and I had to leave while she was there to go and pick up a prescription before the pharmacy closed. I grabbed my son and told her I would be back in about 20 minutes. When we got back I met her coming up the stairs from the downstairs bathroom. When she saw me she went into full Nichole Kidman mode... back of hand to forehead, "ohhhhhh... I think I have heat stroke." That did it. I told her to leave for the day.

I still gave her excuses in my mind. She told me she had been up early, little sleep, etc. So one more day—I would stay, make sure she read the list... I kept remembering that one day when it was soooo good. In retrospect, I think I kept a lot of old boyfriends around for the same reason. That one good day...

The next day she sends me a message saying, "What do you want me to do today? They think I have heat stroke." I messaged her back and told her just to come and pick up her check and that she obviously needed a job with more flexibility. A check for her has been sitting on my counter now for days. So far… no show… no show… no show.

While I'm here getting my chemo I just overheard a tiny little lady, who from the conversation I get, is in her 90's and has some sort of cancer. She went back to ask the doc about a mole on her arm that she forgot to ask about before and catches him in the hallway right outside the door of the chemo room. The doc tells her nothing to worry about and comments how well she is doing for being in her 90's. She says it's her cat. For some reason this makes me teary eyed. I love my cats. They do help. It's the love, the companionship at 2 am when you can't sleep and the fact that you know they are only around because they like you. She goes on to say she let her cat come in her room and it stays with her all the time and she thinks the constant company is making her stronger. I wipe away a tear. Geez... wow. Damn. I want to go hug her but I can't.

Yesterday I had another thorocentisis. And I have now decided that TV is bad for some doctors. These guys have obviously seen to many fun-loving docs on TV and now they think it is okay to be really unprofessional. Remember last time they caused a problem. So this time I thought they would be extra careful. And to their credit they were—really careful. But it was the circus they had going on during it that was scary.

I got the same technicians that did the last one. They knew who I was before I walked in; their demeanor was rather nervous—understandably so. The same girl that did the other one sat down with me and tried to explain it all. She said she had talked to the doctor in charge of the department and they all consulted about it. She wanted me to know that since it happened that one time there could be a little bit greater chance that it could happen again. She went on to try and explain but a lot of what she said was not making sense and she was so nervous she was kind of running on and babbling.

Finally I told her that I trusted her and please just do it. I wanted to breathe. I told her to be careful and if I felt discomfort I would tell her so she could stop, etc. So she started getting it set up, looking on the ultrasound and planning which ribs she was going to go between.

Then the doctor in charge barges in the room. No knock and peek… just opens the door and hands the girl getting ready to poke the giant needle in my back her cell phone. He says, "I just sent your husband a mean text message from you; I told you not to leave your phone on my desk again." She gasps. "What did you say, what did you say?" Has a mini freak out but needs to finish what she was doing before she could look. She introduces the doctor and he talks to me for a minute to help.

Only problem is they discussed another patient that also had a poked lung and he confuses us. The other patient is much worse than I am... or was. So he starts telling me a bunch of stuff that has nothing to do with me, but is alarming. Like lung damage I don't have, may not be able to get the fluid if it is trapped and this goes on and on... meanwhile he is anxious to see the technician’s response to his text so he is glancing back at her, talking to me... he asks her if she looked yet...

I say, "Look I don't care what your thing is with her, I don't want to hear it, I don't care if you are having an affair or whatever. I don't want to hear it, just get me done first." He takes me so non-seriously. Which I can understand, I joke a lot. But I was serious. So she stops and looks at the message. It says "I am so sick of you." She shrieks. OMG, OMG. That is the message he sent her husband as if it was coming from her. The doc laughs and laughs. Then he leaves.

She now explains to me that he was confused with another patient and there is no damage and she can go in just fine. Then the expected phone rings while she is putting the needle in. And yes—you guessed it—it was answered. At least she had the good idea to have the other tech assisting her answer it. She is freaking out and tells the girl to tell her husband that she is busy in a procedure and will call him in 10 minutes. I know my procedure is just starting and will be at least 1/2 hour. The tech relays 15 minutes... but still... during this they do all this? Damn.

