Dwelling in the Desert, Part 1

There is a "travel challenge" making its way around Facebook. It lists the top 100 places you should visit, and then I suppose you see how much traveling you still ought to do before you die and you feel bad about it. I haven't done that challenge, but I carry a mental list of places I want to go: Italy and Jerusalem with my husband, Washington D.C. with my kids, London and New York with my mom and sister, Las Vegas with my friends. One place definitely not on my list is the desert. It's SO hot. Weird creatures live there. It's wide open and it's scary. I don't wanna go.

But somehow, I landed smack dab in the middle of a desert anyway. I had no intention of going there. It wasn't on my calendar or on my "to-do" list. I've been there for a while now. And I'm here to tell you that it is every bit as uncomfortable and unpleasant as I thought it might be.

My desert, of course, is a different sort than what comes to mind when you think "Sahara." My desert is emotional, a little bit physical, and very, very spiritual.

I woke up one Friday morning in February and I couldn't get out of bed. I wasn't sick, at least not physically. I cried for no reason. I could not bring myself to do the simple everyday things that make my world go round. I didn't cook. I didn't hang out with my boys. I didn't hang up clothes or run errands or drive the kids to activities or write lesson plans or call friends or wash my hair or anything. For three days I stayed in bed. It was the only place I felt safe. My sweet Hubby took over my responsibilities and allowed me that time to be sad and scared. On Monday, I knew that I had to get back to life whether I felt like it or not. I also knew that my heart was sick and that I needed help.

I found help with a Christian counselor who I've been seeing for several months. At our first meeting, she just let me talk. Well, to be honest, she asked me a bunch of questions that I answered honestly but quickly. See, I have a "safe zone" when it comes to talking about myself and especially when asking for help. My husband, my parents, and a few close friends are in the zone. Pouring out my deepest thoughts to a total stranger took my anxiety level through the roof. Telling her about everything was unbelievably hard.

"Everything" includes, but is certainly not limited to The Sickness and how it has turned my life 100% upside down. (There are other issues, of course, that are ongoing and un-blog-able.) Cancer came out of nowhere and knocked me down to the ground. Then, just when I was getting my second wind and was trying to move on, it took me down again. It moved on, but I believe that it is just temporary. Now I know that it is after me and that I can be blindsided at any time. It takes an enormous amount of effort to pretend that I'm fine, to act normal, to keep my worry and sorrow to myself, and most of all, to protect my family. Basically, I am killing myself trying to control something that I have absolutely no control over whatsoever. And, in the back of my mind and in the deepest part of my heart, there is a little nagging voice saying, "Where is God?"

For the first time in my entire life, I couldn't find Him.

"Why, O Lord, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?" (Ps. 10:1)

At the Heart of the Matter

At bedtime...

Baby: Mommy, I am worried about you.

Me: What are you worried about?

Baby: I am worried that you don't feel good.

Me: Baby, Mommy is fine right now. Do you mean you are worried that I will get sick again?

Baby: Yes. I feel sad about that, Mom.

This is just one of the things that burdens my heart right now. But it is by far the heaviest: the fear that follows us--even the smallest of us--everywhere we go.

"How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will the enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, Lord my God." Psalm 13:2-3

Trusting Jesus

I received this message from Little Middle's Sunday School teacher:

"...I asked the class to draw a picture of a time they had to trust Jesus. I was touched when he shared that he had to trust Jesus when you were diagnosed with cancer for the 2nd time. He's a precious boy!"

This is the picture that my Little Middle drew:

"For you are my hope; O Lord God, you are my trust from my youth and the source of my confidence. " Psalm 71:5

In Which I Express Myself to Cancer

Dear Cancer,

I hate you.

I hate what you have done in my own life, and I hate that two other lives this week in my little corner of the globe were snuffed out by you.

It is your fault that these other children will grow up without mothers. It is your fault that my little boys could so easily become those children. It is your fault that those two husbands are now widowers, and I hate you so much because I have horrible dreams that my husband could be that, too. I hate you because you break families apart...good families, who love each other and love God.

I am just so mad! I am furious that you exist in the first place, and even more angry that you are so evasive. You should be cured by now, and even prevented. How are you still able to elude sophisticated medicines and scientists? Why do you insist on sneaking up on innocent people and invading their bodies? Why can't you just leave us alone?!?

