Archive | April 2013

Mistaken for the Bride of Frankenstein

***

Image

Photo Credit: frankensteinhalloweencostume.com

You may recall a post I wrote last month about skin cancer and learning that I have been growing said cancer on my forehead: Skin Cancer, Too?  Really?!

Well, despite my attempts to delay the surgery I need to (hopefully) eliminate this cancer, the day of this unpleasant event is now upon me.

In a few short hours I will be headed to the hospital for chemosurgery / Mohs micrographic surgery with our area’s only chemosurgeon.

And I am biting my nails.  They’ve told me that I should plan to be there for anywhere from half the day to the entire day.  They won’t know how long until the surgery is underway and they can see how extensive the cancer is — and what will be required to close the area up.

Apparently I am supposed to be comforted by the fact that my surgeon is excellent at doing reconstruction and skin grafts.  Let me assure you that I am not.  I would rather have not known that he may need to exercise these talents with me.

I don’t know why I am so concerned about this surgery.  I’ve had more than my fair share of surgeries and procedures.  And most of them were far more invasive than what I expect this one to be.  I’ve been cut into so many times that if I lifted my shirt, you might mistake me for the bride of Frankenstein.

So this shouldn’t be a big deal in comparison, right?  (Well, that’s what I’m telling myself at least.)

And it’s for a good cause.  I am actively growing cancer on my head — I can see it growing from week to week — so I should want to get rid of it.

But I am still scared.

Maybe it’s because I’m a bleeder?  And I’m on a blood-thinning regimen.  Just the biopsies required to get this diagnosis were a clear sign that bleeding will be an issue for me.

Maybe it’s because they’ll have a scalpel touching my head and I don’t yet know how deep they’ll have to cut?

Maybe it’s because I’ll be awake and I’d much rather be asleep?

Or maybe it’s just because I am so tired of cancer and side effects and surgeries and procedures and my body is weathered and worn out.  And I just want to feel like a regular thirty-something-year-old with regular thirty-something-year-old problems.

Or maybe it’s just because no one likes surgery — big or small — and I am only human.  (Of course if I lift my shirt, you may think otherwise!)

Image

Photo Credit: mubi.com

Weekly Photo Challenge: Up

The Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge topic for this week is “UP.”

These photos were taken during a Fall trip to visit my dear friend Jin.  We traveled through NYC on the way home — the perfect place for “UP” photos.
image

image

image

image

image

image
image

image

image

image

If you’d like to take part in a challenge yourself, just click on one of the links below.

~Thanks for visiting!~

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/category/photo-challenges/

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/weekly-photo-challenge-up-2/

my suns blog

***

 
image

[A Title & Post Written by My Son, M — all by himself!]

My mom has cancer.shes bin acting really tired.but I understand because she

has cancer.

I like watching movies with her and all that…

AND I love  going on vacation too.

my favorite place to go

 is florida.

sometimes I want my mom to play video games with me but she says shes to tired to play.I miss the old days.  🙂

And Tonight We Danced…

***

breast cancer thirties 30s 30's cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com dancing kids twins

Tonight we danced…
You and you and I…
***
We danced in the living room, between chairs
and beneath shiny blue paper stars and an off-white sky
***
Some days I wonder when it will all end
Some nights I lie awake knowing it can’t last
And fearing the day when you will no longer have a Mom
***
But for now, for tonight,
You are mine
And I am yours
***
For tonight your giggles will echo as you step on my toes
And we will dance and twirl ’til our heart’s content
You and you and I…

Guest Post by Susan Vento, Wife of the Late Bruce Vento

Hello Loyal Readers,

I hope you will all take a moment to read the story below — and then go one step further and sign the petition that follows.

When Susan Vento, wife of the late Bruce Vento, a former U.S. House Representative, contacted me to ask for help with this important campaign, I had to take a few minutes out of my day to sign the petition and post her story.

I hope you will also take the time to read her moving story and sign the petition.

Thank you all — I am so fortunate to be a part of such a wonderful & supportive blogging community.

