One more last...

This morning, I took my last shower before I go to Texas.

I've had so many first and lasts in the past five years, but for some reason... the showers always seem to carry significant weight.

I vividly remember the last shower before my first surgery, running my hand across my swollen and extended belly, knowing it was the last time I'd ever touch my stomach without feeling a scar.

I'll never forget how hard it was to wash my hair for the last time, knowing that in mere hours it would be cut off and packaged to send to the wigmaker.

I will always remember the shock of hot water splashing against my head the first time I showered after my hair fell out. Hot water has never felt as awesome as it did in that first baldie shower.

Coming home from the hospital after every round of chemo, I was so weak that I could barely shuffle from the car to my apartment, but I would still somehow gather up the gumption to step into my tub and take a shower. Washing the smell of chemo off my skin was more important to me than sleep, and sleep was more precious than gold.

This morning, I stood in my shower, with my forehead against the wall. As tears rolled down my face and water rolled off my shoulders, I couldn't help but think, "One more 'last'."

Because, tomorrow, my life will change. Again.

I have a return flight booked for Saturday. Only time will tell if I'll be flying home, back to the comfort of my own shower, in six days... or if they'll keep me in Houston for surgery/treatment for a few weeks or months.

I'm not even gone yet, but I'm already homesick for my own home.

Going to Houston is hard. It's what I need to do, and I'm so grateful that I'm strong enough and in a position that I can go, but it's still hard. I'm taking my own soap with me, so I'll still smell like me. But I know that I won't 100% feel like me again until I am home, taking that first shower in my own bathroom, starting the next phase of my life.

It's time for a little sensory overload, kids...

Remember how I had said that I have a photographer friend who'd volunteered to do a photoshoot with the wig? Well... that happened and I got the CD with the pics back last night. I had asked her to shoot me both with and without the wig (because being bald is part of it). 

I'll run through some color pics with the wig first. (There are b&w versions of every color pic, but for the purpose of showing you the color and the high and lowlights of the wig, I'm only posting color versions of the wig wearing shots.)

And here are some of the baldies:

Pics were taken at Mesa Arts Center. Photo cred to Melodee Fiske @ MLFotography. She's awesome, super easy to work with and very affordable. If you live in (or visit) the greater Phoenix area and are looking for a photographer for a family photoshoot, I couldn't recommend anyone more strongly.

Dispelling Myths

Okay, so... I've been on the receiving end of some teary phone calls/texts/emails/visits in the last four or five days and while I'll be the first to admit that I am amazing, I don't think I'm amazing in the same ways that so many of my friends and family seem to think I am.

For example, I think I'm amazing because:

I can make cookies without a recipe. Actually, I can make a crap ton of things without a recipe, and without measuring the ingredients. I can go to a potluck and taste something and know what's in it and come home and replicate it. Almost every time. ... I think that's amazing.

I make friends everywhere I go. I have left restaurants - several times - with the contact info or schedule of a particular server, because they were so freaking awesome that we became friends in the course of a meal. Sitting by a stranger on an airplane is not a problem for me, because I've usually made that stranger into a friend by the time we hit 30,000 feet. I can talk to anyone, anywhere, about just about anything. ... I think that's amazing.

I can wiggle my ears, and I have a patented fish lips/eyelash batting combo that is guaranteed to make any child under the age of four laugh out loud. ... Again, amazing.

Like I said, I think I'm awesome. Amazing, even. But not in the same ways that I'm hearing other people say that I'm amazing. So, I'm here to set the record straight on a few matters.

Myth: I'm calm and/or at peace with what is happening in my body - to my life.

Myth Debunked: I am NOT, in fact, calm. Nor am I at peace. I am pretty pissed off about it, actually. Now, I may be able to talk about the facts of what is happening without bursting into tears, but that doesn't mean that I'm calm or okay with this on any level. I hate it. I hate the cancer, I hate what it's done (is doing) to my body. I hate that I have no control over the situation and am at the mercy of my insurance company and my doctors and God himself. I hate it. (And yeah, I know that my entire life is, and always has been, at the mercy of God. I know that. But listen, I'm still pretty mad at Him. And I think that's okay. He's a big boy, and He can handle it. And - hopefully - I won't be mad at Him forever.)

Myth: I always have such a positive attitude.

Myth Debunked: FALSE. (Don't believe me? Go ahead and scroll up and reread what I just wrote.) I do believe that we get to choose our perspective on things, that even when you're facing a formidable foe (cancer, anyone?) you get to choose your attitude and how you react to what is happening in your life. I believe that life is easier when hard things are handled with a sense humor, that a spoonful of sugar really does help the medicine go down. Do I make an effort to put a positive or humorous spin on my life in general, and specifically in how I share medical info? Absolutely. Because I think it's important not to get bogged down in what is hard, because letting yourself get sucked in by that will only make your journey harder. But it's not all sunshine and daisies over here. Not by a long shot.

The truth is, that little orphan Annie has me out-positived by about a hundred miles. Maybe because I'm a grown up and not a kid (also, not a fictional character), but I have a keen awareness that knowing that the sun's coming out tomorrow doesn't necessarily mean that it's going to be an easy, sunshiney, day. I am actually, against public opinion, a realist who's currently fighting a daily battle to remain optimistic.

Myth: I'm so brave.

Myth Debunked: I am scared out of my ever lovin' head! I mean it. About just about everything: treatment plans versus surgery, what either/both will mean to my quality of life in the future, traveling to Texas and maybe having to stay there for weeks while I undergo treatment, how much money this is going to cost, how long it's going to take to recover (from chemo, and from whatever comes next), how in the world I will ever get back up on my feet when this is all said and done, what the rest of my life will look like... what if it (whatever "it" ends up being) doesn't work?

I promise you, I don't feel brave at all. What I feel is fear, on a level that I have never felt fear before. Am I still going to walk into this with my eyes wide open? Yes, I am. But it's not because I am brave. ... It's because I don't have an option, other than to fight back.

Myth: I'm so strong.

Myth Debunked: What I am is stubborn. I was born with an iron will that has been both a blessing and a curse for my entire life. Sheer stubbornness has kept me smiling through multiple surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, more hard conversations with medical personnel than I would wish on my worst enemy, a handful of hard months, a few wicked weeks and some truly terrible days.

While I would never call myself weak (I am, after all, a shameless self promoter), I feel like it's important to say that I'm not as strong as my friends and family want to think I am. Nobody is. We all need each other. It's part of the plan that we rely on each other, so we can help each other grow. And I'm no exception.

