How Would You Like To Be Remembered?

Before he died of cancer, one of my heroes (Leroy Sievers) asked his readers to tell him how they'd like to be remembered. I watched a bit of his memorial service yesterday and thought some more about it.

I'd like people to remember all the times when I could have judged, but didn't. I'd like them to remember my warmth. I'd like them to remember the times I made them laugh or shared with them one of those random facts no one else would know.

I wish there were someone who could share, when the time comes, how hard my life has been and how I rose above it, time and time again. That's really the greatest accomplishment of my life. I have thrived in an environment that could have destroyed me. My cousins survived, but I triumphed over bad genes and dismal nurturing.

I hope they remember how brave I've been. Not because I've lived through breast cancer. Not because I lived through my dad's suicide. I've been courageous by refusing let go of compassion, no matter what. It's a work in progress, letting go of anger and resentment, but I continue to put one foot in front of the other.

When all is said and done, there aren't many choices to make in life. You're born into certain circumstances and, as terrible as things eventually may get, all you can do is keep going. As I've said before, no one gets to call in sick to life. We wake up every day and try to get through it, no matter what. That's all we can do.

Getting up and going on doesn't require courage. Maintaining humor, gentleness, compassion and integrity--for those qualities I've had to reach deep inside. I have had to bring my attention back day after day. They've tested my mettle.

I wish people would remember that about me. How would you like to be remembered?

Ike Threatens People I Love

The migraine raged on all afternoon, all night and was there to greet me first thing this morning. I didn't cook dinner last night. I stuck it out at work until it was time to go home. When I got there, I actually went to bed and put a cloth over my eyes. Even in the midst of chemo, I rarely hung around in bed.

Hubby made dinner: turkey burgers. He did a great job, but I may never be able to stand the smell of turkey burgers again. I wonder if, because of chemo, I developed an overly acute sense of smell. There are so many things I can't stand to smell anymore. Raw beef. Turkey. Chicken (unless it's heavily disguised by spices). I'm still good with fish. I hate the smell of coffee cake and barbecue (these are definitely related to chemo). Enough of that.

I lived 19 years on the Gulf Coast of Texas. I'm accustomed to hurricanes, the anxiety of whether the path is true and it will eventually find its way to your home. I've lived through the endless rain, the high winds, tornadoes, the endless endless rain in an area not too far above sea level.

Today, I'm worried about all of the people who took (and continue to take) such great care of me at M.D. Anderson. I hope they're safe and that their homes are spared. I know Dr. Ross will be at the hospital, sleeping on a cot, taking care of the people who are so sick they can't go home. It's probably one of the safest places to be in Houston.

I remember every last one of them, from the people who park my car to the nurses who helped me get out of bed or stop bleeding, the medical techs who x-rayed me or ct scanned me to the doctors who saved my life. I can't know how they'll fare.

I'm holding my breath a little bit and saying prayers for all beings living on the Coast. But especially all of those people to whom I'll always be grateful.

Learning to Love the Scars

I've started doing yoga again. It's the slow, meditative type that allows me to "yawn my body open." I hope it helps with the osteoarthritis in my hips, but even if it doesn't, it's the first step to regaining my physical fitness regimen. Slowly but surely, I start again.

This week, Carson Kressley's show, "How to Look Good Naked" featured a woman who had been unable to feel attractive because of extensive medically-created scars on her body. I thought about watching it, even watched the first five minutes of it, but ultimately I decided to move on. Makeup, a new haircut, a new wardrobe--none of that is going to fix my own scar issues. Everyone tells me that no one would ever know, by looking at me, that I had breast cancer. People even tell me that I'm pretty.

My only thought is, "That's because you haven't seen me naked." I'm working hard to accept my scars, if not love them. Some days are better than others. I accept that they're there. I know that having them is preferable to being dead. I even know with absolute certainty that my husband still finds me attractive.

Someday maybe I will. All the time, not just intermittently.

Losing Weight

Lisa, the only M.D. Anderson employee I dislike, pointed out that I've lost weight since my last visit. She attributed that to the Ritalin, but since I haven't taken it in a month, I don't think that's the cause.

The question is, after having been alerted to diminishing weight, why do I think that's a reason to restrict food intake?

Feeling a little nutritionally crazy, teetering on the razor's edge of my long-time eating disorder potential.

On the up side, I'm not weighing myself yet. And yes, I do still own scales.

Not Myself

The second night of insomnia. I'm not sure if it's fatigue or maybe the after-effects of surgery or maybe the coming to terms with new diagnoses, but my intuition fails me. Back in Crazy Land, I have conversations but I can't determine the mindset of participants. I hate not being able to read people. I'm frustrated and baffled by my insularity. I need to see inside their heads.

I'm fairly certain that no one else here is attuned to the subtleties of human interaction. Otherwise, they might have noticed the distance in my eyes. They might have heard my voice coming from far away, as if I were standing in an empty room. On the one hand, it's a very good thing: I'm never vulnerable. On the other hand, it's a very lonely experience.

Clearly, I'm not myself. Whomever that may be at this point.

Test Results

The mammogram was fine, except tissue density makes it hard for them to say with certainty that all is well.

I've developed osteoporosis in my hips and spine, thanks to the chemo. That aching pain in my hips is arthritis.

"You've been through a lot," Dr. Ross told me. If he says it, it must be so.

I feel like I'm tired, anxious and depressed. I got to see Dr. Ross, though.