I despise you for making me sick, for making my hair fall out and then come back curly, for making me ration my energy and activity so I can be "normal" again, and for making me the object of pity and sympathy. I hate you for making me work so hard to figure out and trust my God--and sometimes to even question everything I have believed for most of my life.

I choose every day to beat you. I decide over and over again not to let you win. But you and I both know that you are very powerful. You have the advantage. If you decide to attack again, there's nothing I can do to change your mind.

Tomorrow morning when I wake up, I will feel--just like I do every morning--scared. But then I will choose--just like I do every morning--to not let you beat me. I will fight; I will trust.

Hear me loud and clear, Cancer: You suck. I can honestly say that I wish I had never met you. GO AWAY.

With as much sincerity as I can muster,

Allyson

About the Hair

"The hair is the richest ornament of women."--Martin Luther

Fifteen months have passed since I shut my eyes tight and gripped my mom's hand as hard as I could while my hair was shaven off my head in response to chemotherapy treatments. The intense sorrow I felt during that hour at the salon was matched only by the horror I felt when I finally worked up the courage to look at myself in the mirror later that night.

They say that time heals all wounds. I disagree, but I would compromise and acknowledge that time takes the sting out of most wounds. As much as I hated it, I learned to live without my hair. Life kept going on all around me, and I made the choice to participate as much as I was able.

But my already-fragile self-esteem was shattered by my cancer-induced baldness. All these months, I've put on a brave face and a good show, but every time I looked in the mirror, I saw ugly.

Now my hair is growing. I've had it cut a few times, and recently finally got it colored because I've found that blondes really do have more fun. I begged my hairdresser to find a way to fix the crazy, kinky curls into a silky straight mane, and you know what she said? "You should embrace the curls." Humph. Some advice.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. Turns out she knows what she's talking about. After two agonizing trips and quite a few dollars to the beauty supply store, I found out that all the products and flat irons in the world can't fix this. Trying to straighten this hair only makes me look like I'm wearing a huge mushroom on my head.

So I have curls. Lots and lots of very blonde curls. I've experimented with a few different things, but the bottom line is the same every. single. day. It's still ugly. I can't comb it down or tuck it behind my ears or put a clip in it or anything. I can't even manage to make it look like I meant to style my hair this way!

Since the boys have been out of school, I have been wig-free for the most part. They have gotten used to the new look, so I know it's time for me to go public with my hair. Tomorrow will be that day. I don't mean to dramatize it, but I have great anxiety about going to church without my wig. I feel vulnerable and exposed. It's hard to explain...I think I should feel victorious and joyful instead of scared.

I've often said I wouldn't trade my cancer journey for anything because I've learned so many valuable lessons along the way. But how I wish I could have taken this same journey with a full head of hair! But then again, what I've learned probably wouldn't have mattered nearly as much. Like knowing that life has very little to do with my hair and everything to do with my heart.

Peace and Quiet

It's Saturday night. My little cowboys are in West Texas starting their summer off right with their grandparents. Hubby is watching the UFC fight at his brother's house. Abby Dog and I shared a Schlotzsky's sandwich and now we are catching up on my recorded DVR shows and enjoying the peace and quiet.

I deserve some peace and quiet, if you don't mind my saying so. We bought a new house and moved. Preschool ended and I watched my Baby graduate. I kept on dragging Goliath and Little Middle out of bed and to school every day, long after every other school district in Texas was done. I had a less-than-enjoyable doctor visit (I am fine.). Finally--FINALLY--Summer 2011 is here! I usually am not a fan of summer. It's way too hot and there is a little too much quality time with the kids. But this year, I am more than ready.

The last day of school was tough. Because of our move, the boys will attend a different elementary school next year. I have done everything possible to get them excited: We visited the school book fair and bought--what else?--Star Wars books. We took a tour of the campus and met the counselor and the principal. We admired the playground. But I know that none of those things make it easy for my sons to leave behind their friends and favorite teachers. There were tears in all of our eyes when we walked out of the doors of their school for the last time.

We celebrated the end of school by heading straight to the pool. The first swim of the season was great! It's already 100+ degrees here. You know what they say about Texas...we have four seasons here: Almost Summer, Summer, Still Summer, and Christmas. Anyway, Baby was triumphant at the pool when I showed him that he is finally tall enough to touch the pool bottom in the lazy river, and that he is tall enough to go down one of the big slides. Victory! Now if we can just get him swimming confidently like his brothers...