So she sort of apologizes. Explains that the doc did threaten if she left the phone again he would do this... like that makes it okay. She explains that the doc and her husband are good friends so it's not that big of deal. So I suggest sarcastically that maybe the doc is after her husband. This makes her giddy because I know she will repeat that later.

About this time the doc barges in again. A quick "how you doin'?" to me and he is just jumping with excitement to ask about the text message. By now the fluid is pouring out and I'm sitting there helpless, but nervous. They all take a break in the room with me to discuss the outcome of the message. I'm appalled. I'm starting to hurt. I think I'm going to cough... I'm pissed off.

They are giggly. "Oh I can't believe you did that... hahahah... Oh my... hahah." "Yes he called; oh look here comes a text from him... hahahah." So before the text war, that I knew would soon start, I say "hey, I'm the patient here dammit. Pay attention to me and not your stupid text message." Now they get it. I'm mad. The doc grabs my hand and says he is sorry. He didn't mean to make me feel like I wasn't being paid attention to; that he was "just trying to take my mind off it..." Not buying it. So I tell him "well it's not working." He gets a tiny bit flustered and we have a brief stare down while he determines how angry I am, then he jumps into action again.

The doc then grabbed the ultrasound and started looking. I explain my pain and he makes suggestions. By now I have filled up 1 and 1/2 liters and more is still coming. But I hurt. And I'm struggling to hold back the coughing fit. The doc suggests stopping the suction on the tube and letting me rest a bit to see if it helps. It does help some. But I still hurt.

The doc asks how much they got already, and the tech says “this much,” but doesn't explain 1 and 1/2 liters. He just sees the half. He gets determined that I need more and more out because he thinks there must still be a good liter or more in there. I want to smack him. I tell him I don't think so... he looks again at the ultrasound and says he sees a lot of fluid right there... we do a little more... I'm in real pain and coughing a fit out.

Then the tech says she doesn't think there is that much more... I can't believe that I could have functioned at all if there had been 3 liters on me so I tell them to stop, I can't take it any more. So they do, take it all out. I'm still in pain and coughing but at least I know they are done. Then the "reasons" start flying. He has personally done "hundreds and hundreds" and never had a pnemonathorax. The tech that did mine has only had one... yes, me... and she has done at least 200. They don't think they did it. "Could be Dr. Abdulla, could be spontaneous and was just there from before… blah, blah, blah." I don't really care who did it. I just want to breathe and don't want another problem.

I can tell they are just itching to get that damn cell phone. Their eyes keep going to it... they can't wait. Oh fine. The doc leaves while the techs are cleaning up and I'm waiting for x-ray to come and get me. While alone the tech tells me they are a joke loving group and on April first they sent all the docs in radiology a message to call hooters and ask for some name that means "I have a large penis," but she couldn't remember the name. I couldn't think of one, can you? If you do email it to me... maybe I will call in a joke to them, haha. Okay, funny yes... I approve of joking around... but not while you have a needle in your back. Geez... at least wait until I'm out of there.

I end up having to wait a long time for x-ray. So the tech leaves, and I'm certain, ran to listen to the phone messages and clear it up with her husband. Finally x-ray comes and takes me away. I get the xray and then have to wait for the radiology doc to look it over. I get back to radiology and after a minute or two I am surrounded again by the 3 of them. They are so happy they are literally jumping around. No pnemonathorax. I'm fine, free to go. Whew.

The doc apologizes for making me feel like I wasn't being paid attention to again, I say “okay.” Then I tell them "thanks and don't take it the wrong way but I hope I don't have to see them again." The doc gets red in the face, they all giggle nervously. All I can say is... too much TV. I think he believes he is one of those cute docs that can do that because he is like that guy on Scrubs or somewhere... goofy. Bet it won't happen again!

I was in a lot of pain from it last night. But today, I can breathe! That is so nice. Man, you just don't know how great that is until it is gone.

Do it again... now!

