Category: Uncategorized

The View from Below

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Uncategorized

Santorini

“One sees great things from the valley, only small things from the peak.”

― G.K. Chesterton

Pent house suites, mountaintop lodges, castles atop grand cliffs . . . the allure of high places is something we all crave to experience at one point or another.   Top level retreats seem to indeed be sought out destinations of choice—the very essence of luxury.

When traveling to Santorini, Greece—John and I chose the breathtaking town of Oia to call home for the duration of our stay.  The idea of staying in a traditional cave house carved inside volcanic earth was in and of itself—thrilling to the core.  Add the fact that it’s panoramically set 1000 feet above the Aegean Sea—well, let’s say the feeling was nothing short of Utopia on steroids.  The views coupled with the meandering narrow paths along the steep cliffs proved that though Oia is certainly not for the faint of heart, it is most definitely the choice destination for anyone seeking ultimate beauty . . . on high.

Recently, I’ve hit a low point on this pilgrimage called cancer, a point where time seems skewed, warped in fact.  One moment everything appears to be moving in slow motion, then BOOM—time seems to be running full speed ahead.  As if by magical “clockwork,” my emotions follow suit, stuck in vacillation-mode.  One minute, I’m eager to have chemo in the rear view mirror, while a split second later I become crippled with anxiety about moving beyond chemo onto the next phase of treatment—desperate to stop time in its tracks.

Just hours from now, I’ll be infused with my final dose of Taxol, followed by 4 rounds of dose-dense A/C every other week— that lovely chemo cocktail better known as the “Red Devil.”  How pleasant.  Not exactly a happy hour beverage of choice.  It would seem anything with the word devil tied into its nickname . . .  can’t be good.  As appealing as a free Brazilian wax may seem, if it means having someone gown up to stick a syringe of bright red poison into your vein . . . well, I guess I would have to say hair isn’t such a hardship.  All joking aside, as eager as I am to be done with chemo, the thought of what awaits me on the other side is almost too unbearable to embrace just yet.  Don’t get me wrong, I yearn for the fatigue, pain, neuropathy, malaise, and hairless head to be in my rearview mirror, but it’s hard to fathom the idea of surgery . . . that which will permanently change me.  Forever.

I recall the goose bumps I got over those surreal cliffs in Santorini.  Truthfully, those goose bumps never came while looking down at the “tiny” wonders more than thee football field lengths away at the bottom.  Instead, they came when we were at the bottom—looking up.

The view from below always took my breath away.

Right now I stand somewhere at the base of my cliff in this cancer journey, longing for that destination on high.  Why aren’t I looking up?  Only here can I really see the hope and future blessing stretched out before me, the surreal beauty that might even take my breath away . . . if I let it.

Who hopes for what they already have?  But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.  (Romans 8:25)

Love,

Nicole

xoxo

Riding the Wave

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Inspiring the Senses, Uncategorized

girl-surfer

(transferred from my CaringBridge site created on 3/9/13)

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. To keep our faces toward change and behave like free spirits in the presence of fate is strength undefeatable.”

~ Helen Keller

It seems like “chemo-Thursdays” always falls on a birthday or holiday.  This past Thursday was my birthday and it was wonderful to have some ultra-special people with me:  my mom and my sister in addition to my three little princes.  As per normal, we livened and lightened up the infusion floor . . . birthday presents and all!

Tired of the cold and feeling a touch of Spring fever (even during the lovely chemo-induced fatigue and allover malaise), I’ve been busy thinking about warmer thoughts . . . like surfing.  I love watching surfers being challenged by huge waves.  To the ordinary swimmer, like myself, being in the midst of such a wave would frighten me to the core.  To the seasoned surfer, however, that same wave is precisely what produces their tremendous thrill.  Many of you may remember “soul surfer,” Bethany Hamilton, who in 2003 at only 13 years old, while relaxing on her surfboard waiting to catch a good wave—in a split second, lost her arm from a great white shark attack.  Amazingly, this talented, faith-filled girl got right back in the water, surfing with one arm—less than a month after the attack!

