Lady Lymphedema's Birthday Blog

(ED NOTE: Not my legs. Believe me.)

Hey my people,

Here we are at my birthday, December 22. This is a big one. Actually, as the astute blogger Lisa Bonchek Adams points out, they're all big ones once cancer has entered your life. But this is a flip-the-decade birthday, y'all. This is me getting to say I've somehow lived thirteen years since I was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I've had all that time to grow, change, rant, cry, love and learn.

I haven't wanted to complain on this blog, because considering how much life I've saved up, how rich I am in memories, complaining is just bad manners. But just this once, since it's my birthday, please indulge me. 

So I dropped a heavy box on my foot in September. It hurt like hell, but I figured that's what I get for cleaning out the storeroom when it's 95 degrees. Couple days later, I look down and holy crap, my foot and ankle are all swollen. Mrhuuhhh?  

X-rays, orthopedic boots, hot packs; nothing broken, says the podiatrist. Once we've eliminated hairline fractures, he looks at my chart, sees that December 22 birthday approaching, and goes, ah, wink wink, at this age we don't heal as fast as we used to. This was inarguable but also, it turns out, irrelevant.

I found out I had lymphedema only after I started an exercise program at my alma mater, Cedars-Sinai. Unlike the podiatrist, the cancer folks knew what to look for when they saw my by-now-mild swelling. Thanks to their sharp eyes, I'm lucky enough to have caught my problem early.

It still sucks. I'd gone 13 years without pelvic lymph nodes, no problem. Then some idiot, probably me, packed the storeroom and neglected to post avalanche warnings. All it took was one injury, and there's cancer, up in my face yet again, delivering another of those little insults that make it such a pal even after it's in remission.

Now my leg is swathed in bandages out to here, and will remain so for the next several weeks. Then I get fitted for my new style statement, a compression garment. Excuse me, what? Yeah. A compression garment. Like Spanx for your foot, for life. 

On the other hand, behold the power of words. Spanx for your foot. Doesn't sound bad when you write it, does it? Sounds like something you might buy at Macy's to complement your tankini. Maybe my compression garment will make me look svelte. Ten pounds lighter. No cankles here!

Or maybe lymphedema just sucks. Regardless, even if a compression garment is the last birthday present I'd want, it is my birthday. I made it to 60, and I'm celebrating.

 

Can you whip cancer in 130 minutes?

Today I finally asked the rude question about exercise and cancer. Like, WHY?
I hate exercise, so, keeping in mind that cancer is a gigantic imposition on my life, why should I have to exercise too?

My friend Dr. Asher at Cedars-Sinai patiently explained, and for what felt like the first time, I listened.

Statistics show that for many people, just 130 minutes of exercise per week can decrease the risk of recurrence by 30%.

Let me repeat that in case you just went into shock. Just 130 minutes of exercise, repeated every week, could give you a 30% better shot at thumbing your nose at cancer from now on.

130 minutes. It takes me that long to catch up on Grey's Anatomy. I can get through 130 minutes of anything. If this is even a little bit true, I might -- MIGHT -- be willing to change my ways.

Inspiration and estrogen

Hey my people,
I'm just resurfacing from Rise 2013, a four-day conference with the unbelievably dynamic motivator/ businesswoman/ guru Ellie Drake, along with guest speakers like Jamie Lee Curtis and Valerie Harper and Marianne Williamson -- and about 1200 increasingly enchanted women, including me.
Driving to the LAX Marriott for the closing day, I was so jazzed that I dictated my whole Well Again philosophy into my phone. I practically wept, it was so brilliant. Unfortunately, I discovered today, the phone didn't save it. It was like one of those dreams where you wake up just before the galactic emissary tells you how to achieve world peace.
Tough blow, I have to say. But this much remains clear to me.
In 2014, we'll have Well Again meetups in California. I'll be speaking as well as writing, and I'll be reaching out to contact all of you -- everyone who's living on beyond cancer and wondering when they'll find their posse of people who understand and -- hear this -- who would be friend material anyway, because that's how cool they are.
More fun, less fear. That's how we get Well Again.