We love, love, LOVE our new house. It is nearly twice as big as our old one. Each of the boys has their own bedroom, and they are really enjoying having their own space. I have a huge bathtub, a kitchen with two ceiling fans and more than enough cabinet space, and a laundry room that is an actual room. That hasn't endeared me more to the laundry chore, but it makes it a little easier to keep up! We have nice neighbors and fruit trees in the backyard. Our own little piece of paradise...aaahhh. Of course, no experience in this family is complete without some sort of mishap. We had lived here almost three weeks when our washing machine went berserk and we had a flood. The water in the laundry room was deep enough to cover the top of my foot when I was standing in it. Even worse, the Gain-smelling river ran straight into the hall where we have wood floors. I ran around town like a crazy person before I finally landed at Home Depot, where I rented a wet-vac and made friends with a sympathetic old man with chewing tobacco in his back pocket. With a little help from my good friend Momma Wolg, I managed to suck up the water, but not before it damaged the flooring. The silver lining: My feet smelled nice and felt super-soft from all that sloshing around.

Things have been pretty quiet here in CancerLand. Back in the spring, I went to M.D. Anderson in Houston. MDA has been on my radar for a while, but I haven't felt well enough to make the trip for quite some time. My reason for finally going was two-fold: One, I wanted/needed to get a second opinion about "what's next?" and two, MDA is renowned for their clinical trials and experimental drugs to treat cancer. Having been assured that cancer will forever be a threat, I want in on that action! I spent nearly a week there and during that time, I had every test and met with every specialist imaginable. At the end of the week, I was informed that without a doubt, cancer is not currently present in my body. I worked out a plan to return for scans and to remain under "surveillance" by the staff there. And, I asked about and gratefully accepted a prescription for a drug that I hope will keep cancer at bay for a while. The drug is an anti-estrogen--theoretically, the less estrogen that my body produces, the less chance there is that cancer cells will be able to feed and grow. Nothing is guaranteed, of course, but it would be silly and irresponsible for me to not explore any and all options.

My news about MDA was not greeted with the enthusiasm I had hoped for by Dr. M here in Dallas. In spite of that, he will be performing yet another surgery on me next week to remove my chemo port. I can't say that I'm excited about surgery, but I will be thrilled to have that thing out of my body! Hopefully I won't need one ever again.

With the little boys out of town for a few days, I've had time to explore a new obsession: Pinterest. PandaMom gave me a few pointers, and I am well on my way to digital organization! It makes me feel all artsy and crafty, which I am NOT in real life. Still, it's nice to imagine that one day I might be able to bake a pink heart into the center of my plain-Jane cupcakes or make a wreath out of crayons for Teacher Appreciation week.

Every year I buy Little Middle a new pair of flip flops, and every year he wears them for just a few weeks before he breaks them. Every. Single. Year. When I went to his class party on the last day of school, he was barefoot because his shoe had broken. So I gave up and I bought him a more solid, pricier pair. If they don't last him the rest of the summer, he's just gonna have to wear tennis shoes. That might have sounded heartless when I said it out loud when pulling out of the store parking lot, but Baby assured me, "You're the best mommy we could ever have." Little Middle retorted, "Yeah, but that's 'cause she's the ONLY mommy we can ever have."

And on that note, I'm gonna go enjoy my peace and quiet. Happy Summer!

My Story

I commit to Jesus, I commit to His followers, I commit to His world.

At my church, this is our motto/mantra/mission statement. I was recently given the opportunity to share part of my story with my church family to reflect my personal commitment and the joy God has given me in my journey.

He is good, and He does good. This is my story.

Do's and Don'ts for the Chemo Room

In honor of my LAST day in the chemo room (!!!), I have put together a little list of do's and don'ts for basic etiquette. I tell the little cowboys all the time that manners matter...even in the chemo room. Here's what and what not to do.

1. DO mind your own business. We might have to share nurses, but my cancer is mine and your cancer is yours.

2. DO NOT ask me every time you see me if I've tried the peppermint-flavored water. Maybe I don't like peppermint. Or maybe I don't like water. Probably I'm running out of polite responses.

3. DO wear a nose strip if it keeps you from snoring while you nap.

4. DO NOT talk about nose hair. I do not want to hear about whether you have it or not, nor do I care to know whether blowing your nose is easier during allergy season if said nose hair has begun to grow back.

