Old Cow

As I mentioned in my last post, Tender, Loving, Care, I was once referred to as an OLD COW. This is that story...

My father was a long-distance runner, completing over 100 marathons. He ran well into his 70's and when he could no longer run pain-free he opted for a hip replacement. Shortly after his surgery, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.

Although his Parkinson's was emotionally and physically challenging, his slow decline gave us time to nurture our relationship.

As a self-made businessman, he had a fierce, independent spirit and was always on the go. And, because my parents divorced when I was two years old and my mother raised me, we missed sharing many of life's simple pleasures.

One of them was going to the movies.

When I asked what type of movie he would like to see he replied,"a Western would be nice - something with John Wayne."  So I took him to see the epic, science fiction action film, Avatar.

We went to a 3D matinee showing in a neighboring city. My husband took my spacious, four-door sedan on a weekend excursion and I was left with his Mini-Cooper clown car. I knew getting Dad in and out of the Mini, and into the theater, was going to be challenging so we arrived early.

The parking lot was located in the heart of the business district and serviced the theater and a large gym. A handicap sticker would have given us several options but despite his hunched back and wobbly gait, Dad was convinced his condition didn't warrant one.

After circling the lot several times, I saw a space close to the main entrance of the theater.

When I noticed a car heading towards the same spot, from the opposite direction, I stepped on the gas. Thanks to the compact size of the Mini, I quickly jockeyed my way into the narrow space.

"How about that!" I said to Dad, feeling quite proud of myself.

As I carefully assisted my father out of the car, a girl in her early twenty's approached us. I recognized her as the driver of the car that I outmaneuvered for the parking space.

She was dressed in a fresh, neon green Nike shirt, matching shorts and electric white sneakers. Her long dark hair was pulled into a tight, stiff, ponytail at the crown of her head and her lacquered nails matched her candy-apple red lipstick.

"What the FUCK!" she yelled within an inch of my face.

Anticipating the need to physically defend myself, I released the two-handed grip I had on my father and, in slow motion, he rolled backwards into the car.

His eyes widened with fear as he stammered, "D, D, don't hit her Shannon!"

As a young man my father was scrappy and mischievous, and as a parent he was astutely aware that the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

He was right of course, I was angry, but with my father as my witness my plan was to assault her with wit and charm.

"You're fit and young," I told her, "You don't need this parking space. Besides, the further you park from the gym the better workout you'll get."

"Shut up you old cow!" she yelled and stomped away.

I didn't see it coming. I expected "bitch" or "asshole" but not Old Cow.

Her comment hit a major artery—embarrassment and rage oozed from my veins.

I did my best to compose myself while we wearily made our way into the theater.

Old Cow echoed in my head as I eased my father into his seat before heading to the concession stand to get him a large buttered popcorn, a super-sized pack of Twizzlers and Milk Duds. Food, especially candy, had become a major source of joy to Dad and it was a bargaining chip in our movie excursion.

"Oh boy!" he said when I approached him with my arms full of treats.

Just as the movie was about to start, I handed him a pair of beefy, black plastic, 3D glasses.

"What are these?" he asked.

"They're glasses that make the images on the screen POP," I explained.

"Can I keep them?" he asked.

"No," I said.

As the theater lights darkened and the sound erupted, Dad leaned towards me and whispered, "Will you steal them for me?"

"No Dad, I will not. We run a security company. How bad would it look if we were busted for stealing?” I scolded him.

"Well then," he proclaimed, "I’ll steal them."

He looked adorable in his glasses and I was pleasantly surprised to see how focused he was on the movie.

In contrast, I was consumed with worry.




What if Miss Fit is seeking revenge? What if she scratches the car or slashes our tires? Can't believe she called me an old cow. My father's the old cow, not me.

We waited until the crowd dispersed before making our way past the well placed, overflowing bin of returned glasses. Dad "hid" his tightly in his right hand and held onto me loosely with his left.

"We did it," he said as we exited the theater. "We pulled a fast one!"

When we arrived at the car, I was relieved to discover that it was unharmed.

As we pulled out of the parking lot Dad put his 3D glasses back on and flashed me a Cheshire cat grin.

He had a lot to say on our ride home. It was as if his 3D glasses gave him superhuman powers. "Slow down Shannon, you're driving too fast. That's an unmarked police car following us. Look out for that cat!" 