Thrill-seeking has always been the subject of much speculation, from Sigmund Freud’s “innate death drive” philosophy to some modern psychologists’ view that dangerous activities make us feel more alive.  In reality, though, thrill-seeking behavior can mean different things to different people.

Though I still have a bit of a risk-taking drive in me, I’ve grown more conservative over the years—especially as a mom . . . in a way hoping that my boys will not completely follow in some of my crazy footsteps.  John will laugh while attesting to some of my craziness, like on the slopes.  From the moment we started skiing together, even as a beginner, I would hit the slopes—racing to the finish, often times on trails I had no business being on.  For me, it’s all about the thrill and challenge, and ultimately the whole experience in the moment.  I guess most people will both seek and avoid risk at different points in their lives.

Now if my slope were instead replaced with that ultimate wave, a surfer’s dream . . . I’ll be honest, I’d be running for the hills.  Cancer, in many ways . . . has become my wave.  I would love to run far away from it . . . or simply remain in the still waters.  Some people will say of one going through a cancer trial as “brave.”  I laugh when people say that to me because the truth is bravery is about the furthest from the truth in my reality.  A firefighter running into a burning building is what I envision as brave.  I would do anything to run far away from this, not toward it.

Though Bethany describes that tragic morning on her surfboard as her Tsunami moment, infringing on her pro-surfer dreams, she also realized that bad things happen to everyone.  “But for me, knowing that God loves me and that he has a plan for my life—that no shark can take away and no contest result can shake, is like having solid rock underneath me.”  Wow . . . what an amazing young woman.

I desperately seek to apply the same thrill-seeking behavior I’ve often sought in life to meet me on this latest adventure—the very wave I would love to avoid and fight against.  The truth is, tribulation, suffering, and persecution—are the very things that produce abundant joy in us.

Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.  And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.  James 1:2–4

God tells us that trials produce perseverance . . . perseverance produces character; and character brings hope, which never disappoints.

I’m on the board, ready to put my sights on the wave before me.

Thank you my friends for your constant prayers.  My regular chemo-Thursday will be changed to Friday this coming week as I meet with my oncologist to further examine the lymph node at the base of my skull.  Please continue to pray that this is nothing.

I in turn will:  Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, and be constant in prayer. (Romans 12:12)

The Architect

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Uncategorized

Boston

(Originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 2/27/13)

The space within becomes the reality of the building.

~ Frank Lloyd Wright

Though perhaps not as magnificent as other larger cityscapes, Boston’s skyline at night is magnetic.  Whether approached from the north or the south, I always find myself drawn to it.  I remember when Logan was really little, he was in awe by this vertical city stretched out before him, and he began a series of questions:   “How does somebody make those buildings so tall?” . . . “How do they not fall down?” . . . “How long does it take to build one?” . . .   Always earnest in his questions, Logan refuses to settle for the vague-vanilla parental answers we often provide.  So each time I tried to give him a somewhat “knowledgeable” answer about tall buildings, architecture and construction, the reality of my lack of knowledge became evident to us both.  Finally I waved my white flag of defeat and explained to him that I didn’t know a lot about these towers in the sky, and maybe it was a good subject for us to learn more about.

We discovered that to build a skyscraper, careful planning is required.   It can take years to build.  A foundation must be dug a few stories deep below the earth, after which cranes are used to raise a steel frame up into the sky to form the superstructure with steel and concrete beams.  Both the foundation and the superstructure are needed to support the weight of the building—so the complete structure of the skyscraper must be finished before the most important insidecan be started.  It’s amazing to think that modern skyscrapers are also designed to hold off strong winds—safely able to swing a bit in each direction without damaging the structure.

Today marked exactly two months since diagnosis.  As far and wide as the road seems to loom dauntingly ahead on this highway to healing, it’s both encouraging and mind-boggling to think that in a mere 62 days since I heard the words Invasive Ductal Carcinoma—the day my world spun off its axis, I’m already on day 49 of chemotherapy, eight weeks into treatment.  It still seems blurry to me . . . an unreal reality wrapped up nicely with a big ‘surreal’ bow.