The Courage to Be Seen, Part 2

Hey my people,

Here's the second unbelievably cool cancer-fighting viral video I told you about:  "Molly's P.INK Tattoo," which came to me from upworthy.com. Click to meet Molly Ortwein, founder of P.INK.org, (P.INK as in "Personal Ink"). After her double mastectomy, Molly elected to adorn her reconstructed breasts with tattoos. Colby Butler, of Unfamous Tattoo in Miami, did the inking on two gorgeous representations of Brazilian pernambuco blossoms, reflecting Molly's love of all things Brazil.  

This story so far is lovely but not groundbreaking, right? Okay, here's the groundbreaking part. Molly has gone on to found P.INK.org -- a nexus that pairs women who want to answer cancer with tattoos with tattoo artists willing to offer their time and talent to help. I hope you'll check out the P.INK Pinterest page. Maybe recommend this idea to somebody you love. 

Brave women like Molly Ortwein and (previous post) Deborah Cohen are confirming what we all instinctively know: This is a momentous time in the wide world of cancer. The big C is losing its power to make us hide and talk in whispers. We're fighting cancer, and we're willing to be seen fighting cancer.

There's a fierceness cancer gives us, and although I bleeping hate the cancer, I love the fierceness. 

Molly is a perfect example. She may cry here and there during this video, but she's not remotely embarrassed about that. She's planning to work those tattoos, honey.  Talking about plans for her next trip to Brazil, she says with a grin: "I am so looking forward to marching my ass around the beach with no top on."

 

The Courage to Be Seen, Part 1

Hey my people,

You know what? We are fighting back against the soul-killing after-effects of cancer, and we are being seen fighting back. I'm thinking about two viral videos I saw today. Both make me cry, not with sorrow, but with joy.

First came the most delightful, not to mention funky, homemade dance video, staged in the OR to Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" by an awesome woman named Deborah Cohen and the medical team about to perform her double mastectomy. She termed it a Flash Mob and invited funky souls everywhere to join in. Here's how it went down.

 

Just five days after her surgery, Deborah's video has been viewed more than 6 million times on YouTube.  Nearly 200,000 people have visited her CaringBridge page, and many have responded to her request to film their own "Get Me Bodied" videos and email them to her. "I picture a healing montage," she writes. "Are you with me?"

You damn betcha!

 

Happy Early Thanksgiving!

Hey my people,

Last night was hopping at our eccentric homestead in Silverlake, California, where we hosted our second annual Early Thanksgiving party celebrating life beyond cancer.

For the past couple of weeks I've been the leader of a small and increasingly hysterical group of people, united in the effort to make this house look like the kind of environment where you'd want to have a party. My partner and I are writers, meaning we are shy, retiring types, not much given to entertaining because that would involve housework. One Thanksgiving some years back, one of my relatives, seeing that I couldn't locate a single pot, pan, or dish towel in our kitchen, commented: "Do you actually live here?"

My limitations aside, however, this particular party had to happen. Because the first Early Thanksgiving was so wonderful.

The first week of November in 2009, when I was finally, finally done with radiation, chemo, and the works, my friends had the genius idea to throw me a Thanksgiving dinner without waiting for the old-hat normal Turkey Day.

Between the three kinds of pie and the relief to be alive, it was the best party ever. Looking around the table, face-to-face, surrounded by wonderful people, I knew that for me, healing is love. I wanted other cancer veterans to have the feeling I had then.

That's where my idea for Well Again was born. When you've been through the cancer mill, you can't just throw yourself back into life like nothing happened. Life needs to show you a little hospitality.

Believe me, Well Again is not just about sweetness and light. With my friends, the tartness brings the zing. My childhood hero Auntie Mame said, "Life is a banquet, and most poor sons of bitches are starving to death." If that's the criterion, my twisted buddies never miss a meal.