I'm going in for another thorocentisis this afternoon. Remember the one last time, where they poked a little hole in my lung? Yea, that one. Where they stick the really long needle in your back and tap you like a maple tree full of syrup. I figure if there was 1% chance of that hole thing happening that time, then the chances of it happening twice to the same person must be slot machine odds eh? Plus, I can barely breathe... damn. So I get the big needle again today, and I'm looking forward to having it done. You just don't appreciate how nice it is to breathe freely until that gets taken away from you.

Then I have my 4th chemo treatment tomorrow. Number 4. Four down, and perhaps 4 more to go? I think I am half way through the chemo. Half way; at least according to the initial plan. They did a tumor "marker" test Friday, so I'll know more tomorrow how we are doing. It's working. I can see and feel changes.

So while you are having that bad day today—stuck in traffic or just having to be at your sucky office—breathe! And be glad you are not getting stabbed in the back like me... well... if you are in an office that is probably happening and you just don't know about it...

Star Wars cake coming at ya....

Star Wars cake coming at ya....

Here is my son enjoying some of the frosting off the cake he decorated for my birthday. He built those Legos himself, specially to put on the cake. The black one is his own design. And thanks to my sister, Connie, for naming all the kids in my 4th birthday photo... she used to baby sit them! Here is what she says;

JUST READ YOUR BLOG... NEXT TO BECKY, THE GIRL WITH THE WHITE CURLY HAIR, IS WENDY ZEIGLER AND NEXT TO HER IS HER LITTLE SISTER FRANKIE (SHE CHANGED HER NAME WHEN SHE GOT OLDER, BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO). YOU ARE RIGHT ABOUT LEE AND THE GIRL WITH THE LONG HAIR, IN MIDDLE, IS NAMED GINA AND BRENDA IS THE GIRL AT THE END OF THE TOP ROW. CAN'T SEE HER VERY WELL, AS THE GIRL IN FRONT ROW IS BLOCKING HER OUT. I CAN'T REMEMBER ANY MORE.

Then later she emails again...

I THINK THE LITTLE BOYS ON THE LEFT ARE DEVIN AND DAVID SMITH!

What a memory eh? And yes she always types in caps... she's cool that way...

Thanks to everyone for all the birthday fun, gifts and good wishes.

It’s my birthday!

Today I turned 46. Someone asked me this morning how my day was going, and I said, “Well I'm happy to be turning 46... and I'll be happy to turn 47 and 48 and 49..." Yeah, it's different now. It used to be getting older was something to laughingly pretend wasn't happening, you know the "29 again?" jokes. Now I think it is a cause for celebration. I plan to live to be an old lady and proud of it.

When I was little, before my mom got sick, she used to throw huge birthday parties and invite the entire neighborhood. Then there would be a family party later that night where you would get another cake and more presents. Here are a couple of pictures from my 4th birthday.

I'm the one in the front row in the cute blue skirt with the knee socks. I don't remember any of the other kids except I can tell the girl in the front row in the pink is Becky, Kay's daughter. Which means one of those brown haired girls is Brenda but I can't tell which. And I'm pretty certain that the tall good looking guy in the back in the red and white stripes is my brother Lee.

This is the cake and family party later that day... I'm not sure why I am so dressed up; except maybe that cute dress was a present.

A year later, when I was 5, my sister Joan and Lee took a package of suckers, opened it and wrapped each one individually in boxes of all different sizes. Then they lead me into a room filled with about 30 wrapped presents and said, "look at all the birthday presents that just came for you, don't you want to open them..." After about the 4th or 5th sucker I was pissed off. I think this was mostly orchestrated by Joan, with Lee as merely an accomplice, but I could be wrong. You never know with Lee... and nope... I still haven't forgotten it. I'm still slightly wary whenever I receive a gift from either of them.

Here is a photo from my 10th birthday. Notice how stylishly I am showing off my new bracelet? The short blonde girl in the front row decided she was in love with Lee that day and literally chased him around the yard several times trying to catch him and kiss him. I later heard that she ended up joining the air force and became a lesbian.

My "C-word" Personality

I've been trying to figure out "why" I got cancer—I don't mean the biological how cells form reason—more the "why me?" reason. I think that is something you can't help but ask yourself when faced with something like this... what happened? Or the more expressive and accurate, WTF???? This morning I came upon this article on the web. It's me.