———

My name is Susan Vento, and I am writing to you about a cause that is very close to my heart. On October 10th 2000 my husband, Bruce Vento, passed away. He was serving as a congressman for the state of Minnesota when he was diagnosed with pleural mesothelioma, a very rare cancer that is caused by asbestos exposure and kills 90-95% of its victims. Please read my post below to learn more about my personal story.

I Support Victims’ Rights: My Family’s Fight Against Cancer & Unfair Legislation

It was on a Saturday––January 29th, 2000 to be exact––that mesothelioma entered our lives. “Asbestos,” they told us, the name of the killer that would eventually take my husband’s life nine months later.

Like any story, I would like to start at the beginning because only then can you understand the meaning of the ending. My husband, Bruce, grew up on St. Paul’s East Side, the second of eight children in a second generation Italian-German family. He attended the University of Wisconsin-River Falls, working construction to put himself through college. He then went on to teach junior-high science in the Minneapolis Public School system and later was elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives in 1970, representing East Side St. Paul families. In 1976, he was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives from Minnesota’s Fourth Congressional District, where he served his constituents in the Fourth District up until his death, just barely 60.

He and I first met while Bruce was lobbying in Washington D.C. in 1980. Four years later, I started doing volunteer work in support of his re-election campaigns. Like Bruce, I was an educator, and I believed in his impact. He supported working men and women, our public schools, and those who are poor and homeless, those who do not typically have a voice in the political process. Little did I know that our love story would start in those campaign rooms, working together for a future we both believed in.

Our first date wasn’t until mid-April of 1995, where he took me out to a comedy club. I was 40 at the time, and hadn’t been dating much because I was more focused on work than anything personal in my life. It sparked the start of my life’s great love, one that I thought would last a lifetime.

In early January of 2000, Bruce left on a Congressional trip to Europe. Each night he called to check in, he kept talking about a shortness of breath and lower back pain. The morning after he returned to Washington, D.C., he went to the House physician, who immediately had him go to the hospital nearby.  They drew a significant amount of fluid from Bruce’s lung for testing.  The following afternoon, he received the call: he had lung cancer. I met him at the airport here in the Twin Cities that night, and we spent the weekend having the conversations you have when you’ve received news like this.  Bruce and I had his sons and their spouses over to share the news with them, and then we went to tell his parents––a most difficult conversation.

The following week, we went to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. After testing, Bruce’s doctor shared with us that he had mesothelioma. It was caused by asbestos exposure, which happened during Bruce’s construction work back in college. We had never heard of this disease let alone knew how to spell it. While the doctors took Bruce for additional tests, I spent a couple of hours in the hospital library, desperately searching for any kind of information I could find on this vicious cancer. Little was available at the time, so I came up with less information than I had hoped.

It was on Valentines Day that the surgeons removed Bruce’s lung, half of his diaphragm, and lymph nodes. When the toxicology reports came back, we found out that the cancer had spread to his lymph nodes. In April, he began several rounds of chemotherapy, followed by five weeks of radiation. All the while, Bruce continued serving his people from Washington. He never stopped fighting for that cause, that same vision that brought us together.

Since Bruce’s death, I have been a part of several efforts both in Washington as well as here in Minnesota to advocate for patients and their families. Too often, the corporate interests hold court and control the outcomes on much of the legislation being enacted, especially when it comes to issues like asbestos and mesothelioma. The opportunity to share Bruce’s story has been both healing and empowering. So many only know the word “mesothelioma” from the late-night cable advertisements and have not yet experienced it in their own lives.

I’ve met so many patients and families and have learned so much from their experiences. The “small world” connections have been stunning––Bruce’s nurse during his radiation was diagnosed with mesothelioma after his death and later died. My former teaching partner’s father died of mesothelioma, as did a former staff member from my elementary school.  The candidate who challenged Bruce in his last three, successful re-election bids for the U.S. House was diagnosed following Bruce’s death and died a few months after.