I knew I was driving well under the speed limit. I knew that the 1997 Buick "tailing us" was NOT a police car. And I knew that a clown crossing the road was more probable than a cat. But most important, I knew not to argue with Dad when he needed to be right.

"Did you like the movie?" I asked.

"It was okay," he answered.

"Weren't the visual effects fabulous?"

"Sure," he said.

"What an adventure,”

"Yep," he replied non-enthusiastically.

"They say it cost over 230 million to make," I declared.

"Ridiculous," stated Dad.

When my kids were young, in an effort to get them to elaborate about their day, I would ask them to tell me their favorite part.

"So Dad, what was your favorite part?" I asked.

Without missing a beat, he smiled wide and chuckled, "When that girl called you an Old Cow."

What a memory Dad gave me. I laugh every time I think of it. I laugh at the sight of cows. Sometimes I laugh as I pour milk into my morning coffee.

xo, MonkeyME

------

Tender, Loving, Care

Love Tree Google image

I am in the middle of my sixth round of chemo. For my particular cancer a round is defined as one infusion of a chemotherapy drug called oxaliplatin (formerly known as "the fairy infusion" and now referred to as "the devil") immediately followed by two weeks of another drug called xeloda. This is useless information unless you have colorectal cancer. If you're lucky, you will label this as useless information and discard it from your memory.

I have two more rounds to go. It is pure hell. I am miserable.

My body is mad at me. Every minor ailment I had prior to cancer is now magnified. My gums are receding and my teeth feel like they're falling out. My hair is thinning and my face is broken out. I am nauseous and have a constant metallic taste in my mouth. I have random shocks of pain throughout my body so intense that it causes me to scream. My fingers and toes are numb and pained by the slightest degree of cold. My eyes hurt. The inside of my nose hurts and bleeds. I am exhausted. My muscles ache. Like I said, I am miserable.

This coupled with the end of my marriage, the end of my breasts, and the addition of a colostomy bag, is a lot to digest.

At times, it is difficult to grasp the severity of my illness because, despite five cancer diagnoses (two melanoma's, breast cancer in both breasts, and now colorectal cancer), I have not experienced any symptoms directly related to the cancer - to the cure (surgery, radiation, chemotherapy) yes, but not to the cause. There has been nothing to feel or see. No lumps, no pains, no warning signs, no history of illness of any kind.

It is also difficult to accept that my treatment is so toxic, so debilitating, that the long term side effects will severely diminish my quality of life.

Being declared "cancer free" after radiation and surgery does not mean cancer is behind me. It means there is no evidence of disease, or NED as it is referred to. It's not a matter of if my cancer will return, but when. How long of a reprieve will I have? That's where the odds are stacked against me.  My diagnosis of a T3, low level, rectal tumor simply means it was advanced and in a bad spot. It's hard to find things that are in my favor. This is not a defeatist attitude. This is my truth.

Yes, there are holistic approaches, alternative medicines that I have incorporated into my healing, but the blueprint of my medical evaluation remains.

This is the vortex I am stuck in. It's hard to read this and not feel pity for me yet that is the last thing I need or want.

Despite the gloom, there are good days and on those days I rebound with gratitude and glee. I had one of those days last week when Monkey Gurl, my daughter Ling, pal Christopher (aka Man-Child) and I, attended a Lauryn Hill concert at The Capitol Theater in Port Chester, New York.

Image by Scott Harris

It was a magical night. Lauryn was supercharged and sassy and her band was synchronized and mesmerized by her command. Afterwards she brought her children on stage, including her first born, Zion.

How beautiful if nothing more
Than to wait at Zion's door
I've never been in love like this before
Now let me pray to keep you from
The perils that will surely come
See life for you my Prince has just begun
And I thank you for choosing me
To come through unto life to be
A beautiful reflection of His grace 
See I know that a gift so great 
Is only one God could create
And I'm reminded every time I see your face

The joy of my world is in Zion.

Kerry, my first born, loved Lauryn Hill and the Fugees. His birthday is Sunday, February 16th. As much as I try to celebrate his birth, it is a painful reminder of what we, those who love him with every ounce of our existence, lost.

But Kerry was with us that night at Capitol Theater when Lauryn played to a sold out crowd. And I could feel his joy as he witnessed Ling and I together - swaying to Lauryn's soulful, sustainable groove.