More than anything else I have read about the emotional or non-physical causes, this hit home. Here is a link if you are really interested, go read it.

http://www.alternative-cancer-care.com/The_Cancer_Personality.html

I would guess however, that a lot of people around me, but not necessarily around me on a daily basis would never say this fits me. People see me on the surface as the outgoing extrovert who always speaks her mind and has it all under control... ha! Fooled you all eh? Plus, I'm sure that for quite a few people it was more comfortable to believe this of me than take responsibility for their part of their relationship with me.

Honestly, I do have a ton of unresolved anger. I have complicated grief. I have repressed emotions since I can remember... that's what I was taught to do. "Keep the peace," was my mother's mantra. Don't express anger in the moment, but instead express it to everyone else around you when it feels safe to do so, is how I was taught to handle conflict. I have done that to a great extent. I have repressed anger at old boyfriends, old friends, old employees, old teachers... oh man, the list goes on and on... I have a lot of it. Sure, there were times and places where I let my temper fly and my anger show and it usually caused people to run in fear. But for the most part, it took a long time and a lot of anger built up to get me to that boiling point.

This worked all my life, until now. Until it became too much... until circumstances were so great and people I normally trusted to vent my anger to were not there for me; or worse used that against me. It all came tumbling down. My own shock and grief over the loss of my father and the disintegration of my family; add to that a grieving child, trying to run a business with problematic employees, and well... that's a lot of stress. I was pushing myself so hard, through exhaustion, pain, sickness, grief... something had to give. Unfortunately that something was my immune system. And yes, that all took place in approximately the last 2 years... sigh. Lesson learned; time for a big change.

In that same article you will notice a sidebar about traits cancer survivors share... I'm on it. Those sweeping life changes—ye, I've already been thinking about that for weeks now. I want to live and be here and raise my child... but it has to be different. I don't want to go back to my life the way it was... I want better.

I want people around me that actually like me, that may sound strange, but on some level you know the people who really like you and those that don't right? I've had a lot that didn't really like me but were here for some reason other than me. They are gone; or will be soon.

I want authenticity, not just from myself, but from people around me and I want them to support me in living an authentic life. I want people around me to tell me if they are angry at me and know that I will listen and work out whatever it is; or at least agree to disagree and feel safe doing so with me. And I want them in turn to do the same for me.

I want employees that care as much about their job as I do; whether they are personal employees or Jungle Roses employees. I no longer will accept being stolen from, lied to, insulted, or disrespected in any manner, by anyone that I employ.

I want people around me to respect how I choose to raise my son, and if they disagree with it don't try to talk me into "how it should be" or worse just try to change it on their own when I'm not looking... I'm doing what I believe is right and it's coming from my heart. That must be respected.

I want people around me who like me for the imperfect person I am; take it or leave it.

So there you have it—the new me. I guess that makes me changing from one "C-word" personality, to another type of "C-word" personality eh? I know it's sort of expected from all the movies and TV shows about people with cancer that the cancer patient is supposed to unselfishly forgive and love everyone around them with new understanding while sentimental music wafts through the room... well... I'm not following that script... lol.

3rd time not so charming...

Wow... I'm just coming off the chemo-train for the 3rd time. This time was so much more intense than the first two. Not so much the level of discomfort, but the relentlessness of it. Every muscle in my body hurt. And then I got these crazy involuntary muscle contractions... I'd just be sitting there and whamo, my leg would bend all on its own making me sort of jump. It was one of those things that are tragically funny. It hurt, looked strange and made you laugh, all at the same time.

I spent a lot of the past few days sitting on my bed in a Lortab fog while Lee, Linda and TC entertained my son. And thank goodness for Legos! Friday night my son and I had to be alone and we were able to pass the time and get through it okay by building a huge, new Lego set on my bed. I'll always remember that; sitting on my bed building Lego race cars. I hurt and could barely move, but he was thrilled to sit with me and build for hours on end. There may always be a secret Lego set hidden in the closet for such emergencies.