Last year at this time was supposed to be Early Thanksgiving. But on the day of the party, Rita and I got kind of phone call that stops parties in their tracks. Her sister's cancer had taken a turn for the worse. Now was the time to get to the hospital. We actually packed Early Thanksgiving turkey in the car, and it became the main dish for the vigil.

This year, though, our celebration of life was in full swing. There were mountains of food; there was even football. (UCLA versus somebody or other.) The house was full of friends, some of them cancer veterans like me, some just really good at loving people who've had cancer.

(That second group deserves thanks on its own: we've all met people who hear "cancer" and run the other way, but my posse shows up better than I do, because that's how lucky I am.)

To kick off the party last night, we had a traditional rite--yes, already we have a tradition!-- born at the first Early T/G. Everybody made hand turkeys and posted them on my Foamcore of Creativity wall in the living room. The kid-ness of it put everybody in the party zone.

So today was cleanup, and tomorrow I get back to the business of Well Again. Next year, we'll have more people for early Thanksgiving, because more of us will be on the Well Again voyage together. I think there will be many parties, not just one. I don't know the details -- yet. But I will.

Here's our invitation and our challenge, for this Early Thanksgiving and forever: Let's party till we're Well Again!

Emily Jones: Mislabeled in the ER

You haven’t lived until you’ve spent the night in the Emergency Room of a sprawling urban hospital. And if you have the wrong name on your paper bracelet, it gets even more interesting.

My experience could be filed under the category of a “near death experience” except there was no tunnel with a white light and no heavenly beings escorting me along the way into the Great Hereafter.

I simply lay on an emergency room gurney and faced what I thought would be my last moments on this earth. My thoughts wandered from “I hope I’m wearing my good underwear” to “I forgot to turn off the coffee pot and my house is probably on fire.”

Just to back up a bit – I had been experiencing a mysterious pain for six days and suspected my glorious 10 months of remission from cancer had been canceled due to bad behavior. I had let my exercise program lapse and was back to the occasional sugar binge which begs cancer to come in and make itself at home.

I called my oncologist in Jackson and described my symptoms. He told me to drop what I was doing and get to the ER at St. Dominic’s before 5 p.m. I did as I was told. I filled out all the necessary paperwork under the name “Emily B. Jones” and the admissions clerk asked to see my driver’s license. No problem. Everything was cool.

I got hooked up to a machine and stashed behind a curtain while the medics handled a series of bizarre cases such as the guy with a concussion who said he was lead singer for the rock group, KISS. He belted out “I Want to Rock ‘n Roll All Night,” while a lady with a roach in her ear jumped around banging her head. That left plenty of time to do a little soul searching.

Fueled by a gargantuan cocktail of dilaudid and hydrocodon, my alter ego began to fly around the room and she was a meany. She began sticking me with a pitchfork for every evil thought or deed I ever performed in my 49 years on this earth. (Of course she banged me on my forehead for lying about my age.)

Through it all, the medical personnel would come in periodically and talk to someone named “Mary.” Why were they calling me “Mary”? Could I be in the psych ward? I glanced at my paper bracelet, and sure enough, it read “Mary Jones.” Oh my gosh! They were probably prepping me for an amputation or a lobotomy. I began shouting for a nurse, and discovered that my driver’s license read “Mary Jones.” Why have I never noticed that? True enough, Mary was the first name on my birth certificate but I haven’t used it since I was a teenager.

As the drug began to wear off I had more lucid insights into the years I wasted in my pursuit of material things as opposed to nurturing relationships. I sometimes thrived off conflict rather than fostering peace and love. For sure, I was living an inauthentic domestic life, trying to be Martha Stewart when I’m more of a Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I made a lot of promises to God and myself that if I got out of this somehow, I would live my life with more compassion for the plight of others. I would never let another moment slip by wasted and unnoticed, and I would stop complaining about every little thing that ruffled my feathers. I even toyed with a name change to accompany my new persona. After trying on the name “Mary” a few times, it just didn’t feel right.

Oh, and the tests revealed no cancer, only a few surgical adhesions causing the pain. Whew. Dodged that bullet and had an interesting Friday Night in the ER to add to my treasury of experiences.