I love how music brings us togethers. I love that my daughter devours music - not just from her contemporaries, but from artist of different eras and different genres. It makes me think I raised her right.

After the show, outside the Capitol Theater, I am slapped out of my trance when an arrogant, twenty-something FLEA, wearing a wrinkled, Brooks Brothers shirt, rudely interrupts a conversation I am having with a lovely, Latin, Lauryn Hill fan by stepping directly between us and offering to give her a ride, "anywhere she wants" via his "car service." And then, as a sign of intent, he pulls out his old school flip-phone and asks her if she is ready for a "sweet ride."

His crudeness is awkwardly dismissed by the Latin Miss but not by Monkey Me. Because I have no filter, or perhaps because I enjoy dismantling what I surmise is the silver spooned spawn of an elitist, I ask, "Is it true that the size of a man's phone corresponds to the size of his penis?"

(I've publicly poked fun at a man's penis before and it didn't go well, so you think I would have learned my lesson)

She laughs.
I laugh.
He shouts,"You know what you are?"

When I don't answer he steps closer and repeats, this time with conviction,
"Do... You... Know... What... You ARE!!!"

All I could think was...
Please don't call me an old cow, please don't call me an old cow, please, please, PLEASE don't call me an old cow...

(Yes, this has happened before)

"You... are a SCRUB!" he barks.

A scrub? Really? I'm a scrub?

"But a scrub can't get no love," I say.

"Do you know what a scrub is?" he asks, ignoring my clever retort.

At this point, I have no choice but to get all TLC on him.

A scrub is a guy that thinks he's fly.
And is also know as a bust-er.
Always talkin' about what he wants 
and just sits on his broke ass.
So...

"Pretend I'm Left Eye," I say and then break into a pitiful robot dance while singing,

NO, I don't want your number 
NO, I don't wanna give you mine and 
NO, I don't wanna meet you nowhere
NO, I don't want none of your time...

True, I am off-key and my robot looks more like a rag doll, but I am having fun at his expense.

There are a few blurry parts after that. I might have mentioned that I was a "Kennedy." Typically, I only use this line prior to major surgery when I beg the OR staff not to let another Kennedy die.

Blushed crimson with rage he shouts, "At least no one from my family got shot in the face," and then he follows that up with, "My family's been here since 1642, my family's been here since 1642..." or something that sounded very Mayflowerish.

At this point I realize that he is unstable so I move one step closer and shout..."LOVE!!!"

Not just once, but over and over and over again.

I add a peace sign, which I think in all honestly started off as a two fingered, evil eye hand sign (something my mother is famous for) and then I soften it into a sign of solidarity.

Luckily, my daughter has a cluster of handsome men surrounding her and when they realize Ling's Mom is in trouble (causing trouble) they bravely back up my LOVE chant.

With a chorus of LOVE in full force, Monkey Gurl pulls me out of the crowd and away we sway.

Clearly my Shannonigan's will not earn me the mother of the year award but it will give my daughter something to hold onto long after I'm gone.

The gift in my cancer is being astutely aware that my time here is limited. As I continue to search for my life's true purpose, I call upon the wisdom of artists - musicians, poets and visionaries - to lead me towards the positive. Steadily I weave moments into memories.

xo, MonkeyME

“There were a number of different reasons I left... But partly, the support system that I needed was not in place. There were things about myself, personal-growth things, that I had to go through in order to feel like it was worth it.” Lauryn Hill when asked why walked away from fame.

WUNDERGLO

Gloria Borges aka WUNDERGLO

Every day is not a challenge

 Every day is a CHANCE

to get better

  stronger

to learn

to live

to love

to embrace the world and be embraced

and to prepare for another day

should we be lucky enough to

receive it

Every day is NOT a challenge

Every day is a CHANCE

WUNDERGLO's final blog post

It's hard to bitch about doing 8 rounds of chemo when Gloria completed 60. She was more than a warrior, she was the kick-ass cancer queen. And then she died. Three years after her diagnosis of stage 4 colon cancer.

Fucking Cancer.

I can't spend a lot of time on facebook or twitter because most of you are projecting yourselves as living carefree. Instead, most of the time I'm on the colorectal cancer boards and following blogs of my fellow cancer warriors. Here is where I get the real information, not the speculation. Here is where I get the hard facts - what works, what doesn't, and our overall survival rates. Missing is the hype, the corporate bullshit, and the alternative and often dangerous "holistic" scams.