Yesterday, sitting in a small, narrow exam room watching a DVD on breast reconstruction, my mind wandered instead to architectural design.  This was my first plastics consult, and as I sat there in my Johnny after the video ended, waiting for the plastic surgeon to come in—I suddenly felt completely claustrophobic in the space.  I started sweating and had to really talk myself out of the intense urge to bolt from the room, Johnny gown and all.  I’ll admit I’ve definitely had a few Valium moments since diagnosis, but the sick feeling of sheer panic that confronted me in that room came out of nowhere—an anxiety I haven’t felt before.  I closed my eyes and finally managed to pull it together before the surgeon came in to meet me.

The lengthy appointment was filled with the challenges, possibilities, impossibilities, risks and “rewards” associated with the future rebuild of the imminent teardown that will follow chemotherapy.

By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going.  By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise.  For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.  ~ Hebrews 11:8-10

Though I’m overwhelmed by the path laid out before me, I know in my heart of hearts that I need to surrender to God, so that He, the trusted architect of my life might use this “structural” teardown moment to help refill and build up the space within my tower—the most important part, the reality of the building.  Though the structural process takes time and effort, the final inside portion of the architectural plan is the integral part of the finished product.

Please pray that as I sway in the wind, I will remain confident and secure in the plans and purposes my architect and builder has carefully crafted for my life.

Waiting for the Orchid to Bloom

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Uncategorized

White Orchid

(originally posted on my CaringBridge site on 2/22/13 )

Sing like no one’s listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody’s watching, and live like its heaven on earth.

– Mark Twain

Orchids.  There’s nothing quite like the rich elegance each orchid blossom exudes.  Early on in my relationship with John (that beautiful, “pre”-honeymoon phase), he would always have exotic flowers delivered to me at my office in Boston.  It was during that time, that I developed a deep adoration for the exotic—particularly rare, stunning orchids.

Carrying a plethora of meanings and symbolic references around the world, orchids are universally regarded as a symbol of love, wisdom, beauty, and innocence in most cultures.  While their blooms are distinct and stunningly beautiful—sadly, unless conditions are exactly right, their limited life span may be cut shorter.  If you keep them in direct sunlight, for instance, their blossoms may scorch.  Though I always knew that many flowers live in symbiosis with fungi . . . what amazes me most about orchids in particular, is that they are ultra-unique—because without their strong relationship with fungi, their seeds are unable to germinate.  So basically, this cooperative relationship is what ultimately gives us the beautiful, delicate, deliciously-aromatic “fever” for the orchid blooms.

Fungus.  What do you think of?  All I can think of is:  nasty.  Athlete’s foot, mold and yeast . . . to name a few.  Though not a fungus, I’ll even throw cancer into my nasty image of fungal disease.  How can something as beautiful as an orchid thrive on a relationship with a loathsome, utterly nasty organism?

Yesterday marked week 7 of chemo.  Almost half way there!  Though it was my long day in town, I had an extra special treat of having my boys with me.  Additionally, it was John’s birthday!  I called it the Dana-Farber “birthday-field trip” day.  They were actually looking forward to the outing.  Nothing like a school vacation week filled with pajama days, cousin sleepovers, rollerblading, Cape Cod . . .  and Dana-Farber.  Yay.

It was actually a wonderful day.  I needed the boys to see where I spend my Thursdays—what happens to me while I’m there, while ultimately showing them that this place where I receive medicine that makes me feel yucky some days— is really not a depressingly bad place, but rather a place filled with hope, love and healing.   The staff were amazingly creative and generous in giving them a field trip-esque adventure.  Beginning with the lab, several nurses gathered, having the boys pick out colorful wraps for my IV site, explaining how the needle goes in, leaving a little tube behind that the medicine goes through.  Next, they allowed them to put my blood in the Pneumatic tube and walked them through the process of the tube getting across the street to be tested.  It was genius.