I’m doing this to honor Bruce’s legacy as well as to do what I can to help other patients and families protect their legal and constitutional rights. The Asbestos Cancer Victims’ Rights Campaign (ACVRC) is committed to providing a voice for patients and their families as Congress debates and makes decisions regarding legislation that would seriously erode our rights. While awareness and information surrounding mesothelioma has improved in the last thirteen years, we need to continue raising our voices. Starting with signing our petition, I encourage you to join our effort in whatever way you can.  With your help, we can take a stand. Together, we can work towards building a better tomorrow and truly make a lasting difference.

___________

There is something YOU can do to help. Recently, asbestos companies have been using their political influence to introduce a new bill. It is called the “Furthering Asbestos Claim Transparency Act” (FACT Act), and it will delay, and in some cases, deny justice and badly needed compensation to people suffering from asbestos-related diseases. I am a spokesperson for the Asbestos Cancer Victims’ Rights Campaign (www.cancervictimsrights.org). The ACVRC is a national campaign dedicated to protecting the rights of cancer victims and their families.  I hope that you will join our fight to defeat this unfair legislation. Here are a couple of simple steps you can take to make a difference:

1.    Sign the petition to stop legislation that threatens cancer victims!

Go to www.CancerVictimsRights.org/take-action/sign-the-petition/ and follow the instructions to sign the petition at the bottom of the page.

2.    Spread the word!

Share your thoughts on our cause and the protection of cancer victims’ rights with your blog audience. Place a link to our petition on your blog to allow your readers to sign and showcase their public support – every signature matters!

Thank you so much! Together we can truly make a difference!

Weekly Photo Challenge: Change

This week’s Daily Post Photo Challenge topic is change.  

There are few days as representative of change in a woman’s life as her wedding day.  These photos are from my lovely sister’s wedding.

 

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's wedding young bride

The Beautiful Bride & Groom

 

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's wedding young

A rainy wedding day… Two of my sisters & me…

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's wedding young

The Wedding Cake

 

As always, thank you for visiting.

If you would like to participate in a photo challenge, just click one of the links below:   

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/12/weekly-photo-challenge-change/

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/category/photo-challenges/

Daily Post: The Satisfaction of a List — Things I’m Afraid I Won’t Get to Do Before I Die

***

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30's 30s twins winter home

My Boys

The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt for today is: The Satisfaction of a List.
You are asked to make a list, any list, and share it with your readers.

Though I don’t usually manage to churn out responses to the Daily Writing Challenges, this one caught my eye because I am a lister and I love lists.

The list I’m sharing with you:

20 45 Things I’m Afraid I Won’t Get to Do Before I Die:

  1. Watch my kids go off to Fourth Grade
  2. Put my toes in the ocean again
  3. Dance with my sons at their weddings in 15 years or so
  4. Have my overdue eye exam — and get stylish new glasses
  5. Hold a new baby
  6. Be my youngest sister’s matron of honor (she’s 20)
  7. Get a new puppy
  8. Hold my grandchildren
  9. Finish the next season of The Walking Dead
  10. See Mumford & Sons in concert
  11. Have the option to opt out of going to my 10-year college reunion (because I don’t feel like going, not because I’m dead)
  12. Visit my family’s homeland (England/Scotland)
  13. Celebrate my sons’ 10th birthdays
  14. Publish my novel
  15. Finish writing said novel
  16. Publish a children’s book
  17. Use my teaching degree
  18. See some of my dearest friends again — jme, Jin, Loren, Sue, Sheri, Gil
  19. Make it to another winter (and I hate winter)
  20. Watch my children graduate from (and start!) high school
  21. See the love of my life again
  22. Experience what it’s like to have hormones again (or go a day without being hot and drenched from night/day sweats one minute and then shivering cold the next)
  23. Shed tears as I pack my kids up for college
  24. Shed tears as I wave my kids off to middle school
  25. See my mother happy
  26. Get divorced
  27. Be with someone who truly cares for me & who will miss me when I’m gone
  28. Listen to a lot more music
  29. Learn to play piano
  30. Live a day where money doesn’t keep me from doing the things I want to do for my kids
  31. Travel more
  32. Start a new job
  33. Hear that there is a cure/vaccine for cancer
  34. Show my kids the world
  35. Fall asleep snuggled next to my kids and my dogs more
  36. Experience a pain-free day
  37. Remember what it’s like to have energy
  38. To stress out about doing next year’s taxes
  39. Turn 40
  40. Turn 50
  41. Turn 60
  42. Turn 70
  43. Grow old
  44. To let go of everything that is holding me back…
  45. To say that I truly lived — and mean it…