But when you lose one of your warriors, especially one as powerful as Gloria, it makes you question everything you are doing and why you are here. 

All I know for certain is that I'm not doing enough.

Fucking Cancer.

Sail on sweet sister. Sail onward and upward. Don't think for a minute that I believe you are gone. You are way too powerful of a force.  

Gloria's first post - October 10, 2010

From the first moment I found out the news that I had been diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer -- news delivered to me post-surgery by my parents and hubby -- I felt a charge in me. An excitement, if you will. Excitement is probably one of the last things you'd think I'd feel after realizing the very tough road I have ahead of me, and that life as I knew it was changing radically. But yes, excitement.

You see, dear readers -- and you probably know this already -- I love a good challenge. And I love achieving goals, especially huge, sometimes improbable ones. The challenge is throughly beating down cancer, and the goal is not only survival, but survival with gusto. I am unwaveringly confident that I will succeed, not just because of my inner strength and toughness, but because of the love and support of family and friends -- the wonderful people reading this very blog entry. Your positivity and belief in my ability to overcome any challenge will buoy me on those days when my spirits need a lift. Together, we will win.

This blog represents to me something I've always tried to do throughout these past 28 fabulous years -- to live openly, honestly, and to share my life and experiences with the people I love. As I keep you in the loop via this blog, I'm planning on being brutally honest, pretty damn funny, and hopefully quite entertaining. Because honestly, if I'm going to have to beat down cancer with chemo and a super major surgery followed by some more chemo, I'm going to have a good time doing it and I hope you'll have a good time watching me do it and reading about me doing it.

Much love,

GloBo

Real Men Don't Let Friends Fuck Frogs

"It's the quiet ones that are the most fucked up."

"You can't fix a psychopath."

"Has there ever been a man in your life that hasn't disappointed you?"


These are a few examples of why, after only two months, I dumped my therapist. He is way too profound.

But the main reason I dumped my therapist is because he's a man.

Historically, I go to therapy to entertain because I'm complex and a fucking mess. And, I get a kick out of watching their wide-eyed reaction to the twisted tangles of my life.

But I don't go to therapy to do any actual work. I do that by myself - a restorative, psychological masturbation of sorts.

So I lied to my therapist, told him I wasn't dumping him, that I was simply taking a break so that I could focus on my physical ailments by attending weekly acupuncture sessions.

In essence, it wasn't HIM it was ME. But I wonder if he could see right through me?

Especially difficult to hear this man say were words of praise and admiration with regard to my strength and resilience.

A women could have said that and I'd think, "Yep, that's right bitch, I'm tough as nails!"

But when a man says it... I'm not sure I trust him.

I'm not accustom to a man expressing himself with a concoction of words that, when placed together in a sentence, are insightful and charitable.

I have so many bad choice stories - one disastrous dating debacle after another. One sad sap of a man lied and told me his wife was dead when in reality she was a PR executive for Aerosmith and on tour with the band. Hell, I probably would have fucked him if he had promised me front row tickets.

Another dumped me because I attempted to leave a blow-dryer at his apartment. And another blamed his penile rash on me when it turned out he had masturbated with lemon juice on his hands.

Maybe this should be the premise of my memoir. Call it... Why I Fucked Frogs or Just Say No To Frogs or Caution, Frogs Cause Cancer.

There were so many obvious warning signs when I started dating my husband but instead of focusing on the obvious, I focused on an original piece of art that he owned and hung on a wall in the basement of his mothers home, where he - at the not so tender age of 38 - still lived.

Forget the fact that he slept in a bed that had a wagon wheel for a headboard, this man had an appreciation for the arts and that was enough for me.

How ridiculous is that.

Later, I discovered a darkness about him that was disturbing, dysfunctional and deceitful. But despite all that, I was convinced I could change him.

How ridiculous is that.

The details of his behavior doesn't matter, but what it says about me does.

Clearly, I didn't think I deserved anyone better. My mind told me I wasn't smart enough, or pretty enough, or good enough. And my mind is very powerful. One could argue that this was the poison that fed my cancer.

One thing I know for certain, all we have control over in our life is our thoughts and I am in the process of reprogramming mine.

I asked my husband to leave fifteen days after major surgery and two weeks before starting chemotherapy. I am so fucking proud of myself.

I am not bitter. I am thankful because the loss cracked me wide open. It left a void that I know the universe will fill with an abundance of joy and love.