So, now you know; I am not calm, I'm actually downright furious about the turn this tumor's taken, I'm not happy or positive all of the time. I don't feel brave, and while I'm not about to give up... I am super aware that both my body and my spirit are perilously close to breaking.

One of the hardest things for me to hear has been "You've got this". Because, here's the thing, kids. No, I don't. I am muddling through this, and I'm doing the best I can every day. I have hope that someone's going to know something that's going to turn this around, that there will be an option presented that I can wrap my mind around, be at peace with, and allow to shape my future. I will keep going and I will put one foot in front of the other, every day. But it's not because I've "got this", it's because I am dealing with this. One day, and often one hour, at a time.

And that's the truth.

Goals

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that I'm not a big fan of resolutions. (Okay, so I sort of HATE them. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that.) I don't go in for the whole New Year's Resolutions game. Those resolutions are too far out there, their end date is beyond my ability to see them coming. It feels totally useless to me to make changes in January that are going to get me to a certain point by November.

I know, I know. I'm not rational. But that's how I feel about resolutions. I hate them.

Now, goals? Goals, I can get behind.

But they have to be just for ME. Group goals are for the birds! (Says the girl who may or may not still be suffering from PTSD related to group project assignments in High School Biology.)

I set completely irrational goals: By Thursday this week, I will be FINE!

And I set slightly more achievable skills: On Wednesday, I will put on real clothes and take a walk around the pool.

The good news: I am totally fine with adjusting said goals when I can't meet the objective.

Because on Wednesday, all I could manage was getting dressed. That, alone, winded me.

Well, that and opening a week's worth of mail. It had been piling up on my kitchen table since I went into the hospital and since the only things I like to pile up on my kitchen table are hand-dipped chocolates and fresh-cut flowers, I had Judy bring me the mail and I sat in my chair and opened it. And I did fairly well. For about ten minutes. (Insert laugh snarky laugh here. You're not laughing at me, kids. You're laughing with me. ... This body is ridiculous, and I know it!)

By the time I got to the bottom of the mail, I had a runny nose (I'm sorry to say that it was the exertion of opening multiple envelopes/packages... I'm so lame). I went to bed last night, thinking my nose was still runny because of the dust I'd breathed in while I was opening care packages from around the world (I kid you not: people mail me stuff from around the world. I'm pretty much the luckiest girl ever, in that way.) I woke up this morning, with a sore throat, itchy ear, right nostril so swollen I can't breath out of it, and....

So much for being FINE by Thursday.

It appears that I made myself sick, opening the mail. They weren't kidding when they said my immune system would be tanked!

But I did feel better, nausea and anxiety-wise, which was most of my initial "I will be FINE on Thursday" manifesto.

So, "ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED" on that one. Sort of.

My new Thursday goals are: Shower (check) wash hair while you're in there (check) get dressed (check) send two semi-important emails (check on one, but not on the other... I'm just too tired to write well, and this one's going to be sharing a part of my soul, in hopes to get some help on the wig-maker front) oh, and see if you can't get outside and take a walk around the pool (the jury's still out, but it's only 4:00, so it's likely to happen)

Fun new things that my body did against my will today:

My skin is sloughing off. It's vile. As in, I got out of the shower, and my entire face was white and peeley. WHAT THE CRAP?! Two hours later, I walked past the bathroom mirror and I have acne the likes of which this face hasn't seen since 1987. I'm sure it's just toxins coming to the surface of my body, but still. Ewh. I can't even...

I can't bend over - to say, water a plant, or tie a shoe - without my heart racing. And then it takes an hour or so of sitting still for my heart to calm back down

My bones are starting to hurt. Not all of them, but some of them.

I can hardly wait to go back to MD Anderson on Monday for my lab work and walk my happy little self up to the triage center on the third floor and see what they have to say about these new developments in my life.

The good news:

Food is still delicious. I don't really get hungry anymore, but when food is presented to me, I love the crap out of it. Such a blessing!

I have been awake all day today. (Always a win!)

I still love sitting still. ... Gosh, I'm so grateful (ALL THE TIME) that I am not a person who gets bored. I love that I can live in my head for hours on end. Sitting still in the quiet never gets old, and I'm so incredibly grateful for that.

Check back tomorrow (if you dare) to see if

A) I'm even more of a leper
B) I decided to set Friday goals
C) My right nostril has completely caved in on itself and I'm now struggling to breath through half a mangled nose

2nd Morning

First things first... I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT! (Except the 3-4 times the nurses had to wake me. But still, steady sleep.) I woke up at 8, reached for my phone, and... realized I had little control over my shaky little fingers. (You wouldn't believe the amount of time it's takenme to get this much out.) My verbal skills are also compromised.

Could be an early side effect of the chemo (neurological side effects are possible), could be a high dose of the steroids they're giving me to help with the infection of the lining od my bladder, which is another awesome side effect.

the upside of whatever this is... I'm tired enough to sleep. So; i'm gonna go domemoe of that.

The chemo trio

As we close in on go-day, I decided it's time to disclose the name(s) of the chemo(s) I'll have streaming through my body in two very short days...

Obviously, this isn't everything there is to know. But it's the high (and the low) lites.

Enjoy the crap out of this list of good times...

Doxorubicin

Side Effects

Orange/red/pink urine (ooh-la-la)

Mouth sores

Decreased heart function

Fingernail and/or toenail changes

Decreased liver function

Fever or chills

Abdominal cramping

Ifosfamide

Side Effects

Kidney problems (including an awesome bladder infection that will cause bleeding when urinating, "this can occur soon after medication administration or weeks later"... note that this bladder infection is separate from the orange/red/pink urine caused by the D drug)

Neurological effects ("generally goes away after a week or two" ... oh, goodie... just in time to start another round in week three)

Heart complications ("usually reversible")

Sterility 

Electrolyte abnormalities ("symptoms may include: fatigue, muscle weakness, numbness/tingling, muscle pain, nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, shortness of breath, confusion or irritability"

Mesna

Side Effects

Joint or muscle aches/fatigues

Headache

Allergic reaction (this is one of my favorites, "Go to the emergency room if you have any of the following symptoms: swelling of the face, mouth, tongue, dizziness or disorientation, irregular heartbeat, sudden shortness of breath, chest or throat tightness"

And then, there are the side effects that are the same, across the board and for every blessed chemo they'll be shooting me up with:

Low blood cell counts

* Risk of developing an infection may increase

* May feel more tired

* May bruise or bleed more easily, blood unable to clot

Nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite

Diarrhea

Hair loss

Which brings me to... 