On Saturday Lee took him to Home Depot and they returned with a much bigger project to build—Lee is so much like our Dad. A small project like, "I'll just put a shelf up here," turns into a near complete remodel. Our family room is now a work in progress. Hmmmm... Next I'm going to mention how my bathroom could use a "shelf" and see what happens...

I feel a lot better this morning; except my hands and feet are weirdly numb. I know that is a side effect of the chemo but it's still such a weird feeling. It's like when one of your limbs falls asleep and you get that pins and needles feeling when it starts to wake up. Only I have that pins and needles thing constantly. It feels weird to type... and it makes me walk kind of funny.

I've also lost most of my eyebrows now. I didn't really notice that happen... that makes you look strange. Now I really look like I have cancer... it's all in the brows.

Moms get sick... single Moms get sick, too. Help!

Once again I am here at the cancer center waiting for chemo treatment #3. It's a busy day here. Susan joked that it was "take a number day," and it is... people are waiting, including me. Dr. Johnson said that I am "responding very well," and he wouldn't change a thing we are doing right now. I got this response after I asked when he would do another PET/CT to see how things are doing. He says “maybe in a couple more months.” Notice how I artfully left that dreaded MRI out of the loop? ha. Not doing that again.

The last 3 weeks or so have been a blur of activity for me. Business has been up; things have just been going on and on and on... and I realized I need more help. Lee and Linda have been giving me 110% and that's even with the wedding of the year going on this coming weekend for them. I'm grateful and I still need that 110%. I also need more...

I find that with the exception of the 5 or 6 days right after I get chemo, I can function fairly well with about 2 or 3 really good hours a day in which I can work or play with my son or do whatever else needs to be done. However—I don't want to spend those hours doing the dishes, laundry, etc. And to be honest I haven't been. My house is a maze of Legos, toys, dirty laundry and what-not all over the place. You sort of have to kick things out of your way to make a path where you are walking. It's gotten a clean up now and then but it's getting to me and getting worse all the time.

So, I decided to hire someone to come in a couple hours a day and do housework. Freeing me up to do what I really want to do during those good hours. I started asking around and found that the Cancer Society has a program where they send volunteers out to clean free of charge. They give 24 hours free... sounds wonderful. There is a really long waiting list. So long that they have yet to respond to me since I contacted them 2 weeks ago. Plus, I felt rather bad taking cleaning away from someone potentially worse off than me... not sure I can do it. I would feel bad.

So after checking with friends, family, etc., I resorted to placing a blind ad on Craigslist. I had several responses. Some rather goofy. One woman wanted to put her 14-year-old daughter on the train and then have her bike the rest of the 30 mile journey to my house. I told her that wasn't safe... geez. A few people moving here from there in July etc... about 4 people really seemed like they might fit. I narrowed that down to 2 interviews.

The first woman I interviewed... well... I could not get past the 5 inch stiletto heels and tight skirt she wore to the interview. Ummm... sure she said that she has other clothes to wear but I just could not picture her cleaning my cat box. Lesson—always dress the part for the job you are interviewing for; no matter what.

The second interview was great. I really liked her. She is young, only 17. Her Mom has been through chemotherapy twice. Plus, she is an animal lover, has horses, 7 cats, takes in foster cats, isn't afraid of snakes and even kicked off her shoes before she came in my house. Plus, she said she "loved Legos." She starts Monday.

Needing help has been difficult for me. I have always been insanely independent. I have avoided marriage, live in boyfriends or anyone who tries to tell me what to do, for most all my adult life. If fact, I have gone out of my way to go against the crowd and to defy anyone that tries to tell me how it is... I was a bad employee, fun girlfriend and thought there was nothing I could not do on my own, in my own manner.

I see a cool chiropractor Dr. Corey Sondrup. You have to visit his website, if for no other reason, to see his beauty. He is a pretty man. I have known him for a long time. A lot of my employees have gone to him over the years. All of them have had secret crushes on him. www.optimalhealthdynamics.com. He does a lot of healing techniques that some would say are "out there." I say they are "cool." His finding on my "life lesson" for this disease was to learn how to ask for and accept help. Um... wow... okay. I had lots of interesting reasons why this might be the case. "I hate to give up control... I don't want people to feel taken advantage of... blah, blah, blah,” but, what it came down to according to his ethereal testing was I was "afraid of losing my identity." I had to think about that for a long time.