When it came time for my EKG and oncologist visit, I had them sit with John in the waiting room.  There were many questions I needed to ask, some of which might be a bit overwhelming and potentially scary.  I was happy to hear my EKG was normal.  The oncology team noted that the lymph node on the base of my skull had reduced in size, along with the main breast tumor and axillary nodes.  All good stuff!  Still, though, I carried with me the many looming questions I had regarding staging, etc. etc. etc.  Y’know, all those questions that enter my mind at 3 AM and keep me up, as I desperately try hard not to research online.  In my heart of hearts, I hoped that perhaps through the great shrinking progress that was being made, maybe my ultimate cancer staging would change.  Unfortunately, that’s not how this adventure works.  Your stage is your stage form inception.  Therefore, based on my diagnosis, I am officially a Stage III breast cancer—all based on tumor size, node involvement and metastases—currently looking like no distant metastases to bone or organs.  As for the occipital node issue, sadly, there are no real answers to possible connection with infiltration of the lymphatic system.  We just have to “hurry up and — wait.”

I know God has plans for my life, regardless of the outcome of this cancer encounter.  Without a shadow of a doubt, I know that He is not only busy working out my details, but also busy working out the details of the lives of my precious family and friends.  He’s most definitely in the business of using every opportunity for His glory.

I love how orchids share multiple flowers on a single stem.  My desperate prayer is that through my “fungal” encounter with this thing called breast cancer, I will not only bloom in the cooperative relationship with the fungus of this trial, but through it, each of you will bloom. I want every life I touch to have hope and courage to get through any and all of the trials and tribulations that come your way—those fungi moments that would love to bring us down—replaced instead with the exquisite, exotic, beautiful blooms of beauty.  Our orchid moments.   We must remember, every test is a testimony waiting to be shared.

Isaiah 48:10 tells us perfectly:  “See, I have refined you, though not as silver; I have tested you in the furnace of affliction.”

A Tumultuous Privacy of Storm

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Inspiring the Senses, Uncategorized

snowed in

(originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 2/12/13)

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, seems nowhere to alight:  the whited air hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, and veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.  The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit around the radiant fireplace, enclosed in a tumultuous privacy of storm . . .

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson (An excerpt from the Snow-Storm)

There’s something so romantic and nostalgic about being snowed in . . . the privacy and cozy isolation—blissful.  Yet in all the beauty that the endless blanket of heavy snow creates, like many things, it can be deceiving.  While many of us were comfy-cozy, bundled up by a radiant fire, watching the storm blow around outside . . . sadly, there were many people tragically hit by its force—some lost homes, while others even lost lives.

“Nemo,” apparently the name weather folk chose to call this blizzard of 2013, seemed an ironic choice to me.  After all—how does a blizzard of “epic proportions” get named after the Latin word for “nobody”?  How can something so big and powerful be a Nobody?  Nothing?  Null and void of existence?  Goliath, perhaps . . . but Nemo?  I guess, though, just like the very meaning of blizzard—sometimes a blinding series of unexpected, and often times, unpleasant occurrences find us along the way.  Life’s little nothings that come out of nowhere, turning our world upside down.

As you know, my “Nemo” of epic proportions decided to blow in around Christmas, disrupting my little corner of the world.  Just as this past weekend proved, in the midst of an epic storm, time seems to almost stand still.  Blizzards seem to force people into slowing down, allowing no excuse to be in a rush to go anywhere.  In a sense, they bring people together.

Late Friday night, in the darkness, as the winds were gusting and the electricity began flickering off and on, I wondered what would be waiting at the break of dawn.  Soon enough, when Saturday morning emerged, there it was:  a whimsical winter wonderland—decorated with over 2 feet of snow.  It sat heavy on the trees and in some parts of my backyard, appeared Narnia-like.  As I stood gazing at the sweeping “white” all around us, I suddenly gasped and winced as I noticed a massive oak had fallen from the neighbor’s yard through a fence into our backyard.  Ugh.  As time seemed to stand still in the allure of tranquility . . . very real destruction actively existed in the darkness.

What else will materialize from the wake of this epic storm named Nobody?  The aftermath of a blizzard sometimes doesn’t reveal itself until the snow melts—then a trail of surprises are left behind.

Will my personal “Nemo,” my tumultuous privacy of storm, leave a trail of dark surprises, or will it leave a lasting impression, a forever imprint on the hearts of those its impact has touched?  Will I one day be sitting back, recalling my blizzard of epic proportions as a life-changing moment of clarity?  A point in my life where time stood still and through its pause, my eyes were open wider to the real treasure all around me?