I've had a few people ask why, exactly, I'll be camping out at the hospital for days on end when I have a treatment. Well, I'll tell ya... it's that damn Ifosfamide and its effect on ye olde kidney.

Since I lost my left kidney to Tumor #4 back in 2012, this part of the blend is my particular danger zone. The literature shows that the administration of this drug is typically pushed in a 3-24 hour infusion. ... Dr. H has decided he'll start my infusion with a 72 hour spread. The thought process is that by spreading that dose out over several days, my lone kidney should be able to eek its way through the experience. They'll take my blood and test my kidney function morning, noon, and night to make sure we're not killing my kidney as we try to save my life... but the long and short of it is that it's that particular side effect of that oh-so-special-in-so-very-many-ways chemo that's made the decision that my infusions will all be inpatient. 

I've been told to expect to be in hospital for 3-5 days, every treatment. (And, knowing my body like I do... I'm expecting it to be around the 5 day mark. Every blessed time I've ever been admitted, something "interesting" has come up that pushes for an extra two or three (or seven) days in the big house.)

So, there ya have it. Some info on the chemos. It's pretty grotesque, right?

I know there are all kinds of medications to combat as many of the side effects as they can. I'm not sure yet what kind of cocktail I'll be given, but I do know that H is pretty big on pain control and have every confidence in the world that he'll make this as easy for me as he possibly can.

Like or not, I'm about to come up against a "Drink Me" bottle. And while I happen to know that the stuff inside said metaphorical bottle is, in fact, poison... I also have hope that it will take out those cursed cancer cells at the same time it kills my hair follicles and wrecks my fingernails.

Gulp, gulp, gulp!

The 7 Day Countdown

I've been fielding texts this week from a few of you, asking the following questions... so I thought I'd do a shout out and answer them all, just in case anyone was wondering but didn't have my cell to contact me personally.

1. When do I start chemo?

Good question. ... I don't have an answer yet. I'll need to have my next scan first. Then, depending on what's going on in there, I'll either get a start date or another 6 week bye.

2. When IS my next scan, anyway?

Seven days. One week. Next Thursday. (Gulp.) And, as always, I'll get the results the following afternoon.

So, what I'm saying is... give me a week and I'll have a more definitive answer to the first question.

3. How am I feeling these days?

Listen, I'm not gonna lie to you.

I'm feeling... not awesome.

I mean, I've felt worse.

But I've also felt better.

I've had shooting pain off and on for a few weeks, but it got a little more insistent the week of Christmas. The 29th was the first day that I felt like there may be a shiv twisting its way through my left ovary. (The pain hit around 2:00 in the afternoon, and at 3:00, I had a coworker turn and look at me and say, "It must be bad... because I can SEE the pain in your eyes." ... Awesome.)

For those of you (I'm talking to you, Judy) who may not watch enough television to know what a shiv is, I've included the following:

Urban Dictionary: SHIV

www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=SHIV

Urban Dictionary

A shiv is a weapon made out of an commonplace object often in prison, also perhaps the origin of which is as a acronym a Self Honed Implement of Violence (SHIV). 

(You know me. Always looking for a way to increase the vocab...)

Thankfully, the shiv effect hasn't been constant. (It's been more of a day-on-day-off thing.) But there's something going on in there. And it hurts like the devil.

Give me a week and I'll know if it's a displaced organ (anything is possible with this body!), a growing tumor (or two), new hernias (always a possibility), or something else altogether. 

Meanwhile, I'm drinking all the diet soda I can (listen... I already have the cancer, what's aspartame gonna do to me at this point?!) and enjoying the crap out of all the delicious food I can eat. 

I'm hanging in there. Getting as much done as I possibly can. (That's right. I've done four loads of laundry this week. Also, I vacuumed.)

Speaking of, here's a fun little true story from my real life: I had a friend come over tonight to help me deal with the TV situation in my bedroom. Before I'd even had time to process the thought, it came flying right out of my mouth, "Ya know how pregnant women start nesting before the baby comes? ... It seems that cancer patients are hardcore nesters when they know chemo's coming. I've got to get this place set up!" Bless his heart, because dude didn't miss a beat. Just nodded, and then stayed long enough to make sure everything was fully functional. (Which may or may not have included taking apart the remote and flipping the batteries so they were right-way-up. ... I'd put them in upside down. Because I am adorable like that and all kinds of challenged when it comes to electronic devices.)

My body is a little broken, but life is good. 

I am SO looking forward to my dinner plans tomorrow night with a friend from home and her husband who is also fighting the big C. Aaaaaaand my sweet friend Genevra Lynn is coming into town and will spend the weekend with me.

The pain isn't constant... and the source of it is still unknown. It'll either sort itself out (displaced organs usually do) or it'll need medical intervention (tumors and/or hernias... story of my life). We'll see. Time will tell.

And as soon as I have answers to any/all of the three questions above, I'll fill ya'll in. In the meanwhile, know that I love you about 10,247 times more than I love my guts. (Which is to say: a lot.) 

What I learned in school

This month marks 22 years since I graduated from high school. ... The mind reels, doesn't it? Where does the time go?

Anyhoo... I was thinking the other day about all the stuff I learned in school. There was some pretty great stuff taught in the Snowflake Unified School District back in the 80's and 90's. Please allow me to tell you all about it. (K-8, anyway.)

Kindergarten: I learned that leprechauns are real.

1st Grade: I learned not to tell my mom I had friends who were boys.

2nd Grade: I learned that if I used my fingernails to push the straight pins into the bulletin board, it didn't hurt nearly as badly as when I used the pad of my index finger.

3rd Grade: I learned that North is RIGHT IN FRONT of me.

4th Grade: I learned that the correct pronunciation is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, with a hard CH.

5th Grade: I learned that when you blow on rabbit fur, the fur spreads out in a perfect circle and you can see the rabbit's actual skin.

6th Grade: I learned that I was tall.

7th Grade: I learned not to shave my arms.

8th Grade: I learned that menstrual cycles don't usually go on for 3 or more weeks.

Ahhh... You just can't beat a public school education!

Marching through time

Please forgive the title. It is a TERRIBLE pun. (My dad would be so proud.)

This morning, I thought it would be fun to go back through this week/weekend in the last five years. (This is one of the joys of having kept this blog since 2008. When my aged mind can't remember something clearly, all I have to do is go back through ye olde blog and BAM! There it is. ... Assuming the thing I'm looking for is a piece of ridiculousness that would have been chronicled here.)