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s young bilateral mastectomy death loss grief

If you’d like to respond to a Daily Post Daily Prompt, just click one of the links below.

The Daily Post

The Daily Post: Satisfaction of a List

Man of Science, Man of Faith

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's faith science church cat scan belief death

If you were a Lost fan and saw every episode (as I did), you might recall an episode titled “Man of Science, Man of Faith,” (S2, E1).

It was the first episode of season 2 and the episode where Jack, a surgeon, meets his future wife.  She is brought into the E.R. after a devastating car accident that leaves her paralyzed.  Jack plans to operate but tells her that the possibility of regaining function is almost nonexistent.  Jack’s father, a senior surgeon, witnesses this exchange and chastises his son for squelching his patient’s hope.  Jack barks that her spine is crushed and that any hope he’d be giving her would be false hope.  He performs the surgery to the best of his ability, but she is so damaged that he believes she is still paralyzed and that he was unable to fix her.  When he goes back to apologize and tell her she will never have feeling below her waist, she begins wiggling her toes.  Jack, who was previously only a man of science, realizes that science and faith merged to create a miracle.

My friend Nancy has known about my cancer since the beginning.  She watched me barely make it through harsh chemos.  She visited when I was giving myself daily injections of Neupogen as my white blood cell counts plummeted.  She came to say goodbye on the eves of major surgeries.  She brought dinners over to feed my children when I had I.V. bags full of fluid running into the Powerport in my chest and was vomiting so much that I could barely hold my head up.

She watched me spiral downward into a deep well of cancer.  And then she watched me slowly claw my way up to the surface again.

And somewhere in the midst of this, she came to my door with both fear and hope in her eyes.  She told me that her husband, Frank, had something show up on his CAT scan.

I knew that Frank’s hadn’t been feeling well.  I knew that he didn’t look well.  And when I last saw him, the yellow tint in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

She said that he was scheduled for surgery, but that God was good and that he would be fine.

As you may have guessed, Nancy is very religious and is outwardly so.  She has no qualms about sharing her beliefs.

Nor does she have any trouble with telling others to have hope and faith.  She has done this with me many times since my diagnosis.  She has even gone so far as to tell me in a roundabout way that when I am not doing well, it is because I am not trusting in God and not being faithful enough.

It is always a difficult thing for me to hear, especially during the times when I have felt my worst.  I’d be lying if I said the idea that I am responsible for the cancer for any reason is a tough pill to swallow.

But I listen and nod my head because I know Nancy is not saying these things to hurt my feelings.  I know she says them because her faith is so strong that she can’t see these situations from any other angle.

Frank’s surgery revealed a small tumor.  It was malignant.  They also found a small amount of cancer in one lymph node.  The good news was that the surgeon managed to get clean margins.

I was noticeably concerned, but Nancy reminded me that God is good and that the cancer was small and her husband would be fine.

Frank is a doctor and a man of the cloth.  Frank is both a man of science and a man of faith.  Usually.

When Frank started chemo, Nancy did her best to make healthy foods that Frank could tolerate.  She took care of him and they prayed together regularly.  They both had faith that everything would be fine.

Frank had a really difficult time with chemo and eventually decided that he’d had enough because it was making him so sick.  They repeated his scans and everything looked good.  So they both said “God is good” and made the decision to stop the chemo.  Frank was so sick from the chemo that he and Nancy thought it wasn’t worth continuing, especially when his scans were good and he had God protecting him.