It doesn't matter that my breasts are gone, that my crap seeps into a pouch, that I have more scars on my body than a convicted felon.

It doesn't matter that I'm old now, that chemo has pushed me into menopause.

It doesn't matter that my skin has lost its elasticity or that my hair has lost its shine.

What does matter is that I have found my SHINE.


But, back to the original question asked of my now, X-therapist ...

"Has there ever been a man in your life that hasn't disappointed you?" 

My original answer was no, and then I burst into tears. But on the way home I realized I was wrong. 

There is Jay, my freakishly tall friend and there is Jesse, my shiny, silver friend. These two men have never disappointed me. True, they are friends not lovers. True, they are closer to my son's age than my own. But they have aligned themselves with me and they are kind, and generous, and truthful, and good. They are supportive, and nurturing, and giving of their time and heart. 

Together, they guide me and remind me of what a real man is - something every woman deserves.

Jay

Jesse

With Love and Gratitude, MonkeyME

The Art of Romance

Falling in Love again

1949 Colliers Magazine Illustration by Fred Irvin

As a child I was captivated by the heartwarming tale of Disney's, Lady and the Tramp. As a young girl I was perplexed by the turbulent passion between a manipulative southern bell and a scandalous adventurer in, Gone with the Wind. As an adolescent I studied the complexities of Audrey Hepburn's sexually sophisticated yet sweetly vulnerable character Holly, in, Breakfast at Tiffany's. I cried for months after witnessing the tragic, untimely death of Jenny and the devotion of grief-stricken Oliver in, Love Story.

In my late teens, convinced romance existed beyond the big screen, I left my small town in search of my very own leading man after watching and singing my way through Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson's, A Star is Born. As an adult I fed my incurable need for romance by devouring such romantic classics as Bridges of Madison County, Far and Away, Hope Floats, The Notebook, Jerry Maguire, and On Golden Pound, to name a few.

But by far, The Pink Tutu is my favorite of all love stories. This real life love story highlights one mans simple quest to make his wife smile during her chemotherapy treatments. His artistic endeavors have ballooned into The Tutu Project, the fund raising efforts of The Carey Foundation for women with breast cancer. Bob Carey's self-portraits, adorned in a fluffy pink tutu and frolicking in settings that stretch across the United States and Europe, ignite laughter and hope.

thetutuproject.com

Bravo to leading men everywhere who love, comfort, support, embrace, and celebrate their heroines as they battle this relentless, senseless disease.

It is a love story I know I deserve, and I pray I will be given the time to find.

xo, MonkeyME

Character Development

It is day four of 90 Days To Your Novel, a day-by-day plan for outlining and writing a book (or in my case a memoir). It was a gift from my soul sister, Mairead. If nothing else, it's a welcome distraction from the relentless churn of the chemo train.

I tend to do better with goals if I tell people about them. So here I am, confessing my intentions. I've signed a contract with myself and my completion date is  PI  (3.14), March 14th. This is also my husbands birthday. So instead of mourning the birth anniversary of a lost love, I'll celebrate the volatile chapters of my glorious life.

Todays lesson focuses on character development. Several questions were asked so that the reader could gain a sense of who the main character is. Since this is ME, it shouldn't be too tricky.

What do you want most in life?  LOVE

What was the most important thing to have ever happened to you?  The loss of LOVE, or what I initially perceived as the loss of love - the death of my son.

What is your middle name?  Elizabeth

Where do you work?  At a company that my father built and has rewarded me with a great sense of pride and independence.

What is the favorite thing about yourself?  Knowing that on any given day, chances are good that I will make you laugh.

How do you drink your coffee?  Starbucks breakfast blend, french pressed with six pinches of cinnamon. In a hearty, two fisted mug, goes a teaspoon of raw sugar and 3/4's of a cup of warmed and frothed, 1% organic milk. It's more complicated than it needs to be and I enjoy the process.

What is your favorite holiday?  I am the costume queen, so it's Halloween.

What kind of music might you listen too?  Tonight, I am paralyzed by Caleb's vocals in Wait for Me.

I saw the surprise

The look in your eyes

I gave it up

Gonna be who I am

Be who I am

And give it up...