Anyhoo... Like I said, I thought it would be fun to go back through this week and see what I was doing, when.

And I was right. It WAS fun.

So, I'm going to make it easy for you to do it, too.

March 2009: In which I write about how grateful I was for the "opportunity" to make significantly less money than I had in previous years. ... No, but really. I really was so grateful. I still am, actually.

I am SO grateful for the way my professional life took a turn in 2008. When the bank closed, I needed a job. Any job. Soon. And I found one. (Who's unemployed for less than two weeks? ... Only me. ... I'm still amazed at how quickly and effortlessly that job landed in my lap.) It was my original intention to go back into banking as soon as I could get something permanent. I thought about working for the FDIC, and even interviewed to work on a team that would have been traveling around the country. )How awesome would that have been?!) But something kept me at a call center.

Hello, that "something" would be the Lord. That company had the best corporate benefit package I've ever seen. Their insurance was FABULOUS. I paid $500 out of pocket the year I had my first surgery. That was my surgery, the week in the hospital, 6 weeks of radiation, and countless surgical followups. Seriously. $500. ... I may have been bringing home less, but what I saved in spending on medical costs made up for it.

And my work schedule was such a blessing, too. The first two years I was there, I worked a 3x12 schedule. That's right. I worked 12 hour shifts, 3 days a week. As in, I had a 4 day weekend. Every week. Which gave me time with friends and family that I wouldn't have had otherwise. I was able to spend time with the people that I love the most, and I treasure memories made during those years.

That job was such a blessing. I mean, really.

March 2010: In which I write about having spent the night before at Myra's, watching TV and eating cupcakes.

Ahhhh... Those TV-watching nights at My's house were good times. As I recall, that was the spring that Ken was traveling internationally, so Myra and I would gather for snacks and television with our (okay, my) TV boyfriends (Castle, Dr. Jack and Sayid). Riley was a baby, and she'd stay up late with us, laughing and being silly.

Those were the days of the book club that is no more, the Halloween parties in the Johnsons' backyard, late night conversations about oh... everything we could think of, and weekly recipe shares.

March 2011: In which I write about having gone wig shopping with Cousin Julie, and post pics of myself as a platinum blond.

It was the weekend before #2 came out, and Julie had made her (sometimes) annual pilgrimage to Arizona to enjoy the warm winter weather and some quality cousin bonding time with her cousin who had cancer.

We laughed and we cried, ate too much and slept too little, partied with friends and spent down time by the pool that weekend. And we went wig shopping, because Dr. W had told me there was a real chance I'd have to do chemo after the second surgery and I wanted to make DANG SURE I knew what I wanted, so I could send someone else to the store to pick me up some hair if that was the case.

The Genova Girl is still my favorite, btw. Just in case anyone ever needs to know...

March 2012: In which I write about March of 2011, suppository and all.

True story.

(The post right before this was Jo's birthday surprise of going to see Straight No Chaser - who I love. But this post made me feel more, so this is the link I'm sharing. If you'd rather read about good times than hard times, please feel free to pull up March 22, 2012.)

It's funny to me, how well I still remember that day in the hospital. Out of all the surgeries and hospital stays I've had, that day was probably my hardest day. (That I remember, anyway. Rumor has it that the first day after my last surgery was a DOOZY. Hallucinations and all manner of crazy. ... Poor Judy.) Having just read that post, I'm struck that I didn't think to mention that pretty much every vein in my right arm had been blown, so one of the techs had to bring in an ultrasound machine to find a vein for my IV.

That's right. They had to do an ultrasound to find a good vein. ... No wonder I get a lot of grief from phlebotomists - even now - over the scar tissue in my right arm.

Anyway, that day was hard. So hard, that a year later I was writing a blog post about it. (And three years later, am again referencing it.) But what I learned in that hard day is that the people in my life matter more than the stuff in my life. Even when the stuff is really hard stuff.

That day was hard. It was hard from the get go. That shower was brutal - for so many reasons. The suppository experience was NOT AWESOME. Popping yet another IV wasn't super fun. (I had so many IV's pop in that hospital stay, though, that it wasn't surprising. I swear to you, I looked like I had track marks when I was released.) ... But the thing that made me cry - nay, sob - was knowing that I had a friend in a different hospital, for a very different reason. And the thing that brought me comfort was that Jo and Roomie came - and didn't leave, even though it was ugly.

People matter. A lot. More than anything else. ... And I'm so grateful for the people in my life.

March 2013: In which I write about singing/crying through a hymn in church.

We sang The Lord is My Shepherd last Sunday, and I actually made it through the entire song without dissolving into a puddle of tears. ... I was pretty proud of me. (There's a first for everything, right?)

Which brings us to this week in March, 2014: I had some sleepovers with Jo's kids so she and Dean could go to Denver for her nephew's wedding.

Here are the takeaways from having spent two nights and two days with five children and one puppy:

Watch where you step. Puppy poop is much harder to clean up if you step in it (barefoot) and then track it through the entire family room.

Make sure the six year old is wearing shoes before you let her get in the car to go to the park, esp if you know you're going to have to park across the street and walk half a block before you get to said park.

While you're making sure the six year old is wearing shoes, maybe check the three year old for pants. Otherwise, you're going to have both a shoe-less wonder and a kid wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties out in public.

Don't buy the little kids Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers at Wendy's. Kids are gross and actually like the cheapie burgers at McD's. Save money. And, more importantly, save the bacon for people who'll actually appreciate it.

When having a Frozen party with multiple females under the age of 10, make sure you bring your own stash of bobby pins. Doing "princess hair" is a must, and sock buns and ponies need a little bit of help to stay fancy while girls are jumping around, singing "Let it Go" at the top of their lungs, waving their arms about like THEY have actual powers and can command the winds and sky.

No, but really... it was a great weekend. I am exhausted, and my body and my spirit are at war (walking around a park, pushing kids on swings and pulling a crying three year old off a stack of rocks - all sans binder - did me in), but it was a great weekend. The older kids are getting to be so much fun. (We stayed up late, watching PG 13 movies after the little girls went to bed.) And the little girls are adorable, even if they are exhausting.

Five years. (Actually, the blog has been going for almost six years. So, please allow me to rephrase.)

Five months of March.

All awesome. ... For different reasons. But awesome, nonetheless.

There have been hard times, fun times and silly times. But they've all be good times.

What was amazing to me, as I walked through the posts in the last five Marches, is that the overriding theme is that of gratitude. Gratitude for the people in my life, for the time I have had with them, for the memories I have been able to make with them.