I was reeling over this decision.  I insisted that Frank should continue to pray, but that he should also consider finishing the chemo.  I repeated that he would be horribly sick during chemo, but that he would feel better when it ended.  I said that it would be worth it in the end because it would give him the best shot at life.  I pleaded with them then — and many times since.

But they insisted that they were going to let God take care of it.  He didn’t need the harsh chemo.  He just needed to be faithful.

So time passed.  His scans were still good.  I insisted that he go back and finish, though.  But my friends told me that it wasn’t worth the side effects and that God was healing him.

And then he didn’t feel well.  He was having trouble eating.  He didn’t look good.  He was losing weight.

A few weeks later, Nancy said Frank had collapsed and they were going to the hospital for dehydration.  It was the second time in a month.

I suggested that she look into home I.V. hydration so he could avoid these hospital stays.  And I also pleaded with her to reconsider the chemo decision.  She said that it wasn’t open for discussion.  Frank did not want to get sicker with chemo and she wasn’t going to push it.  She still insisted that he would be fine.

He had to go back into the hospital last week.  Again for dehydration.  But this time the scan revealed something.  But she didn’t tell me about it.

She called tonight during dinner.  She asked about the times when I had home hydration because the hospital was giving her a hard time.  They told her that he would need to enroll in hospice and sign a DNR before they would start home I.V. hydration and was this what I had to do?

I told her that it wasn’t at all.  I signed a few forms at the Cancer Center and then a few more when the delivery truck and my nurse showed up at the door.  But it wasn’t hospice related.  And there was no DNR to sign.

The conversation haunted me.  Then I learned that Frank was no longer going upstairs.  Nancy was giving him sponge baths in the living room.  And a hospital bed had just been delivered.

I was sick to my stomach because I had been through this with loved ones before and I knew what it meant.

Nancy said that the latest scan revealed that the cancer had metastasized to his stomach.  That he has 3 months to live.  3 months.

They are scared.  And rightfully so.

And my heart aches for them because I love them both and I don’t want this disease to take Nancy’s husband.

I do believe in God and I do believe in the power of prayer.  But I also believe that modern medicine exists for a reason.

I  wish they could have found a way to balance medicine and faith.  I wish he had finished the chemo.  And I’m sure they do, too.

 

Palliative Care at 30-Something. What Does it Mean?

Palliative Care Integration Model cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's death dying hospice

Palliative Care Integration Model
Image Credit: University of Alabama School of Medicine

If you’re like me (until fairly recently, anyway), when you hear the words “Palliative Care,” you think HOSPICE.

Hospice is a scary word in the cancer world.  At least that’s been my experience.  In Cancerland, nothing comes after hospice.  That’s it.  Game over.

So when you are a 30-something-year-old and you hear your oncologist tell you that she wants you to see a Palliative Care specialist, your heart might skip a beat.  I know mine did.

For me, I think it is because I was there as my grandparents went through cancer and treatments and eventually ended up on their deathbeds.  I was there when hospice began for them.  And the fact that the start of hospice coincided with the start of their palliative care was not lost on me.  So it’s only natural for me to associate one with the other, right?

Things were different years ago.  My grandmother suffered with her shiny bald head marked with surgery scars and radiation tattoos and burns from the treatment for her brain cancer.  She suffered with no relief until her poor shiny, wounded head lost its luster.  She suffered until hospice started.

The hospice folks came into her home, set up a hospital bed in the dining room, and they began her palliative care, finally, with some heavy duty drugs.  But she suffered until that point.  And even afterward because the pain control wasn’t great.  It was almost a relief when she slipped into a coma and finally died because it was so painful to watch her suffer and to hear her moan in her sleep when we knew that all hope was lost.

My grandfather’s scenario was different.  I’ve blocked out the length of time he actually suffered with lung cancer.  I was there, so I should know.  But it is too difficult to remember how long the cancer actually took to kill him.

What was different about his experience?  When he was ready for hospice, they didn’t come to us.  We moved him to a hospice.  This was where his palliative care began.