5. DO keep private information private. Just like sex, any conversation about bodily fluids and/or functions easily lends itself to a TMI label.

6. DO NOT offer to share your neck pillow or blanket with me. Ick.

7. DO NOT ask me about the specifics of my case. Chances are that I hate being here, and having to rehash the depressing details with a stranger only makes me hate it more.

8. DO cover your head. Chemotherapy is a beast, and we all know it. There is no need to flaunt what it has stolen from you, thereby reminding the rest of us what we have also lost.

9. DO NOT, under any circumstances, wear pajamas, a housecoat, your slippers, or a crown to the chemo room. No way can you keep your dignity if you do.

10. DO wear a bra. Please.

11. DO NOT say things like "These pole covers are so cute!" or "That was easy, wasn't it?" Nothing in the chemo room is cute or easy to deal with.

12. DO be very careful what you eat in the chemo room. Because Mexican food and chemotherapy don't mix.

Hair Update

It's been a while since I posted an update on my hair. Most of ya'll are too polite to ask about it, but the subject still comes up every now and then. So, here's what inquiring minds want to know: My hair is growing. In fact, I got it cut a few weeks back. I didn't cut it because it has grown to an unmanageable length, though. Don't get too excited! I cut it because it will grow faster and better if I do some upkeep on it, or so I am told. What I secretly am hoping for is that there will be magic in those scissors, and it will begin to grow in a completely new way. What's coming in now is a weird texture (curly) and a weird color (mud). I much prefer my old texture (straight, at least with the help of a flat iron) and my old color (salon-blonde). That's what my "pretend" hair is, and that's what I will wear until...well, until I say otherwise. The curly mud grows on, though, all crazy-like--so much so that it must be restrained these days. I have to wear a grippy headband-type thing to hold it back before I smush it all up inside the pretend hair. Wig-wearing was easier when I was completely bald!

I wish I could say that looking in the mirror is easier these days, but that wouldn't be exactly true. Besides the mop o' mess, I am annoyed at the pasty white color of my skin. I am disgusted by the weight I lost last year and have managed to put back on (The Sickness and I will share the blame on this one). I have HAD IT! with the little zit that keeps showing up on my chin, regardless of how often I wash my face. I'm not 14 anymore, for crying out loud!

For as long as I can remember caring, I have always wanted to __________. Have better hair...lose weight...apply makeup like an expert...have clear skin...update my wardrobe--you can fill in the blank with almost anything that equates with prettiness. I don't feel much more comfortable in my body as a grown woman than I did in the awkward-for-everyone adolescent stage.

Understandable?

Maybe.

Sinful?

Probably.

Truthful?

Absolutely.

The Sickness has forced my hand in a lot of areas, but this is a big one for me. When Goliath was a baby, I used to recite this Bible verse to him (we had fun hand motions and everything!):

"I will praise you, O Lord, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful, and my soul knows it full well." Psalm 139:14

Now, if I could be so easily convinced that God took perfect care to weave my son together, what makes me think He would just toss together a few ingredients and hope for the best when it came to me? And if I could so readily and easily praise Him for the three miracles that are Goliath, Little Middle, and Baby, why would I neglect to praise Him for the miracle that I am?

Any good 12-step program will tell you that the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. I have a problem with my self-image. The next steps in my "recovery" can be found in the pages of my Bible, where it says that I am special and loved...cancer, curls, and all.

On This Day...

One year ago today, I sat in stunned silence as my oncologist told me that there were new tumors growing in my body.

The year that has passed since February 17, 2010 has been harder than I could have ever imagined it could be. Not one single day has gone by that I have not lived and breathed the reality of cancer. I have been sicker than I ever thought possible. I have had to rely on my friends and family to care for me, and even worse, to care for my children. I've had to try to explain things to my sons that no child should ever have to even think about, let alone live with. I've listened to my husband cry in the middle of the night when he thought I was asleep. I've been poked, cut, prodded, and tested, and I've swallowed hundreds of pills. I've lost my hair. I've lost my dignity. I've lost my confidence.