Life is good. I am blessed.

What you (may have) missed...

Guess who's back? ... Me.

My computer has been down for, like, a month. (As in, LITERALLY a month. Check the last post date.) I'd been thinking it had something to do with my computer itself, but my bro Spencer was over this morning to put my new TV together for me (because I'm am beyond helpless when it comes to these things) and... it seems a cord had fallen out of one of those little boxes that live under my tv. It may be the router. ... I honestly don't know what those boxes are called. I just know they have blinking lights and my internet connection depends on them. ... Anyway, Spence plugged the cord back in and voila! Ye olde laptop is working again!

So, during the month of January... this is what you missed:

My friend Cindy bought me a TV. 

You heard me. MY FRIEND BOUGHT ME A TV. 

Her reasoning was that she reads my blog and she'd seen pics of the old box TV in my living room, so she knew I "needed" a flat screen. Hello! Who buys someone a flat screen television?! ... My friend Cindy, that's who. I'm still blown away by her thoughtfulness and generosity. Even now, as I sit here, watching last night's episode of Blue Bloods, I am amazed that this clarity and PRACTICALLY LIFE-SIZED VIEW OF TOM SELLECK was a gift from my dear friend. ... I may not have actually needed a new TV, but I sure am enjoying it!

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I took a little Sunday drive to Thatcher MLK weekend to do a youth fireside in my friend Evvie's ward. (I do not recommend the drive. It was like going to Holbrook and back. Six times in a row. Ugh. ... But I did have a great time, once I got there. I would recommend going to her ward, and visiting with the youth in her area. They were fabulous!)

After the fireside, Evvie gifted me with a beautiful pink box... 

...full of EVERYTHING I LOVE!

Hello! Best (okay, only) "Thank You" gift. Of. My. Life.

I feel like there are two important take-ways in this little tale:

1) Because I am addicted to public speaking, I'll go anywhere I'm invited to go. Seriously. Anywhere. Anytime. And I'll talk about anything that any of you would/could ask me to. I love that stuff!

2) And, speaking of stuff that I love... I'd like it (who's kidding who? ... I'd LOVE it) if I could get a box of salt water taffy and other assorted candy as a Thank You every time I speak somewhere.

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I pooped my pants.

Yeah, you read that right. I pooped my pants. Sort of a lot. (Five times in four days.) But the first time was the best/worst.

I don't want to be too graphic, so I won't give you ALL the details, but I will tell you that I was standing in WalMart when it happened. True story. (Because if you're going to have that kind of an accident in public, is there a better/worse place for it to happen than in the bread aisle at your local WalMart? ... I think not.)

And I'll also tell you that you don't EVER want to have that kind of thing happen when you're wearing Spanx - because all that lycra just makes everything spread. Everywhere. ... Suffice it to say that there was a grown-up blow-out situation and I came home and threw one of my beloved 62 pairs of panties straight into the trash. That's one day sooner that I'll have to do laundry next month, and I'm all kinds of upset about it.

Henry and I are, once again, friends off. (I hold him entirely responsible for all the weird poop issues of January, 2014.)

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I went to Utah, so I could say my final goodbye to this great man:

It's still just... well, surreal.

I'm so glad that I was able to go back for Mark's services. I'd been able to spend a few days in Utah just before Christmas, and I'll always be grateful that I was blessed to be there when Mark was still home, so I could spend time with Mark and Rachel and the kids (and other varied and assorted relations) at the Provo house.

Mark was so very much more to me than my cousin's husband. He was my friend. I'm so grateful for my association with him, for the many conversations we were able to have over the years. I'm grateful for his impact on my life, for his kind and patient nature. It was great to be able to be in Utah last week, to get a glimpse of how many lives he had touched. He'll be missed. ... So much. ... By so many.

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I laughed my guts out.

Literally.

I only wish I was kidding. 

Here's what happened... Christian and I went to Jesterz last night (you know I love that place, right?!), and I laughed so hard that I think Henry grew another inch.

For real.

There was this one game, where one of the actors was pretending to be a cat. ... Man alive, I laughed so hard that I had to fold my arms over my stomach and push in, so I could get Henry back inside of my body where he belongs.

After the show, we were talking in the parking lot when I realized that I was having an altogether unholy kind of abdominal pain. ... So we got into Christian's car and she drove to the other side of the parking lot so we could get a hot chocolate. (Because nothing soothes an achey stomach like hot chocolate. JUST KIDDING. ... It was cold. Which is all the excuse I need for a cup of steaming cocoa with a thick layer of whipped cream on top.)

And to top it all off... When  I got into bed last night, I couldn't lie on my side, because the gravity pulling Henry down to the mattress hurt so bad that it made me want to cry. (I mean, it also made me want to laugh. Because it was laughing that got me into this mess. But whatever.)

This stupid hernia is going to be the death of me.

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I got pulled over for drunk driving.

True story.

Last night, on the way home from the comedy show, I got pulled over. For DRUNK DRIVING.

It seems that I made a wide turn as I exited the freeway last night. A kind motorcycle cop saw me swerve into the bike lane for a half a second (in my defense, it was 11:00 PM and there were absolutely no bikes on the road at the time, so I wasn't paying as much attention to the bike lane as I would during... you know... "bike hours"), so he followed me almost all the way home.

When he walked up to my window, he asked (like they always do) if I knew why he had pulled me over. And I (like I always do), said "No". ... And that's when he told me about the wide turn/erratic driving.

I gave him the license, actually saying the words, "I swear to you, all I've been drinking is hot chocolate!", and asked if he needed to see my insurance and registration.

I'm not sure if it was that my eyes were clear, that my diction was excellent, that I had a hot chocolate cup sitting right there in my driver's side cup holder, or what... but he smiled at me, and said "No, that's not necessary. I'll just take you at your word." ... And then he gave me a little police escort home and then went on his merry way.

Phew! ... Because having to take a breathalizer when, seriously, all you've had to drink is a hot chocolate would have been kind of silly.

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And that's the month of January in a nutshell, kids.

You didn't miss much. ... I'm hoping February will be more fun and less poopy. (And I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense of the word.)

I actually wrote a talk!

Sort of. (Not really.)