But it only lasted for a day.  We moved him to the lovely hospice home, they started him on morphine and gave me special swabs to keep his cracked lips moist.  The volunteers were warm and comforting and did their best to keep my grandfather pain free.  He died that night.

So it’s likely that my ideas about palliative care and hospice are rooted in my experiences.  I learned that palliative care was end-of-life care. But this is not true.  At least not anymore. So what is it, exactly?

From the Cancer Center’s brochure:  

Palliative Care is medical care focused on relief of the pain, symptoms and stress of serious illness.  The goal is to help people live comfortably and to provide the best possible quality of life for patients.

Patients struggling with the uncertainty of serious illness need comprehensive care and support.  They need to know they aren’t alone.

What Can You Expect from Palliative Care?

  • Relief from distressing symptoms such as pain, shortness of breath, fatigue, loss of appetite, difficulty sleeping
  • Improved ability to carry on with your life
  • Improved ability to tolerate medical treatment
  • Better understanding of your medical condition and medical choices

***

Doesn’t sound so bad.  Sounds good, actually.  So I’m far less apprehensive (and maybe a little excited?) about my appointment at 8:30 this morning.  And I feel pretty lucky to be going to the Cancer Center at the best hospital in our area to meet with a specialist on their team.  Of course I’d feel luckier to not be 30-something and in need of their services, but I’ll take what I can get at this point.

I will let you know how it goes…  Though Percocet (Oxycodone) has been a faithful friend for a long while now, I’m hoping there might be something that works a little/lot better — and that’s less liver toxic — in my future.

We shall see…  Good night…

Weekly Photo Challenge: Color

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30's 30s color weekly photo challenge daily post

I love The Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge theme for this week — Color.

Though you’d never surmise it from my clothing (my wardrobe consists primarily of 3 hues (if you can call them that!) — brown, grey and black)), I love color.

I have a difficult time imagining a world without it.  I have often thought that of all the senses to lose, I would likely miss sight the most.  Of course losing the ability to taste during chemo made me question the theory I developed during my dismal ‘what if’ game.  But, in the end, I reverted to my original thought — that it would be more upsetting to live in a world without color.

Its presence lift our spirits.  Its absence brings us down.  It is powerful and beautiful.

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30's 30s color weekly photo challenge daily post
As always, thank you for visiting.

If you would like to participate in this week’s photo challenge, please click on one of the links below:

Weekly Photo Challenge: Color

The Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenges

Weekly Photo Challenge: A Day in My Life

Though this wasn’t compiled in time for The Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge last week, I did pull together the images for this purpose, so I will post with this title:

Weekly Photo Challenge: A Day in My Life — School Break

I hope you enjoy the photos.  And I hope those of you with children home on winter break are managing / enjoying the time!

Thanks for visiting, always!

The Night I Lied to You

farm barn sepia breast cancer thirties 30s memories

 

Alright, technically I didn’t lie.  But I may as well have.

Do you remember that night?  It had been a muggy summer day.  But when you pulled up in your car at dusk, it was as if the humidity was sucked from the air, leaving a perfect July night in its wake.

I met you downstairs and we got in your car and drove.  And drove.  For hours with no destination in mind. I don’t think the destination was as important as the distance we put between your little car and our ‘real’ lives.

Into the city, out to the outlying rural towns.  On highways and country roads.  As the mixed tapes we made for each hummed in the background, we talked and talked.  We always talked like this, soaking up each and every drop of our time together.  It was as if we had never spoken before and had to learn everything about each other in one night.  And it was like this every time.

We drove into the starry night.  The music played on with professions of love and stories about loss and visions of star-crossed lovers escaping into the night together.

That is what we were.  Star-crossed lovers, you and I.

We drove through so many little towns that night, asking so many questions of one another.  We were playful and serious, thoughtful and direct.

A casual observer would think we held nothing back when we talked.  But we held the most important thing back.  You knew it.  I knew it.  We both knew that we both knew it.