My experience could be filed under the category of a “near death experience” except there was no tunnel with a white light and no heavenly beings escorting me along the way into the Great Hereafter.

I simply lay on an emergency room gurney and faced what I thought would be my last moments on this earth. My thoughts wandered from “I hope I’m wearing my good underwear” to “I forgot to turn off the coffee pot and my house is probably on fire.”

Just to back up a bit – I had been experiencing a mysterious pain for six days and suspected my glorious 10 months of remission from cancer had been canceled due to bad behavior. I had let my exercise program lapse and was back to the occasional sugar binge which begs cancer to come in and make itself at home.

I called my oncologist in Jackson and described my symptoms. He told me to drop what I was doing and get to the ER at St. Dominic’s before 5 p.m. I did as I was told. I filled out all the necessary paperwork under the name “Emily B. Jones” and the admissions clerk asked to see my driver’s license. No problem. Everything was cool.

I got hooked up to a machine and stashed behind a curtain while the medics handled a series of bizarre cases such as the guy with a concussion who said he was lead singer for the rock group, KISS. He belted out “I Want to Rock ‘n Roll All Night,” while a lady with a roach in her ear jumped around banging her head. That left plenty of time to do a little soul searching.

Fueled by a gargantuan cocktail of dilaudid and hydrocodon, my alter ego began to fly around the room and she was a meany. She began sticking me with a pitchfork for every evil thought or deed I ever performed in my 49 years on this earth. (Of course she banged me on my forehead for lying about my age.)

Through it all, the medical personnel would come in periodically and talk to someone named “Mary.” Why were they calling me “Mary”? Could I be in the psych ward? I glanced at my paper bracelet, and sure enough, it read “Mary Jones.” Oh my gosh! They were probably prepping me for an amputation or a lobotomy. I began shouting for a nurse, and discovered that my driver’s license read “Mary Jones.” Why have I never noticed that? True enough, Mary was the first name on my birth certificate but I haven’t used it since I was a teenager.

As the drug began to wear off I had more lucid insights into the years I wasted in my pursuit of material things as opposed to nurturing relationships. I sometimes thrived off conflict rather than fostering peace and love. For sure, I was living an inauthentic domestic life, trying to be Martha Stewart when I’m more of a Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I made a lot of promises to God and myself that if I got out of this somehow, I would live my life with more compassion for the plight of others. I would never let another moment slip by wasted and unnoticed, and I would stop complaining about every little thing that ruffled my feathers. I even toyed with a name change to accompany my new persona. After trying on the name “Mary” a few times, it just didn’t feel right.

Oh, and the tests revealed no cancer, only a few surgical adhesions causing the pain. Whew. Dodged that bullet and had an interesting Friday Night in the ER to add to my treasury of experiences.

At Home With Wegman's Weimaraners

Hey my people, you've met William Wegman's famously photogenic Weimaraner dogs, right?  The New York Times visited Wegman at his home in NYC's Chelsea neighborhood, where he cohabits with his human family and his muses, Bobbin, Candy, Flo, and Topper.  Here's the story:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/13/realestate/wegmans-weimaraner-republic.html?smid=pl-share

And don't forget the slideshow:

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2013/10/13/realestate/20131013-LOVE.html?smid=pl-share

ENJOY! 

 

Dancing to Kill the Cancer Demon

Hey my people, meet Ananda Shankar Jayant. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she called on her mastery of Indian classical dance to mobilize the goddess Durga to conquer her cancer.  Since Durga kills demons, the analogy could not be better. Here, Ananda tells -- no, shows -- her audience at TED how she becomes Durga, riding the tiger into battle and emerging victorious.

Watching Ananda's dance unfold, I asked myself:  Who is my all-powerful cancer-conquering deity? I know I manifest someone because I feel myself breathing in courage in the parking lot of the cancer center.  I can feel myself putting on armor as I step inside. Where's that armor coming from?

That's my question for all of you, my friends who've walked into a diagnosis or a date for chemo: Who's your all-powerful cancer-conquering deity?  Who do you become when you walk off the elevator and into the cancer center?  Tell us and show someone else how it's done!  