I can't remember if I talked about this on ye olde blog. ... I know I did on the facebook, but I can't remember if I ever mentioned it here. (Don't ever get old. Or, if you do, don't lose your memory like I have. It's not fun.) ... Anyway, I was asked to speak at the Single Adult 3rd Sunday fireside this month. (We all know that I am a public speaking junkie. We also know that I will NEVER pass up an opportunity to speak to a group of single adults, because I am what we in the industry like to call a "shameless self promoter". I will get the attention of a tall man just about any way I can, and if that means I need to get up and talk about my history with the cancer, then... so be it.) I had been asked to share some of my experience with the cancer, and speak with an overall theme of gratitude.

Check and check. Those are, pretty much, my favorite things to talk about. E-ver.

And I did something totally out of character and I wrote a talk. (Not really. More like, I made a list. Or, rather, a series of lists. We all know that I love to make lists!) First I gave some details with the initial diagnosis and the history of the surgeries... and then, in the last 15 minutes or so, I shared the following:

What I've lost:

- A kidney, my spleen, a foot of my colon and 5 cm of my diaphragm.

- My immune system.

- A ton of weight. (Most of which I've gained back, but whatever. I lost it at one point, so I'm counting it here.)

- The ability to digest bell peppers, onions, garlic and spaghetti sauce.

- The will to hold a grudge, and/or the desire throw a fit when things don't go the way I wanted them to.

What I've learned:

- Where the retroperitoneum is AND how to spell it.

- That having your spleen removed is a splenectomy, but having a kidney removed is a nephrectomy. (I'm not sure why this is. Neither Merriam-Webster nor Dictionary.com can give me a satisfactory answer as to the etymology of the word "nephrectomy". Apparently, it started showing up in medical journals between 1875-1880, with no notes as to the actual origin of the word. ... Argh.)

- All manner of information on stool softeners and laxatives: which brands work best, and how often to take them (and in what combinations) to offset the effects of narcotics.

- How to walk again. Three times.

- That more people remember me, love me, and are genuinely interested in my life than I ever could have imagined.

What I know:

- The Lord has a plan, for all of us. He has a great, wide, plan for all of His children, sure. But He also knows us as individuals, and has a specific plan that was custom-made for each one of us, to get us where He wants us to be.

- Me getting cancer, three times, was part of the plan. I know this, because with each successive diagnosis, I was changed. There were things I learned the first time around that blew my freaking mind: not the least of which is I learned what my body could go through, and still come out okay. (Not awesome, but okay.) With my second tumor, I gained a whole new appreciation for the blessings of the priesthood my life. That second round clarified how important the gospel is to me, how important family relationships and friendship really are, and it helped me learn not to take my life - or anyone in it - for granted.  And the third time around... well, there aren't words (and there isn't time) to go into everything I learned that time, so I'll narrow it down to my three biggest lessons learned in the calendar year of 2012: Love is the most powerful force on earth, prayer is real, and miracles happen.

- I know the Lord loves me. I know that He is aware of what happens in my life. I know that, even when (especially when) things are really hard, He takes care of me. I know that He has placed people in my sphere who bless and enrich my life in ways that I cannot begin to number.

- Again, I know the Lord has a plan. For each of us, He has a plan. And the cancer was part of His plan for my life. I know that. I know it as sure as I know that 1/3 of the hairs on my head are grey because of said cancer. Why I had to get sick, I may never know, but what I do know is that I would never give it back. The sleepless nights, the fear, the anxiety, the pain that I cannot begin to describe, the nerve damage and the scar tissue and the knowledge that I'll have scans for the rest of my life... I wouldn't give any of that back, because while cancer was really (REALLY) hard, it was also incredibly awesome, because it taught me about faith and life and love.

- And the most incredible thing about knowing that the Lord knows me, loves me, and has a plan for me is knowing that He also knows, loves, and has a plan for every other single person on the planet.

I testify that there is a plan, even a plan of happiness. Men are that they might have joy. Even in the midst of our trials - in the middle of the deep, dark night - the Lord knows who we are and He knows what we need. It is my belief that He wants us to be happy, to find the joy in the every day, and to celebrate every good thing in our lives.

* Yup, I talked about poop. From the pulpit. I even said the word "poop". Because it's Whitney's birthday - and because I could. (How often does an opportunity to say the phrase "poop from the pulpit" come up? I mean... I had to snatch that one right up.)

* I had no less than three people (a biology teacher, a doctor AND some sweet soul with an iPad) inform me that the word nephrectomy comes from nephrons. Apparently, that's what kidneys are made of. ... Or something like that. (I stop listening as soon as medical talk gets too graphic. Don't judge. It's a coping mechanism.)

* I had several people come up and tell me that they hadn't planned on coming, but felt like they needed to... and they were so glad they did, because that talk was for them: a cancer patient (breast cancer) and a man who's getting ready to undergo his fourth abdominal surgery in less than a year among them. That is literally what I prayed for, people - that I would say would people would need to hear. (Oh, and that I'd be funny and they would laugh. Because I so didn't want to be a boring fireside speaker. ... It happens. Sort of a lot.)

Man alive, I enjoy public speaking. But beyond the act of standing in front of a room full of people and knowing that I can make them laugh and/or cry, I love the personal connection that comes of knowing that people really heard what you had to say. I love people. I love them SO much! I'm so-so-so grateful for my life, for all of the blessings and all of the awesomeness that I enjoy on a daily basis. And tonight, I'm grateful that I had an opportunity to talk about so many of the things I am grateful for. ... If I could find a way to do this for a living, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I really would. But for now, I'll just go to bed happy that I was able to speak tonight, because I really do love it - so much.

My friend Henry

Kids, I have a new friend. His name is Henry.

Henry is a hernia. And, frankly, is more of a frenemy than a friend. ... But I can't shake him, so I determined to make friends with him (as much as one can make friends with a hernia). To that end, I have given him a name and I'm making an effort to be better behaved, as I've learned that when I am good to Henry, he is better to me. (Read: No more even TRYING to lift anything even REMOTELY heavy. Also, no more going on 2 mile walks. While I did prove to myself that I can walk more than a mile, I also learned that my guts hate me when I make myself stand and be mobile for an hour. ... Yes, it takes me an hour to walk two miles. Don't judge.)

I've had a gut feeling (pun intended) that Henry was coming since mid-June, but he didn't really pop out and make himself known until September.

Over the summer, I'd occasionally have the sensation that my guts were trying to push out through my bellybutton. That was awesome.

Come the first week of September, the pain changed (read: became more constant) and I noticed that, when I had my hand over my belly button, I could feel my stomach gurgling. (That actually WAS awesome. In a creepy sort of way.) Oh, and the area formerly known as my bellybutton started changing. Fast.