Today, in a twist of irony, I had another appointment with Dr. M. I was going to find out the results of the CT scan I had on Tuesday and hear his advice on how to proceed with treatment. After several heart-stopping moments where I strained to hear his conversation with Nurse Michelle in the hallway, he entered the exam room and pronounced that no new tumors showed up on the scan. A great deal of back-and-forth ensued. I will spare you the details, but the bottom line is this: I will continue with the cytoxan/Avastin maintenance regimen for a few more months. At the end of that time, I will go for another scan and if all remains unchanged, I will be declared to be in remission and this leg of the cancer journey will be over.

You'd think that with the end in sight, I'd be thrilled, right? Actually, I am terrified. The news on my latest scan is good, no doubt about it. But to me, it's not a sigh of relief...it's just a delay of the inevitable. I've been told more than once that the cancer will surely invade my body again. Just because it isn't there now doesn't mean it isn't coming.

Dr. M was prepared to release me from treatment today. He saw things through different lenses than I do, however. He looks at me and sees a challenge, a science experiment, a few dollar signs, and maybe an opportunity. I look in the mirror and see a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a mother. The whole time he talked to me (or sometimes over me) today, all I could see in my mind's eye were my 3 little cowboys. Their faces were so clear, in fact, that I did something a lot of people might think is ridiculous: I chose to continue chemo. I couldn't picture myself tucking my boys into bed at night, knowing that I could have done more to prevent The Sickness from recurring. I've come this far...what's a few more months?

So I will press on. I will do every treatment I can within the time frame I've been given. Cancer is a terrible disease. I hate those abnormal silent cells with everything I have. And February 17th? I don't care for it much, either. But next year, I will be able to look back and remember that this is the day I chose to finish strong.

After the appointment, my mom and I had lunch together. There's nothing worse than crying in a restaurant with people all around you laughing and enjoying their lunches. I am just so sad. Even good scan results feel like a burden to carry. I am well aware that this sounds like a woe-is-me, glass-half-empty kind of narrative. I don't mean it that way at all. In fact, just in the few hours since I saw the doctor, I hugged two friends, laughed with my boys, kissed my husband, talked to my sister, and snuggled my dog. I am blessed beyond measure. It's just that I am at sort of a breaking point with The Sickness...it seems to be controlling me more than I am controlling it.

The mug said it all.

Confessions

Old Man Winter blew into our city last night with a vengeance, and it seems he is settling in for a few days. I have some excited little cowboys who are not going to school today. It's going to be a Netflix-watching, pajama-wearing kind of day.

And I have to confess that it won't be the first day that I've stayed in my pjs recently. I've had a rough go of it lately. It started on my last treatment day, when the woman in the chair next to me cried the whole time. It was her first chemo treatment, and she was scared. Part of me wanted to comfort her, but most of me was annoyed and angry--angry that she had to be there, angry that I had to be there, and angry at cancer in general. That treatment room is a terrible place. Cutesy ribbons and bows on the IV poles and cheery green plants on a desk can not disguise the reality of what goes on there. It's awful, and I hate it.

The side effects of last week's treatment were tough. They always are, but for some reason I had a more difficult time bouncing back. My emotional state is directly related, to a degree, to my physical pain. The more my body hurts, the more my heart hurts. Tuesdays are treatment days. I typically go pretty early in the morning, and I am back home by lunch time. I like to stop off at Schlotzsky's on my way home and grab lunch, sort of like a reward for myself for enduring the morning. My order is always the same: a small original sandwich, hold the lettuce, onion, and tomato. I get home, change into my pajamas, pop the first of several pain pills, and eat my sandwich. Then I put my best game face on, deal with it, and wait to feel better.

Only this time, Wednesday morning came and I did nothing. I didn't shower or change clothes. I didn't put on makeup. I didn't dig deep and look for the silver lining. I'm not even sure I brushed my teeth. I just let myself be sad. I looked for the closest pool of self-pity and jumped in. I watched kid TV with Baby during the day, and when it came time for church that evening, I did not make the boys go. It was just too much effort. Good mom, right?

Then it was Thursday. I had to do something very hard that brought to light some tough issues. I've said it before, and I'll say it again here: I am not the only one affected by The Sickness. My suffering is not solitary; the sorrow isn't isolated. On that particular day, it simply felt like more than I could bear.

On Friday night, my family chose from these three options for dinner: blueberry Eggos, chocolate chip Eggos, and cinnamon microwave pancakes. Again, the mundane everyday task of preparing a meal required more than I had to give.