 

Seamus Friday: Dog Noir, Chapter 1

"The first time I sniffed her it was the tail end of another afternoon in the City of Angels. The day was fading like a car you could chase but never catch. Stepping along the far curb, she was something special all right. The kind of pooch you'd look for in a starlet's purse. So what was she doing in this end of town? And who was that palooka on the other end of her leash?"

[Ed.  Seamus Friday offers free-form musings about one dog and the joycatching opps he brings to one cancer veteran. Seamus welcomes posts from other survivordogs -- or cats or snakes or whoever.]

 

Breaking Bad: Cancer's Anger Man Checks Out

 

Hey my people,

Walter White has gone to that great infusion center in the sky, and I hope he's telling them to stick their needles where the pearly gates don't shine.  That's what I'll miss most about Breaking Bad:  Walter = WORST CANCER PATIENT EVER.

When I first quaked my way into an oncologist's office, I noticed an extravagent floral arrangement on the receptionist's counter.  "Pretty," I said to the nurse who came out to give me my prep instructions for abdominal surgery.  

"Oh yes," she said, "A patient sent that.  You wouldn't believe what they give us.  Chocolates, flowers, all kinds of beautiful stuff.  They want us to like them." 

Bribes, I thought. Sacrifices to propitiate the dark god Cancer and find favor with its priests.  Little extras to say, Let me be the miracle. Save me me me.  I'll never stoop to that, I thought.

Ha. You sit in a cancer center waiting room, you look around at all the other cases, you picture thousands of lab results, nothing but rows of numbers to recall your face to a doctor.  How do they not confuse you with a million other people? And if they lose track, will you live through it? Think about all that, and you'll be ready to prance around naked with a flaming baton, just to boost your brand.

To this day I find myself thinking of what funny story to tell my doctor in the exam room.  Not too long; I don't want to see that "Cut to the chase" look in his eyes.  Not too downbeat, too complicated, too clingy, too scared. I realize that I'm hoping, however ridiculously, that being a model patient will make the cancer behave.

Walter White, on the other hand, is a chemist in the land of chemo. It never occurs to him to make peace with cancer.  He's mad as hell and there's a whole raft of stuff he's not going to take anymore.  He said it to his brother-in-law, DEA agent Hank, way back in Season Two:

 

Walter: I have spent my whole life scared – frightened of things that could happen, might happen, might not happen. Fifty years I spent like that. Finding myself awake at three in the morning. But you know what? Ever since my diagnosis, I sleep just fine.
Hank: Hmmm...okay.
Walter: What I came to realize is that fear, that's the worst of it. That's the real enemy. So, get up, get out in the real world and you kick that bastard as hard as you can right in the teeth.

 

When I get my Heisenberg on, it's about sneaking into an afternoon movie, not cooking blue meth.  As angry as I am sometimes, I know I won't be jumping off on a cancer-fueled crime spree.  That's why I'll miss you, Walt.  I'm so happy one of us in Cancerville broke bad.

 

 

Emily Jones: Celebrating Another Year

No, it’s not my birthday – thank heavens. Birthdays seem to be stacking up like an obscene pile of carbs at the International House of Pancakes. But I am grateful for every one.

I just realized I have a survived a year with cancer. Every day since last August is a bonus on the Merry-Go-Round of life. Frankly, I thought I wouldn’t make it to Christmas, because they hinted that ovarian cancer was a death sentence.

It isn’t. In fact, it can be very positive if you look at it sideways and squint a little bit.
I’ve found that I’ve cherished each day far beyond those of my former shallow life. I’ve seen spectacular sunsets with my neighbors on the back porch – and sunrises on my front porch all by myself. Never have I known such peace, happiness, and freedom.

I don’t know why exactly, but I wouldn’t trade a day of the last year for my former life which I lived on auto-pilot.

Note: this month I will round up my “girl gang” Carolyn, Marie, Ruthie, Nancy and Beth to join us on the ride down Route 66. The class of 65 is turning 66. No way. Middle age is creeping up on us but we are too fabulous to notice.