On the first Saturday of October, I sat down on my couch and put my hand over my bellybutton and realized... I felt something. Something more than bubbles popping. I felt something hard. Not tumor hard, mind you. More like something-has-broken-loose-inside-my-body hard. So I promptly walked into my bathroom and took a picture. Because I like to document things. And also because I wanted to make sure it really DID look like a hernia from the other side of the camera.

And the verdict was... Yes. Yes, it did.

I apologize to all those readers with weak stomachs and will warn those who have NO DESIRE to see my grody, bumpy, lumpy, scarred and grossly mis-shapen belly (Aunt Cindy, I'm talking to you) that you may want to scroll down quickly so you'll miss the carnage that is up close and  personal pics of my body.

I give you: my bellybutton in October:

And then I turned the camera, so I could get a shot of the bulbous lump at the bottom:

Yeesh.

No wonder I felt bruised and battered. I WAS! ... From the inside out. Awesome. (By which I mean: Not actually awesome.)

Less than a week after these pics were taken, I started coughing. Hard. I started coughing hard. ... At first, I thought it was allergies. But then I left the great state of Arizona and headed to California for a baking retreat - and I took my cough with me. And then I brought it home, and continued to cough in Arizona.

The cough? It has not helped my relationship with Henry. ... For a week there, I thought it might have been helping. The bulbousness was spreading out, and I was thinking that all that accidental exercise was strengthening my stomach muscles and all would be well in the world. ... And then I realized that my abdominal pain was changing. It was becoming stronger and more constant, and I was having to sneeze and/or cough with one hand over my mouth/nose, and the other pressing down on my bellybutton (such as it is), to the extent that, if I only had one hand available, I needed that hand for my stomach. I can't blow my nose without pushing in on my bellybutton, and it's getting harder to stand up and roll over.

Shoot. Me. Now.

It's been four weeks, and I've been fighting different versions of that same cold the whole time, so I went to the doctor on Friday. (My family medicine doc, not my beloved Dr. H.) I came home with a fist full of new prescriptions, as well as the assurance that this is, indeed, a hernia.

I have an order to have an abdominal ultrasound (that'll be fun - since we all know that I have a weak bladder in the best of circumstances, and having someone push a rolly ball around on your stomach when you're full of water is the opposite of "the best of circumstances"). Her thoughts are that the reason my stomach has changed is that the coughing has enlarged the hernia, and I'll need surgery. Again.

Here's a more recent shot (again, Syd,  look away):

Oh, and look! You can see one of the tats in this pic. You lucky dogs...

You can't really see the difference between shot 1 and shot 2, but trust me... it's there. The bump is both bigger and flatter at the same time. I don't often have the bruised feeling that I did last month. The bruised sensation has been replaced by an ache that's sometimes accompanied by stabbing pain. I'm torn as to which pain was easier. It's sort of a toss up.

What I've learned from Henry is that life is easier when I'm easier on my body. Sooooo... so much for the plans I had to walk a mile for every episode of new fall tv I was allowed to watch. My couch, my books, Netflix, Hulu and I are fast friends again.

It's a good thing I actually enjoy staying home in a reclined position. So many people I know would be bored out of their minds. I'm lucky that I was blessed with the ability to sit still and enjoy it. Seriously. Lucky.

Kindred Spirits

As many of you know, I am a lover of the written word. I mean, Lover with a capital L. ... One might even go so far as to say, LOVER in all-caps.

I heart words.

I love to write. I love to read. (I've been known to read the dictionary. ... Not kidding. Literally, pick up the dictionary and read a page, just to learn new words. Dictionary.com is one of my favorite sites, because they give sample sentences and etymology for everything.)

I'll read just about anything, but my very favorite genre is (are?) memoirs.

I enjoy both fiction and non-fiction alike. A well-told story is a thing a beauty to me. ... But a memoir? Oh, be still my beating heart! There is NOTHING that I love like the way I love hearing a person's story as told in their own words.

Right now, I am reading - and loving - My Life in France, by Julia Child (with Alex Prud'homme).

I feel it important to note that this book was gifted to me by the lovely Kathy U, the only woman I know who might love food more than I do. That she would send me Julia Child's memoir is so fitting, I have no words. I love Kathy. I love Julia. I love butter - and so do they.

From page 136:

"We experimented with recipes, tools, and ingredients, and made several useful discoveries. In working on piecrusts, for instance, we had tested French versus American ingredients. To our horror, we discovered that French flour has more body than its U.S counterpart, and that the French needed a third less fat to make a nice crumbly crust. Why was this? I wanted to know. We supposed that, in order for U.S. flour to last forever on supermarket shelves, it must have been subjected to chemical processes that removes its fats. The French flour, in contrast, was left is its natural state, although it would go "off" more quickly and become maggoty. In order to make our French recipe work for an American audience, we tested different proportions of flour-to-butter, flour-to-margarine (a substance I abhorred and referred to as "that other spread") and flour-to-Crisco; then we tasted the crusts hot and cold. Based on our experiments, we adjusted our ratios. It was labor-intensive, but a thoroughly satisfying learning process."

Ahhhh... Julia did science experiments with food and abhorred margarine. We're basically twin souls.

I have thoroughly enjoyed this book. Julia Child had an incredible memory for detail, and tells a lovely, lilting story of her life with Paul.

I feel compelled now, more than ever, to buy The Book (her name for the cookbook). ... But first, I must get back to reading. I'm about 50 pages from the end, and I have a good half hour to kill before I must leave the house and be about my daily business.

Bon Appetit!

State of the Union Report

I've had a few calls and texts in the last week or so, asking how I'm feeling these days. (It seems that my not constantly barraging you all with news of what I can/cannot eat and/or telling you stories about how I'm down to only having to hold one side of the railing as I go up and down the stairs has led you to wonder if I'm doing better... or if I'm just too tired to be writing these days.)

The good news: I am, in fact, feeling much better. I have more energy and stamina than I've had in... well... a couple years, actually. (I remember feeling like this in December of 2010.)

The bad news: Having more energy and stamina has led to me over committing myself. I've been keeping myself busier than I have in months, which is wearing me out. (Much like what happened in December of 2010, I keep booking myself to do dinner or a movie after work. And then the next day I do it again. And then the next day I do it again. ... And then the next day, my right ear starts to hurt, my tonsils swell up and my body lands me flat in bed and I sleep for a straight 10 hours. It's a vicious cycle - but it sure is a lot of fun on the "up" days!)