I am facing another scan within the next couple of weeks, followed by a meeting with Dr. M. That meeting will determine what we do next. I asked my chemo nurse, and she said he more than likely will want me to continue with the maintenance chemo, in spite of its "uncomfortable" side effects. The reasons are solid: theoretically, the longer I suppress cancer cells with the chemo, the longer it will be before they can grow again. Makes sense.

But the anxiety and depression I feel knowing what's coming is ridiculous. Nearly one year after the start of Chapter 2, I still find it hard to believe that this will be the rest of my life. When I started this journey, I said that I did not want to lose myself and be identified by The Sickness. But more and more, I am afraid that is exactly what has happened. Pretty much everything I do (or don't do--i.e. cooking dinner!) is determined by how strong or sick I feel. I don't make plans without checking to see when my next treatment day will be. I don't laugh like I used to, or even cry like I used to. Not too long ago, I watched Steel Magnolias with my Bible Study sisters, and I didn't shed a tear when Shelby died. Not one. I was stone-faced when M'Lynn lost it in the cemetery. And I can't remember for certain, but I don't think I even laughed when Clairee offered up Ouiser as a sacrifice for her friend.

I am reading a book right now titled The Gift of an Ordinary Day by Katrina Kenison. The author is a mother of two sons, and the book is her memoir. In reading, I have captured a glimpse of what I want more than anything: plain old, ordinary days. Mornings that allow me to sleep as late as I want to instead of my wake-up time being dictated by last night's medication. Afternoons that are open for game-playing or park-going or just plain lazing around with my cowboys. Evenings that invite us to share a home-cooked meal on the back patio and count the airplanes that fly by or wonder about the rooster that we can hear through our neighbor's fence. Days that are blank squares on my calendar instead of doctor appointments. Days that don't involve pills or IVs. Days that I can look in the mirror and like what I see. Normal. Is that really too much to ask for?

A Quick Goodbye

Dear Friends, Family, and People who stumbled across this blog by accident:

Today I am leaving the great state of Texas (just for a while!) and the not-so-great year of 2010 behind. As you know, I am jetsetting to Florida with the people I love the most. As we were packing yesterday--and believe me, that was an adventure all by itself!--I got to thinking about the trip and what it really means to me. Tonight I will sit with lots of other folks and watch a fireworks show to welcome in 2011. I'm not sad to see 2010 go. It's been, without a doubt, THE most trying, difficult year of my entire life. Never before have I known such loss, felt such sorrow, or asked so many questions. But if I were to be honest, I would have to admit that it's been one of the greatest years of my life as well. Although the circumstances have been (and continue to be) less than ideal, I have seen God move, work, provide, and bless over and over and over again. He has been faithful, even when I have not been. Cancer is an unwelcome guest in my life, but it is also the agent by which I have experienced grace in its truest form. That is something I wouldn't trade for anything.

I will say goodbye to 2010 in high style tonight, and I am praying that the new year brings better days. But be assured that the lessons and memories of this year will not soon be forgotten!

One more thing. To those of you who have played a part in orchestrating my ChristMUST wish: The excitement in my house is through the roof! We have already had so much fun planning and packing! I covet your prayers this week as my family celebrates life together. My four guys and my precious parents have been through so much this year...I often say that cancer happened to them, too. I just can't tell you enough what this gift means to all of us. Thanks once again for the opportunity to have fun and just BE TOGETHER. To me, that's magic!

Blessings and God's best in 2011!

~Allyson

A BIG Surprise

Our merry little Christmas was topped off with a BIG surprise for the little cowboys! Several weeks ago, some friends in Houston contacted my mother and shared with her that they wanted to do something special to make Christmas a little brighter for me and my family. Never in my wildest imagination could I have dreamed up what that "something" might be!

Hubby and I wanted to keep it a secret from the boys until Christmas morning. After the Christmas melee was over and we'd eaten breakfast, we sat them down and gave them each one more gift.

We got boxes!

T-shirts? We don't get it.

WE'RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!!

Opening Disney Dollars from Nana and Poppy.
Little Middle: "Mom, is this a credit card?"

After the gifts were opened and the great cat was out of the bag, we called Nana and Poppy to say "thank you" for the Christmas gifts. That was when the final surprise came out: Not only are the five of us going to Disney World, but my parents are going, too! The boys were hootin', hollerin', and running in crazy circles!