I have always smacked my "identity" dead center on my intelligence and independence. I would rather people say "she is so smart and independent" than say I was pretty. Why? How had I arrived at the idea that not needing help and being so independent made me "smart?" Ahhh... I see it now. And in doing so it has helped in reaching the conclusion to hire help because I don't want the same thing to happen to my son.

You see my Mother was chronically ill for most of my life. She passed away several years ago due to liver disease. She was an amazing woman. One of those whose depth you don't really comprehend until they are gone. In many ways my Mom was simple. And in many, many more ways she was very complex. Smart, but under-educated. Her parents were homesteaders in North Dakota. She often said the Little House on the Prairie books and TV show where like her childhood had been brought to life. She went to a one room school house and then had to live in another town a few hours away with her older sisters to attend Jr. High and High school. She sort of, graduated high school. She had moved to Seattle and before marrying my father, she proudly was the assistant manager of the lingerie department at Sears and Robuck. A stunning beauty she was named "Sears national sweater girl" and was photographed in tight-fitting sweaters for advertisements. She looked like a movie star from that era. She married my father at a young age and moved with him to Utah from Seattle. Fierce and tough, but never learned how to drive. She was very dependent on others yet could hold her own in a lot of situations.

She survived cancer of the uterus a year or so after I was born. When I was younger—like 6 or 7—my mother had a few health problems here and there; high blood pressure, ulcers, and various things. She made regular doctor visits, but nothing alarming. When I was about 10 or 11—I can't remember exactly when, but it was around that switch from elementary to Jr. High school—she was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver and told she had 6 months to live. Ironically, my Mom never drank alcohol but had the disease most credited to heavy drinking.

This had a huge impact on my family of course. And by this time our family at home had shrunk. My two older sisters had married, had children, and/or moved away. One lived closer from time to time but had young children and a dissolving marriage. The other was off from state to state searching for her dream. She came home sometimes; like holidays. My brother was off working also... after a less than stellar performance in college, he followed my father into the building trades; a seemingly very good move for him. I don't care how smart you are... you need to do what you like to do and are good at. I have more theory on my family members’ quirky genius... but like my sisters... that deserves its own blog.

The economy in our town was tough at that time. Building had slowed down to a crawl at best. Due to my mother's health concerns, health insurance was tough to come by. My father's trade had been hurt by the downturns and in order to find a company that would provide the drastically expensive insurance for my mother he took jobs out of state. My brother went with him. Sometimes he was closer, like Nevada or Idaho and thus he could come back regularly, like every couple of weeks, but only for a few days at a time. Sometimes he was far away; like Kansas and he could only come back every few months.

So for several years, from the time I was 11 or so until I was 18, it was my mom and me; and for a lot of it I was scared out of my mind. I was frightened that she could die at any moment. That something would happen and I wouldn't know what to do... somehow no one had explained to me how to call for help or which neighbor to go to. I remember watching carefully when riding in the car to see how people drove, in case I had to jump in the car and drive her to the hospital myself when I was 11.

I grew up very fast. I had to.

Granted things were simpler then. We are talking more than 30 years ago. It wasn't a big deal for kids to walk to school on their own. And it was safe to ride the bus to buy groceries or do whatever you needed to do... we lived in a pretty and little town. Nothing much happened.

I spent all of my Jr. High and High School years alone with my mom. Talking care of whatever she needed and pretty much doing the household upkeep as well. I'm not complaining, I think my childhood was just fine. I tend to break it up into two parts. Before Mom got sick and after Mom got sick. It's odd now to talk to my older siblings about it because they had a totally different experience of it than I did... understandably so, they weren't there.