 

Laugh-Riot Grrrls to the Rescue

 

"What's the funniest thing that happened to you this week?"

That’s the way most conversations begin for a group of my high school friends who get together at least once a month for some laughter therapy.  We don’t really plan it as “medicinal,” but the feeling of total relaxation after we whoop it up for an afternoon is a testament to the stress-reducing properties of laughter.
We guffaw in the most unladylike manner as we recall our friend who accidentally swallowed her hearing aid battery instead of her osteoporosis pill. We collapse onto the floor laughing about another friend who grabbed a jacket out of his garage to attend a fancy cocktail party.  At the party someone asked if he knew he had a dirt dauber nest hanging on his sleeve.


That same friend accidentally maced himself while driving a borrowed car.  He thought the innocuous little can on the passenger seat was breath spray. (Ha, Ha, giggle, snort.)  

Then there’s the classmate who accidentally dropped a contact lens into the potato salad at a church picnic.  It never was recovered.  

Let’s face it, life can be pretty funny. These stories are valuable little gems we carry in our memories to be pulled up when the world crowds in on us or you get a bad CT scan. 


American journalist Norman Cousins came down with a fatal illness and was given one month to live.  He checked out of the hospital and into a hotel where he treated himself with megadoses of Vitamin C, chased with hours of laughter induced by old Marx Brothers films.
 

"I made the joyous discovery that ten minutes of genuine belly laughter had a healing anesthetic effect and would give me at least two hours of pain-free sleep," reported Cousins. Long story short, he went on to live for 26 more years.

Laughter is that delicious sound that occurs involuntarily and bubbles from deep in your soul. It can sometimes leave you breathless and in tears.  I wish someone would package it.

Look, we have split the atom to the nth degree, put men on the moon and mapped our DNA, but no one has figured out how to give us laughter on demand.  Personally, I always get a kick out of America’s Funniest Videos With Rebel and Lucky Dawg at my side we laugh hysterically  – even Rebel, who is a bulldog with a perpetual scowl.

We especially love the clips involving pets, small children and people falling down at their weddings.  Ha ha ha, cares forgotten. 

Be forewarned, laughter is highly contagious and may add years to your life.  I guess that makes my friends and me about 125 by now. 

Emily Jones is a retired journalist and ovarian cancer survivor who edits The Deluded Diva, a blog for bouncing baby boomers racing retirement.  She invites you to stop by www.deludeddiva.com.

 


Seamus Friday: Hollywood High

Hey, my people, Seamus thought you might get a kick out of looking down on L.A. from the Griffith Park Observatory.  He does.  

Of course Seamus gets a kick out of everything.  This time, I was the one who needed to get out and above. My six-month checkup was days away.  I needed to remember that the world is bigger than Cancerville.  

Proportions change up here. The Hollywood Sign is twice the size it's supposed to be; the hikers march along like ants in sun hats.  California's brown hills can seem desolate in photographs.  Don't believe it. They're full of life.  

As it happens, the checkup went fine.  Seamus and I get another six months to ramble.  Who knows where we might climb?

Après le Heatwave

Hey my people, life in Los Angeles life is bearable again. The thermometer dropped at last after a vicious week of 90º+ temperatures. 90+, you say? Hell, it's 110º in Phoenix.

Well, I bet in Phoenix you have an air conditioner.

Last week in Los Angeles-- land of the jalousie windows, where you can't mount an a.c. no matter how desperate you are-- the dog, the cat and I lay back helplessly dozing through the afternoons with the blinds closed and a platoon of fans zzz-ing. The white noise of a fan is the most soothing sound I know, and in heat like this, it's narcotic. Fans affect me at the cellular level. Their chrysalis of sound is meant to sleep by. That's my Southern heritage. When I was a kid in Louisiana, I would keep the fan going all night even if I had to get up and throw on a blanket.  