But tonight was different.  I knew it would be different when we drove through that farm town.  We had already made our way through a handful that looked just the same.  But this place was different. As we drove down that dark road, your headlights piercing the darkness, raindrops began to fall.  We had just been talking about what you would do if you found out I was getting married.  Would you show up and tell me not to go through with it and ask me to run away with you?  Or would you watch me give my life to another?  Or would you stay away?

Though thoughts of marriage were far from my mind, of course I knew the wedding you were talking about was to your former best friend.  A guy who didn’t treat me very well.  A guy who you no longer seemed to care for.  Yet, he was the guy I was seeing.  He was away now.  Gone for a month on vacation with his parents.

And I had time to think about where my life was headed.  I was only 21.  I was independent and strong.  Bright and educated.  I was moving up the ranks at work, making a name for myself.  I had just gotten another raise.  I could have had a bright future ahead of me, but I was considering a move from the apartment I shared with a roommate to a place with the guy who didn’t treat me so well (we’ll use an acronym for him going forward — GWDTMSW).

And you and I were here, in your car, feeling as though we couldn’t get our timing right.  You were seeing someone or I was seeing someone.  Or both.  But we loved each other and had no trouble expressing our feelings in lengthy letters over the years.

But out of respect for GWDTMSW, we danced around the giant pink elephant in the car.  In fact, out of the corner of my eye I could see that pink elephant waving at me from the backseat.  But I ignored him.

And we drove.  Into a little micro-climate in this small town.  A fleeting rainstorm.  Heavy drops of fresh rain pelted the car as you told me it would be too much for you to bear.  You could never sit back and watch me marry another.  You would let me make my decision, but if it wasn’t you standing up there taking my hand, you would not be there.  I gulped as I considered the prospect.

The heavy rain gave way to a sprinkle.  And just then, this desolate country road was filled with frogs.  Little bits of green hopped in front of the car.  There were hundreds of them.  They extended as far as the reach of your headlights.

I made you stop the car immediately, lest we not squash a single one. It was an incredible sight.  Magical, really.

I jumped out of the car to scoop one up, just as I would have when I was 8 years old.  I was filled with glee as I held that slimy little friend in my hand.  And you were grinning, too.   Happy that I was happy.

I forget how long we waited for the frogs to clear.  Shooing them to the edge of the road was slow but rewarding work.  You inched your way through the thinning crowd and I walked ahead and kept clearing.  We lost some of Kermit’s brethren along the way, but the losses were unavoidable.

Afterward, we reluctantly decided to drive back to my apartment in the city.  We both knew the night would end when we reached my driveway.

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30's 30s memories

It still took time.  These were the days before GPS and we only vaguely knew where we were.  And we traveled roads neither of us had traveled before.

But I felt more found than lost.

We found our way together.  As we pulled up to that disheveled former mansion turned apartment building, you asked if I wanted to take a walk.   The area was divided into two parts.  Bad and good.  My apartment was a few hundred feet from the invisible divider.  On the bad side.  So we abandoned the car and made our way to the ‘good’ side.

We walked on the tree-lined streets, each dotted with lovely cottage-likes homes and large historic mansions made of stone or plaster.   We walked close enough for our arms to brush against each other occasionally.  You made a comment about how the people in their cars were probably wondering why you weren’t holding my hand.  And you said that you would if I would let you.  But I didn’t.  I wanted to, but I couldn’t.  Because I was loyal to GWDTMSW.

As we came up on East Avenue again, you stopped and turned to me.  And this was where you asked me to marry you.  You knew I was the one.  You had been in love with me for years.  And I loved you, too.  I knew you were the love of my life.

cancerinmythirties.wordpress.com breast cancer thirties 30s 30's memories

I remember my response as though it were yesterday.  “Yes, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

What kind of response is that to a marriage proposal?  It is the kind of response you give when you know that something or someone will get in the way.  It is the kind of response you give when you don’t want to lie, despite how much you’d like to simply say, “Yes.” It is the kind of response you give when the bad things you have experienced in your life have so warped you that you are afraid to just choose happiness.

We continued on our stroll.  Dawn would be breaking soon.

——–