I didn't do a lot of normal kid’s things; didn't vacation in Disneyland; didn't play the days away, like my friends did. I was well taken car of though, and never lacked anything… except for freedom and independence for my mom. Her not being able to drive was a big deal. I know places like New York and other big cities some people never learn how to drive. But this is the West, and a small town. I remember her and I taking 3 different buses so I could get to the orthodontist. Just a tightening of my braces took a whole exhausting day. Grocery shopping on the bus was an adventure... she was a wiz at stocking food away so we didn't have to do that very much. Lots of times other kids at school would be on the bus to go to wherever they went in the cliques and gangs and the next day at school there was either teasing or the kinder gentler query of "why were you and your mom on the bus with groceries???" There were no neighborhood markets; the closest store was miles away. No McDonald's close by, no pizza delivery. People in our neighborhood cooked, went to church and watched TV.

I didn't have a ton of friends, but the ones I had were loyal, and some of them are still in communication with me. The most difficult thing for me was having to wait on my mom. That sounds so negative; but that's what it was... she would sit and watch TV in her chair and I was her caretaker. If she wanted something she asked me to get it for her. I went to school during the day and at night I was a home health worker. The mental stress of it all took a toll on my mom. When I would try to spark up a rebellion of any sort it was usually met with a "you have to be nice to me I could die at any time." That was true. That is what the doctors told her. I'm sure she was scared. This was also something she would tell my fiends, the few dates I had and anyone who tried to involve me in something.

I remember some of the girls from the "ward;" (and this is something you have to be LDS to understand, but I will explain best I can) the "ward" in a Utah neighborhood, especially at that time, is the place your friends come from. Mormons or LDS have church houses in each neighborhood here. Each church house has 3 or so "wards" that meet there. The wards are drawn by proximity to the church. Then each ward has a designated time to meet for their church services. At that time and in my neighborhood I knew of only 1 non-Mormon family. All of our neighbors and 99% of the kids in my school were LDS. If you were not LDS, or chose not to go to church meetings, well... your social life went to hell too.

One day in particular, while I was in 7th grade, the girls from the young women's association of the ward came knocking on the door with the best of intentions. They wanted to know if I could come to their meeting at the church? Wow... did they get an earful. I overheard it from the kitchen as my mom gave them a good "talking to." She told them, among other things, that she was/could die at any moment and "were any of their Mother's like that??" That I had to stay home and take care of her even if it meant "scrubbing the floor..." now at this time I never had to scrub the damn floor. I have no idea what that was about. My older sisters, yes they had to scrub the floor. But, by that time we had "mop and glow." She asked them if any of them "had ever scrubbed a floor?" Aaa... um... silence. Then she said "I know you think you are better than her, but I think she is better than you, because none of you could do that..." "She cooks dinner and cleans too... do any of you?" I was confused and stunned by this. I liked cooking—this didn't bother me, I never scrubbed the floor, I didn't think that much of it... but yeah, I would have wanted to go with these girls. This went on for what seemed like days to me as I was listening. I was frozen. I couldn't move. I just listened. Finally she sent them away... with a "now go on to church and don't bother her." I was mortified.

And no, none of those girls ever bothered me again. Fine. I made great friends with the non-Mormon kids who were pretty great in their own right. Things got more intense for me as I got older.

By High School I really felt the need to go places and do things. So in my adolescent way, I found the solution. Be independent, don't need help, don't need friends... not to mention, don't need boyfriends. I wanted boyfriends—just didn't want to need them. I didn't have a lot of them in my school years. As you may imagine as soon as one got the "glad eye" for me and admitted it, the "church girls" gave him a talking to... I found an answer for that too. I dated guys that were older and didn't date any guy from anywhere near my school system.

I filled my time doing an acceptable activity. By that I mean, one that my mom saw as important enough to be away from her for. I was overactive in scholarly pursuits. This allowed me to stay after school with no one to bother me and work on the school play or debate team. I wasn't sporty much, but I could hold my own with any other high-school debater. And I found a somewhat shaky home with the already other weird drama kids—this lead to a sense of freedom. I had play practices and debates to go to... at times this was a day or more away; if I was good enough to travel to another school far away for a debate. I got to meet smart kids from other schools who didn't know me. And school plays were at night. Great.