When the snow melts, I pray that my heart will urgently align with all that really matters . . . the Love that surrounds me . . . the “forever” treasure I wish to store for purposes beyond this miniscule stop along the path of eternity.

But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.  ~Matthew 6:20-21

 

He Remains

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Inspiring the Senses, Uncategorized

Ngong Hill

(originally posted on my CaringBridge page on 2/4/13)

Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.

~ Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen)

After Thursday evening, I’ve been thinking a lot about Isak Dinesen and Out of Africa.  It was prompted by a conversation with my dear friend, the precious “Nana” Lynne who I was privileged to have accompany me to Dana-Farber last week.  Without fail, my time spent with Lynne always begins and ends in laughter, fun and a whole lot of love.   Thursday was no exception.

Lynne is no stranger to Dana-Farber, recently completing her chemo sessions for a rare lymphoma, known as Waldenstrom’s Disease that she has been living with (symptom-free) for over 5 years.  Her unshakable Faith and desire to be where God is at work, is like a breath of fresh air on any given day, but gracing me with her presence during my treatment  . . . was an extra-special treat!

I hadn’t realized until we arrived, as we got out of the car in Boston, how very boring my repertoire of comfort must-haves for a potential 10+ hour day at Dana-Farber were.  My chic, (weak) “Big C” tote—as I refer to it, was no match for the swanky “ride” Lynne rolled out of her backseat.  Any and everything you could need resided in her little slice of heaven on wheels . . . from cross-stitch to techno-savvy equipment and everything in between.  I knew, if I was missing anything, it was IN that bag.

The great part of the day came with my little rainbow in the sky during the oncologist appointment.  The clinical research nurse met with me first, who reminded me that though I’d be examined by the oncologist, there would most likely be no change in tumor size until at least 6 weeks of treatment.  When my doctor came in, we discussed lab results etc., then she, too reminded me that typically we can only expect a softening of the tumors at this point, but not much more in the realm of size reduction.  As she started feeling under my arm, she was taken aback by the change . . . noticeably smaller nodes.   Once she started examining my breast, her eyebrows went up and she looked completely puzzled.  These were her words:  “This is a REMARKABLY different breast than our last visit—practically unheard of after only 3 treatments.”  I cried.  My words to her were . . . “That’s the power of Prayer!”   In the waiting room, I celebrated the news with Lynne and we practically ran to the infusion area for chemo . . . “Bring on the juice” was our little anthem!

Lynne’s Mary Poppins’ bag on wheels didn’t disappoint as she got her game on with some fun.   We were going through some conversation cards while waiting to be called in for chemo, and one of the questions had something to do with naming a movie that you can’t forget, one that left a lasting impression somehow.   Though I love movies and could list many favorites . . . the first movie that came immediately to the forefront was Out of Africa—something I haven’t thought about it in a long time, but it hasn’t left my mind since.  I laugh because I seriously woke up Thursday night with the echoing remnants of my dream . . . “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hill.”  Ahhh, Nicole’s movie moment.

I understand the film was rich in every way, enticing the senses with the amazing African scenery and passionate drama . . . but what made it leave such an impression on my heart?  Knowing that the film was loosely based on the real life of Karen Blixen, better known under the pseudonym, Isak Dinesen, added a definite intensity to the story.  Then there’s her brilliance . . . a gifted writer, who had an amazing, earnest craft in storytelling.

The main impression that resonates with me, however,  is that like many of us, Karen Blixen put a lot of value in her “things” . . . she actually had trouble separating herself from them.  Yet, in the end, she was left with nothing.  Everything was stripped away.  I think of how often I’ve based my own joy, even my identity on things.  For some, being without a smart phone for more than an hour may send them into withdrawals.   Then there’s the vanity.  Will I still find joy when my hair is gone?   My breasts permanently altered?

Today, we shaved my head.  It was time.  I’ve been shedding more than Miles and the anticipation of losing it, coupled with the heightened tenderness of my scalp—every strand of hair feeling heavy, tugging on my head, made it an easy decision.  John was my Barber, with additional assistance from the boys—they were thrilled to participate in the process, each having a go with the razor.  I cringed a bit, when they were smelling my hair as it came out, talking about how much they loved the smell of my hair and how they’d miss that.  It was tough, but my head feels much better, and the “anticipation anxiety” is over.