Mid-March, I started to notice that my energy level was coming up. Smack in the middle of the third week of March that I realized that I didn't need to lie down right when I got home from work. Since then, I've made dinner (actual dinner - not just noodles) at least ten times. And I've vacuumed my apartment. Once. (HA!) My energy level hasn't gone up since March - but it has held steady, which is saying something. (Other than when I push too hard, too fast, for too many days. But that's my own fault - and the perk of the cycle is that I can justify naps like nobody else I know!)

While I still don't have the upper body strength to open a door with the same arm that's holding a bag full of groceries, my core strength is improving. I can tell because (drumroll please...), in the last week I've started rolling over in my sleep. That's right. I've been waking up on the other side of the bed. And that, people, is seriously impressive, because moving in my sleep is something that stopped after my first surgery - in 2010.

I still have residual pain that I'm pretty sure is scar tissue. I still get stiff and sore if I sit, lie, or stand in the same position for too long. I still get tired faster than I think anyone my age should poop out.

But I am stronger than I was. I feel better than I have in several months (like, 27 of them). And that gives me hope.

The many faces of Cancer Girl

I bought a new phone last week. ... Something about how my old phone was over two years old and literally taped together in multiple places.

When I was going through my old phone, deciding which pictures to carry with me and which were going to get deleted in the switch-over, I found some pretty interesting stuff. (Don't worry, I'm not going to post the pics of the gauze sewn into my bum after the removal of the pilonidal cysts. I mean, I did keep those pics, but they aren't fit for public consumption, so they won't be making appearance on the blog - ever. ... It seems that I do have some boundaries with what I put here. You're welcome.)

Anyway, what I found were a multitude of pictures. Of trees. Of flowers. Of food. Of smart signs and magnets that have made me laugh out loud over the years. ... Of me.

Like I said, I'd had the same phone for over two years. That's a whole lot of life - and a pretty dramatic life, at that - to document.

Some of these pics, people have seen. Several of them are on Facebook, and a few of them are my standard go-to profile pics. Very few people know the dates and background stories of these pictures. I thought it would be fun to share those with you.

This is, probably, the best-known and most familiar picture of me out there. It was used as the head shot for the singles conference publicity, it was posted as the profile picture for the Saving Laurie Facebook group, it has been used by family and multiple friends at fundraisers, it was the subject of the portrait that I was gifted for Christmas in 2012.

I took this picture myself, with my phone, on one of the very few days in September 2010 that I had done my hair. I was more than halfway through radiation treatments. The burns were starting to set in. It hurt to breathe. I was in constant, excruciating pain. I couldn't keep water down without the aid of prescription strength anti-nausea medication. I was incredibly weak and very, very tired. I felt very much like death. But on this day, I had done my hair, so I took my picture.

I find it very interesting - and do not think it's a coincidence - that this picture has very literally become The Face of Cancer Girl. When this picture was snapped, my body was suffering through the side-effects of cancer treatments, but my spirit was the happiest, the most at peace that it had ever been, to that point in time. (Also, that was a ridiculously good hair day. How could I not document one of the very few days that I actually did my hair, amidst a summer/fall of ponies and bunnies?)

Another familiar shot, I am sure, to those of you who also know me on FB. This was taken in the morning on February 11, 2011. That afternoon, I found out that I had cancer - for the second time.

These were both taken in March, 2011 - the weekend before I went in for surgery to have my second tumor removed. My cousin Julie had come to spend a few days with me before I went under the knife. We went wig shopping on Friday morning, and to dinner Saturday evening with my good friends. It was a fantastic weekend, full of Pringles and mint chip ice cream, laughs and tears, and loads of Cousin Bonding.

This was taken on April 7, 2011. I had been told, prior to my second surgery, that I would have to do chemo. (See the platinum wig in the pic above. I was preparing for every possible contingency, and had wanted to wig shop before the surgery, while I still had the strength to pull wigs on and off of my gigantor head.) I had been growing my hair out - because it has always been a dream of mine to have a wig made of my own hair (I am not kidding even one little bit), and I figured that the longer it was, the better the wig would be - but the day that I found out that I didn't have to to chemo, I came home and cut a good six inches off my hair.

I'm going to fast forward through a few months now. As well all know, I had clean scans in June and September 2011, but my January 2012 scan showed a new spot just under my left kidney. I spent much of January and almost all of February last year, being run ragged between Dr. W's office and the imaging center, before I ultimately landed in my beloved Dr. H's office.

This picture was taken the week that I met Dr. H for the first time. The mind reels that he didn't fall down and say yes the very first time I asked him to marry me. (Yes, there have been multiple discussions of the matter. And he continues to just sit on his little stool and laugh at me, every single time I bring it up. Bless him.) All I can say is, that man plays a mean game of hard to get.

And this little beauty was taken the Sunday before I went in for surgery. (I'd put my hair in a side pony, and had to send a pic to a friend to show her I was trying to be cute like her.)

Please note the super-duper bright accessory colors. The dress I was wearing has elastic across the back and was stretched to the max by my ever-expanding midsection. I remember hoping against hope that the lime green and hot pink would distract the public eye from my tumor tummy.

Speaking of which... This was taken the day before I went in for surgery.

How awesome is that? I'd taken this pic right before surgery with the intent of taking a pic in the same outfit, a month out from surgery, so I could do a comparative side-by-side post. ... Too bad I forgot all about that plan until I was cleaning out my old phone and came across this little beauty. I'd take the post-surgery "after" now, but... well... after the high-calorie food festival that is the holiday season, I'm thinking that a close-up and personal side shot of my stomach really isn't in anyone's best interest at the moment.

Now, for the fun part. Would you care to guess what all of these pics have in common? (Except for maybe that lost shot of the Cancersaurus Tumor Tummy.)

Go ahead, scroll back up. Look closely. They all have one thing in common. ... And I'm not just talking about the fact they were all taken when I was actively fighting or living with cancer. (Now that I think about it, the tumor tummy pic falls under that descriptor as well.)

That's right, I'm smiling. In every blessed picture, I am smiling. And I meant it. Every time.

I survived the cancer. I like to think that I survived that quite well, thank you. And I believe - I am quite positive, actually - that one of the major contributors to my having been able to come out of that as well as I did was that I can almost always find something to smile about.

I credit my mother for my ability to find joy in the little things. I can't even tell you how often I heard "You're happier when you're happy" or "You find what you look for" come out of her when I was growing up. It may have taken me a little longer than most to learn those life lessons (I am, after all, closer to 40 than 30), but I do believe that they've finally sunk in.

Thanks, Mom, for giving me my smile.

Both through nature and nurture, it came from you.