What is the color of your bedroom?  French Blue

What age was your first kiss and what was his name?  I was seven. I gave two boys, Michael Pope and Jimmy Griffith, the key to my bicycle lock and watched them race each other down the hallway, up the stairs, and out the door to the bike rack in the back corner of the school yard. The first one to reach my bike got to unlock it and walk me, and my bike, back home. This went on for several months. Midway through spring, I declared them both winners and rewarded them each with a kiss.

What are your favorite childhood memories?  Getting lost in my imagination...hiding in the barn behind my house, riding in the backseat of my father's car, fairy hunting, skiing solo.

What scares you the most?  I'm in the thick of it - pain and suffering. The lingering sting of a pain that drugs can't numb.

***

The barn behind my house is the perfect place to hide. Confined in cobwebs and creepy crawlers, no one dare go inside. Tucked low against a musty wooden post beam, I sit with my knees pinned tightly against my chest. A cracked, weather-beaten window covered in faded yellow newspaper and caked with dust, keeps most the sun out. The barn door is two-tiered just like the one in Mr. Ed, my favorite television show.

No one remembers animals ever living in the barn but I can smell them.  I’ve scrubbed the cool concrete floor with Mom’s minty green Palmolive soap - sprayed it with water from the garden hose and watched streams the dingy grey suds flow around the troths and disappear into the muddy base drains. I bet it's old horse poop I smell, maybe some from cows and chickens too.

Dad says he’ll buy me a pony, any pony I want. Mom says NO but Dad doesn’t know that yet. I want a black pony with a white diamond on his forehead. His fur will be shiny and his eyes will be sweet. I'll feed him carrots, hay, and alfalfa, and let him wash it down with gallons of sweet tea. He won’t scare me because we’ll both start out small. He’ll grow up strong and so will I.  

xo, MonkeyME

CRASH

I am stuck in the CRASH of chemo - when your body comes off the steroid high. The steroids they give you to counteract the side effects of a drug that is intended to save your life but could also kill you.

I don't know how people do chemo for life. That is what stage 4 cancer patients face. I am in round 3 out of 8, and I am miserable.

If this doesn't work, and the cancer comes back, I will let it be. I'd rather the cancer kill me than the chemo. I'm okay with surgery, cut it away if you can. Radiate it, if you can. It's not pretty but it's doable. But this, the chemo juggle, seems futile.

Tuesday, after much resistance, they placed the port in me - a catheter that shoots the chemo into a large vein directly above my heart. I followed that up with my third oxaliplatin infusion.

I cried for four hours straight the day they put the port in. I cried for the loneliness and ridiculousness of my illness. I cried for the suffering I endured as a result of 7 breast cancer surgeries - 1 to remove my breasts and 6 to reconstruct them.

But mainly, I cried for my deceived, betrayed, abandoned, badly wounded heart.

A dear friend recently wrote, "You miss him because you are remembering the good. Remember the bad."

Brilliant.

But for today, I am stuck in a Dave Matthews song - haunted by a cryptic sax, deafening drum and hypnotic strum, and crashing in waves of promises that no longer include me.

xo, MonkeyME

Fine Print

Fine print, small print, or "mouseprint" is less noticeable print. Smaller than the more obvious larger print, it accompanies, advertises or otherwise describes a commercial product, service, or state of mind.


My fine print is rather bold. It reads:

CANCER SUCKS.

Chemo, solo, sucks.

Chemo sucks.

Solo sucks.

That's my truth. That's why I haven't posted in weeks.

If I don't spin sunshine and honey out of this debauchery, my reality is difficult to digest. I am your worst nightmare.

Right now, most of what flows from my heart and my head is counterproductive.

Right now, I'm squatting in a vat of self-pity, self-loathing and self-punishment.

THIS POST CONTAINS HOLIDAY DISDAIN

I hate the holidays. Always have.

Under the best of circumstances, the pressure to be merry and grateful is exhausting.

I don't like to be told what to do, or how to act, so I resist shopping and forced expressions of gratitude.

DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT MOON WALKING OUT

They say you lose friends along the way. That your cancer beats them down. I certainly hope that's not true. I need everyone. Every single one of you.

MEN ARE NOT THE ANSWER

Because, in the past, men have been my drug of choice - I've elected to give them up for a period of one year.  It's harder than I thought. I'm counting down the days (307 remaining).

I need to learn how to love myself. And my love of self has nothing to do with how desirable and irresistible you, with penis, think I am.

Clearly, after 54 years and three failed marriages, I am a slow learner.