In just a matter of weeks, hundreds of people in five different states donated money, airline miles, and other resources to make this trip possible. Every last detail, from park admission down to luggage fees, has been taken care of. There is a travel agent who worked feverishly to put together an itinerary so that we don't miss a thing. Meals are paid for, and we are even having breakfast one morning with Chef Mickey!

My Goliath will turn 9 while we are in Florida. I can't think of a better place for my gentle giant to spend his birthday than at Disney. Our friends arranged a special birthday surprise for him...I absolutely can't WAIT to see his face!

This Friday, seven very excited people will head to DFW airport to catch a plane to Orlando. We will be in the Magic Kingdom in time to watch the fireworks and ring in the new year. We will return to DFW next Thursday. I fully expect that we will be tired, happy, and chock full of memories that will last a lifetime.

To Our ChristMUST Wish Friends:

You are amazing. We are simply blown away by your generosity, your love, and your friendship. Many of you don't even know us, but you have shown us the love of Christ and given us great joy this holiday season. God has allowed us to walk a very dark and difficult road this year. There have been many days that I wasn't sure that I could, or even wanted to, take the next step. But along the way, God has been faithful to place people in my path who could cheer, encourage, and pray. "Thank you" is so inadequate to express how grateful I am that all of you allowed Him to use you in such a special way. But for now...Thank you for lightening my load and giving me something to look forward to (and brag to the chemo crew about!). Thank you for making my husband happy. Thank you for the smiles on my boys' faces. Thank you for the delight and excitement I hear in my parents' voices when I talk to them.

"The joy of brightening other lives, bearing each others' burdens, easing other's loads and supplanting empty hearts and lives with generous gifts becomes for us the magic of Christmas."--W.C. Jones

Thank you for giving us such a magical and grand gift! Surely I am the most blessed lady in the world, because I am loved. My cup runneth over.

Joyfully,

Allyson

P.S. I will try to post small updates and pictures on Facebook while we are gone. Watch for them!

The Second Verse

I grew up in a great church where the foundation was laid for my faith. I memorized Scripture there, I made lifelong friends there, and I learned to worship, particularly through music. Our church services had a healthy dose of hymns with a generous sprinkling of praise choruses, circa 1980s: "Majesty," "We Bring the Sacrifice of Praise," and "As the Deer" stand out in my mind. I still remember that "How Great Thou Art" was #2 in the hymnal.

We don't use that hymnal much these days. My kids are learning song lyrics from a screen in the worship center rather than the hymnal in the pew. In fact, I'm certain that that hymnal is not much more to them than a hard book to put under their children's bulletins that they work on during the sermon! And that makes me a little sad.

When I was growing up, sometimes I would get bored during the sermon. My mother suggested once that I listen carefully and write down all of the words I didn't understand. The only word I walked away with was "multitude," with a bunch of tally marks for every time the preacher said it. Sometimes I would pass the time reading the hymnal. Yes, I know it's kind of a dorky thing to do. But that opened my eyes to what I now consider to be often-overlooked treasures: the second verse. We always sing the first verse of a hymn, and often the third or fourth. But why not the second?

It's no wonder, then, that I was surprised in a good way as I was driving around town running errands with the radio on this week. "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" has a second verse that strikes my heart and meets me right where I am this Christmas:

And ye, beneath life's crushing load

Whose forms are bending low

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow,

Look now! for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing

O rest beside the weary load

And hear the angels sing.

Every step I take feels painful and slow, and sometimes even backwards. Even my commitment to seek out joy this holiday season seems like a mountain in and of itself some days. I will gladly accept the invitation to leave my load beside the manger and listen to the angels sing.

And I will sing along...with my hymnal open.

Scared

It is an awful feeling to wake up in the morning and think, "Today is the day I will find out if I have cancer in my body."

That is how my day began. Before I even opened my eyes this morning, my heart was pounding, my stomach was sinking, and I was begging God for favor. Maybe I should back up a bit... On Tuesday, I went to the hospital for my every-three-months-regularly-scheduled scan. This was a CT scan, much more difficult and not as detailed as a PET scan. When I got to the hospital and checked in, the technician took me and my sweet mom to a back waiting room and delivered 1 1/2 hours worth of barium sulfate. I had to drink a certain amount every 10 minutes. Let's just say that the more I drank, the faster the 10 minute mark kept coming! Before I even had time to rejoice that the cocktail was gone, the tech returned and whisked me back to what is really a closet with a chair in it. She started an IV, and then we went to the imaging room.