Now that I think of it, the buzz-tick-whirr of the chemo dispenser lulled me to sleep in exactly the same way. This may be kind of sad in a Pavlovian way, but so what? One of cancer's biggest lessons for me: if a distraction turns up, take it.  Besides, maybe that soothing buzz-tick-whirr helped convince my embattled cells that all was well, and we'd wake up and have eggs and grits in the morning.

Jessica is on the road!

My friend Jessica Jahnke is one of the baddest cancer heroes ever.  Here's how a longtime friend describes her:

"I met Jessica in 1979, we worked together in a disco, 'cause we’re that old. Still being here to be ‘that old’ is a blessing. We are both cancer survivors.

"Jessica was one of the most interesting people I had met back in 1979. She was born in Silverlake, CA, and her mom moved her to Barcelona, Spain, when she was 6, going on 7. Jessica has lived in Spain, Egypt, England, New York State, California, Vermont and Washington. What an incredible resume… Jess is a fun and adventurous woman, with a great sense of humor and zest for life! Sometimes I feel like she doesn’t fully understand how remarkable her life is, she is an amazing woman. She feels things deeply, so when you are loved by her, you are loved. I am honored to call her family. I love her bunches!! Always and forever."

--Janice Wheelock

Pictured above at the Oregon Country Fair with her beloved Nissan truck and her Burro camper, Jessica has been telling Stage IV where to get off.  Despite constant pain, she made the drive from Seattle to volunteer at the Fair, just as she has for the past 20 summers.  Further complications prevented Jessica from driving coast to coast.  But not before she sent us pictures of this field of flowers or these sociable geese.  And just because she's stopped driving, doesn't mean she's stopped moving. Next on Jessica's list is a flight to Barcelona, her childhood home.  From there, if she can, she'll join the amazing walking pilgrimage, the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.  

Who's going with her? 

 

The glory of the everyday: "Make Our Garden Grow"

Hey my people, when I came down with cancer, I had a powerful weapon on my side: I already believed that even life's smallest moments were worth fighting for.  This song is one of the things that gave me that idea: "Make Your Garden Grow," from the musical Candide

Who's Candide?  He's one of the dumbest, numbest, most gullible characters in the history of storytelling—basically, an 18th-century Forrest Gump.  Candide maintains his blind optimism throughout a fantastic series of disasters that include war, shipwreck, the Inquisition, and prostitution (endured by his girlfriend Cunegonde, who gets quite a kick out of it—but that's a different song). 

When Candide finally wakes up and sees what a fool he's been, he sings "Make Our Garden Grow." It's the climax of the show, and it's hair-raising. The lyrics are about doing a simple day's chores—baking bread and chopping wood. But wait for the third verse, where those homely tasks are elevated in a rush of music that would flood a cathedral:  "We're neither pure nor wise nor good/ We'll do the best we know/ We'll build our house and chop our wood/ And make our garden grow."

In two weeks I hit the cancer center for my six-month checkup.  I take the blood test and wait for the result.  I don't like it and I don't have to.

But today I grouted tile, fed my handsome dog, and listened to "Make Our Garden Grow."  I'll take this day with me when I go.

Talia Joy Castellano. A woman to remember.

Hey my people, I don't want to cough up a lot of bromides about the fact that Talia Castellano is dead. I do want to say this: For me, Talia didn't lose her battle with cancer. Even in death, she won. To you that idea may sound clueless, not to mention tasteless. Death at 13 is an obscenity no matter what the circumstance. But this Florida tween with the million-watt smile was more than a YouTube phenom. She had the mettle of a real star. Talia took on the adventure of her own life. She kicked cancer all the way up and down the block before she left us.

This young woman spent her time abundantly well. She played every card she had, and did it with gusto. She charmed Ellen DeGeneres on TV and displayed her flair for makeup in an ad for Cover Girl. Talia got up from chemo and still had the psychic wherewithal to describe the sight of rain coming at you across a Florida field (see the 2012 interview excerpted here).

Talia said she wanted to be remembered as "that bubbly girl who wanted to do something about childhood cancer." I'll remember you, Talia. No problem there.