What angers me the most are the choices I made that brought me here. And the reality that most of my pain is self-inflicted.

I AM TIRED OF BEING STRONG

I adored my father.

"Don't look back," my father would say after each of my failed relationships.

And yet here I am, fixated on the rearview mirror.

LOOK ... that's ME ... back when I was healthy. Back when I thought my marriage was strong. Back when my smile said it all.

I don't know for certain who ME is anymore but I know that ME is not my cancer.

DO NOT DEFINE ME BY MY ILLNESS.

RESPECT MY STRUGGLE 

AND WHERE I LONG TO BE.

xo, MonkeyME

whoever that may be

For a complete list of my ridiculous cancer journey click HERE

Fairy Infusion

I have done many bold, adventurous things in my life. Some required courage, others resilience, and several were an exercise in reckless stupidity.

I climbed the Mayan Ruins, swam with sharks, ran five marathons, skydived, parasailed, hung upside-down on a flying trapeze, rode in an ultralight 12,000 feet above Burning Man, rode a flying pig at Burning Man, spun fire topless in a wind storm at Burning Man... 

          

The other weekend I chased what looked like a sniper in the back of a pick-up truck, down interstate 95 so that I could get a picture of him with the hopes of blogging about it.

 

Imagine if my cause of death ended up being ballistic head trauma due to a high velocity bullet from a masked madman's semi-automatic weapon and NOT cancer.

But hands down the most frightening, the most daring thing I've ever done is chemotherapy. I feared chemo more than cancer, more than surgery, more than death itself.

Two weeks ago, with my soul-savvy daughter by my side, I faced my deepest fear.

Initially, I was adamant about not doing the drug oxaliplatin because of its potential long term side effects but eventually long term side effects seemed a small price to pay for a 27% chance at a longer life.

Besides, if Luciano Pavarotti (pancreatic), Walt Disney (lung), Steve Jobs (pancreatic), and Bob Marley (malignant melanoma) couldn't beat cancer with their wealth, talent and tenacity, then I knew I had to be courageous and committed to finding my cure.

The side effects from the infusion were immediate, intense and intimidating. I developed chest pain and pressure thirty minutes in that required additional monitoring. I developed an extreme sensitivity to cool temperatures the minute I walked out of the hospital. I couldn't breath the brisk fall air without the sensation of slivered glass pureeing my throat. I couldn't touch anything cold, even with gloves on. I couldn't walk outdoors, even with winter boots on without pain, similar to an electric shock, shooting through my body.  My eyes hurt, especially when I cried and my jaw hurt when I chewed. I couldn't swallow anything unless it was heated. Even room temperature was agonizing. I developed extreme pain at the site of the infusion and my doctor worried the surrounding tissue might had been damaged.

Despite all this, I am okay. I am wiggling my way around the unpleasant side effects and I am learning how to ask for help.

When I worried I would not be able to care for my dogs, my neighbors came together and offered to walk them. When I broke down crying at the grocery store because I couldn't hold a quart of milk or a package of cheese, my neighbors, family and friends, pitched in and brought me food.

Because I recognize that my mind is powerful, daily affirmations and visualizations are some of my wellness tools. I have mentally replaced the "poison alert" label on my chemo drugs with a "fairy alert."

My infusions enlist the aid of hundreds of flittering fairies whimsically gliding through my bloodstream. Intoxicating, fierce fairies darting around platelets, capillaries and lymph nodes - detecting and destroying the genome instability of minuscule cells before they have a chance to feed and form tumors.

Slowly, I'm doing it. I'm learning how to cope with my diagnosis and my treatment. Fear still bubbles up but mostly it's about tomorrow so I'm focused on today.

Today I studied the dance of golden gingko leafs against a milky blue sky, and the call of a catbirds song at dawn. Today I cared less about what I looked like and more about discovering my life's true purpose. Today, while savoring my coffee, I got down on the floor and thanked Sasha, Lucy and Phoebe for their love and loyalty. One by one I stroked their fur, scratched their sweet spot and watched them eat their treats.

Today was a very good day.

For some it's diabetes, or auto immune disorders, or chronic pain, or heart disease. For me, it's cancer. But that's not an excuse to stop living. It's a reason to live larger.

xo, MonkeyME

Photo by Sarah Hickox taken at Burning Man 2006


For a complete list of my ridiculous cancer journey click HERE