Isak Dinesen wrote:  “But by the time that I had nothing left, I myself was the lightest thing of all for fate to get rid of.”

Are we weighted down so much by the things of this world, that in the end, we are but the lightest? When all is gone, what remains?

Lynne and I had a funny but very real divine appointment as I was being infused.  We got a knock on the door from the interfaith Chaplain.  This sweet girl was blown away by what we shared with her.  We talked about our joy in the midst of our trials, though difficult.  She seemed fascinated, unable to leave . . . even taking little notes.  By the end of chemo, we pretty much had to send her on her way.  We had to laugh as we marveled, knowing without a shadow of doubt, God called us to respond and share with this girl . . . her intent to reach out to us, in turn allowed us to reach out to her.

I pray wholeheartedly that I may be so unshaken in my Faith that I will stand firm . . . ready and willing to lose everything, with the blessed assurance that the very thing that matters most will never leave nor forsake me, on this side of heaven and beyond.  He remains.  In the end, when all is stripped away, He remains.

 

Bottled Up Air

by Seaglass4Nicole, posted in Beachcombing My Way through Breast Cancer, Raising Princes in a Pauper Society, Uncategorized

Bottle

(written on 1/2/13 originally on my CaringBridge page)

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. 

~Hebrews 11:1

2013.  A new year, a new journey.  If I was in control of this ride, I’m quite certain my GPS would not have chosen this route…there would have been a definite “Detour” notification.   But, the good news is, I’m not in control.  It’s hard to admit that, but reality check:  I can do nothing in my own strength anyway, so I’d rather not be in the driver’s seat.

I must say, it was wonderful to wake up this morning and get back to my “normal” daily routine—packing lunches, checking backpacks, and hitting the road for school and work.  All morning, I tried to block the mental anxiety of waiting on results from pathology.  I think I anticipated that first thing in the morning I’d get the call and be able to move on with the next step (a somewhat narcissistic notion that I’m the only patient on my island of disbelief).  The morning, however, came and went with no news.   Finally, I got the call from one of the oncologists . . . results in.

Ahhhh, the news we were all hoping for:  Estrogen and Progesterone +, Her2 -.  In non-scientific terms, the best case scenario for treatment all around!   Let’s face it, I never envisioned a day would come when I would find myself giddy over cancer cell composition, but that is my new reality . . . and I’ll take any giddiness I can get my hands on.

In addition to results, I learned that the rate of growth on my tumor was at the highest end, a grade 3…3 being the most rapidly growing type of cancer.

Stage III.

Time for treatment.  Let’s get ‘er done!

My oncologist informed me that finally, with all the facts on the table, I was eligible to participate in a clinical trial for my “type” of breast cancer.  This would be in addition to standard chemotherapy, which will start next week, once a week for 20 weeks.  Basically, DFCI will be home away from home for a while.  This clinical trial works in synergy with the chemo, an antibody used to attack a certain protein found in tumors.  The side effects aren’t too bad and it would be done in conjunction with Taxol, a lovely member of the chemo cocktails.  A couple of cons with the trial . . . only 2/3 of eligible participants actually receive the drug.  If you are not picked, you still must complete 2 additional core needle biopsies.  One done the first day of chemo, the second, two weeks later.  Though it sounds like an additional burden if you’re not receiving the drug … it’s going toward cancer research, and by golly, I’m taken one for the team if it may help find new answers to this nasty mystery.  Tomorrow I will meet with my oncologist and NP to finalize the paperwork for the trial and I can get more details on the chemo regimen.  Please pray I’m one of the chosen ones for the trial.

The award-winning moment of our New Year’s “celebration” came when Logan—my 8-year old, Naturalist (his dream profession) was walking around with a container tightly sealed in his hands.  When we asked what he was doing, he said “I’m trying to preserve the air from 2012.  I’m trapping it, because once it’s open, it’s forever gone.”  We laughed at his intriguing thought process … and for a moment I felt like that trapped air, desperate to escape the bottle.  I pray soon that I will exhale this incomprehensible “breath” I have been holding.

One day at a time.