I finally found the not-so-holy-grail at 17. I found an older guy that wanted to marry me. I jumped at it. It was a huge mistake; and frankly I don't even remember much about it. It didn't last long, not quite 2 years. I wasn't pregnant but I think the thought that it "could" happen was enough to scare my parents into letting me get married. I didn't think much about how this would impact my mom or dad. I just wanted out, and I was close enough to be there when she needed something right?

In hindsight; I should have talked to someone about my unhappiness, but I was afraid to do so... I should have stayed there, toughed it out and gone to college rent free... but I was 17. All I could think of was freedom.

So, fast forward to now. I finally became pregnant after years and years of trying... I was overjoyed. I was fully aware that I was doing it at an older age—I would give birth at 41. I knew I was capable of doing it. Never worried much about the risks of birth defects etc., but I promised myself that I would stay fit so that in 10 years I could go to my son’s sporting events and keep up with him riding bikes or whatever he would do... I was going to make certain he did not have my childhood repeated. I never dreamed in my wildest nightmares I would get such a thing like cancer when he was 5.

Now I cringe inside when I hear people say things to him like "you have to take care of your mother... she's sick you have to be good... you will have to teach him to do more things for you and on his own..." No, no, no... Please no! I want him to never take responsibility for me in that way. That to me, is worse than having cancer. I can't let it impede him. My son is already progressed passed his years by virtue of his intelligence. I want and need him to have fun. I don't want him afraid I could die at any moment. I don't want him to not go places and do things because he has to wait on me. It cannot happen. I will not let it.

So thus, I now proudly admit—I need help. I am fortunate enough to hire someone to help. I know there are people out there who are unable to hire someone. There are other single moms who can't afford a go getting a 17-year-old to do dishes. I am so glad that I have Jungle Roses. Thanks to Joan, Rodney and all those that came before that helped it grow and be what it is... you know who you are... thank you.

And while I think it presents its own difficulty—being self employed, I don't have sick leave and a few other oddball things. When I was given my "textbooks" at my big meeting it included some "financial aid" information. At first I thought, "whew... there is help," but my hopes fell quickly when I read through it and found instructions for applying for food stamps, welfare and disability. Damn. I'm betting there are single moms out there with cancer who had to go for this kind of assistance. Talk about a blow on top of a blow. Yes, there are some other programs that assist with medication if you can't afford to pay for your own medicine. I heard rumors about free wigs from the cancer society and a few other tidbits here and there, but my heart goes out to those single moms that also lost their incomes and have to support their families on government assistance.

My mom, btw, went on to live another 20+ years after that "6 months to live" diagnosis. It got so "normal" for all of us that when she got really sick all those years later it was a shock. With her knowledge of the bus system and her neighbors and friends she lived a somewhat independent life after I moved out. My father "retired"... um... not really, but he thought about it for a minute. He started his own business and was able to find employment back here in Utah after the economy turned, doing what he did best. He finished high-end luxury homes and was in great demand. The economy had somehow made a lot of people that could now afford to build huge, luxury homes and he was the best at doing the interior finish work. He did the finish work in my home and I love it so much. I have wonderful hand made wood work, brick fireplace and other extras all built by him.

He and my mother became like newly weds again. They were happy and had many, many more great times together before my mother passed. When he started working back here again he found me an adult. We had very open talks about that in which he apologized for being away and missing so much of my childhood. We talked about why. I already knew why, but he wanted to say it. We vowed to get to know one another again. And we did, as adults we became very close. I also remained close to my mother. We went on many great shopping excursions once I could drive, and had quite a few adventures together, after I divorced and could take her out shopping, for a full day sometimes. She loved going to Salt Lake to Christmas shop... it was a blast.

I have no ill-feelings about what happened. My parents did the best they could at the time... and it was good. I realize in all to vivid clarity now what my mom was going through, and that it could have been much, much worse. I have to give my father huge credit for his loyalty. It would have been easy for him to bail out at many times. But he did not. My mom could have given up, but she did not. And many times she was really fun to be around. She did a lot of goofy, giggly things; and that was great. And the friends I had that got to know her, loved her.

I also have respect for those girls in the ward. They had no idea what was coming that day they knocked. I doubt they remember that lecture they got. But I'm pretty certain they still don't like me, but they can't exactly remember why...