I've lost count of the number of times I've laid on that table, trying to follow the instructions from the automated machine: "Breathe in. Hold your breath." Whrrrrr. "Release your breath." Whrrrrr. Up, down, in, out. If I open my eyes, when the table moves me out of the machine, I can see what I'm sure is supposed to be a peaceful scene on the ceiling--a flowing brook surrounded by towering trees. I much prefer to close my eyes, but then all I can see are the faces of my boys. Desperate terror was what I felt on Tuesday. I think I might have tried to jump off that table and run away, except that 1) I was trapped in the imaging tunnel, and 2) I had a needle in my arm that attached me to an IV pole. So instead, I did the only thing I knew to do: I recited Scripture. A scripture, to be exact: Isaiah 26:3. "You will keep me in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on you, because I trust in you." (paraphrases mine) Over and over again.

The scan takes less than 10 minutes, but it seemed so much longer than that. Finally, it was done and I was free to go. I collected my things and my mother and practically ran for the parking lot. Once we were safely in the car, I lost it. I simply could not contain the anxiety and fear any longer.

I don't know why I feel so terrified every single time I have to go there. Besides the obvious, I mean. I think it's natural to feel scared. The threat is very real. But after all this time, why do I start to hyperventilate when the hospital comes in sight? Why do my hands shake when I enter the office? Why do I still cry? I'm not nearly as brave as I want to be, or as good as I should be. I feel like if I were, then 2 Timothy 1:7 would not resonate with me like it does: "For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-discipline."


Mom, Baby, and I passed the waiting hours of Wednesday doing a little Christmas shopping while the big boys were at school. After school, there were spelling words to practice, friends to play with, and iCarly to watch. I'm pretty sure I've seen every episode of iCarly that there is. We went to bed early, and that brings us back to this morning. "Today is the day I will find out if I have cancer in my body."


As it turns out, the scan was clear. The emotions I felt with that news were a mixed bag: Relief, fear, joy, sorrow. Of course it was good news! It was exactly what I, along with so many of you, have prayed for. In the back of my mind, though, I can still feel the fear creeping in. This clear scan is just a reprieve...a temporary sigh of relief. The Sickness will be back, unless God overrules medicine (and He absolutely could choose to do that!).


I explained it to a close friend this afternoon this way: I feel like Eeyore, who always moved around with a dark cloud hovering over his head. No matter where he went or what he did, that cloud stayed with him. That's me. The cloud of cancer follows me everywhere. Just because it's not raining right now doesn't mean it isn't there or that I am not acutely aware of it. It permeates everything I think and do. It threatens to open up and pour down on me at any time. And do you want to know the truth? I am scared of it.


I hate that I'm scared. I want to be brave. My boys make me want to be brave. Whether or not my time with them is cut short, I desperately want them to remember that I trusted my Lord with all that I had. I want them to know that I faced the Sickness, if not cheerfully, than certainly with a welcoming spirit for the challenge. I want them to know that they were worth fighting for, and that the strength that I had to fight came from above.


Tonight I cooked one of their favorite dinners and we celebrated the good news with root beer floats. Watching them enjoy their desserts, I breathed a prayer of thanks that there is "no evidence of recurrent or metastatic disease." I asked God to help me slow down and be present in the here and now, and most of all, to help me get a handle on that spirit of power, love, and self-discipline. If God is for me, who can be against me?

This and That

I know there hasn't been much activity on the blog lately, but that's really because there hasn't been much to say. Cancer, along with its many sorrows and joys, is still with me. The new maintenance regimen is much better than before, but it is still chemotherapy. It's difficult. I am having a CT scan next Tuesday, and a follow-up meeting with Dr. M on Thursday. We anticipate that all will be clear, as expected, and he will recommend marching forward with what I'm already doing. Still, there is much anxiety as the day approaches. I would appreciate your prayers.

Now, how about a little of this and a bit of that to catch up?

*Little Middle lost three teeth in four days. The Tooth Fairy is going broke. And he came home from school today with the announcement that another one is loose!

*I upgraded some of our Christmas decor this year. I figured after 12 years of marriage, we deserve a new tree skirt. Thank you, Hobby Lobby, for your over-the-top-after-Thanksgiving sales!

*Speaking of Christmas decorations, Hubby and Goliath hung lights outside. We want to do outside lights every year, but it doesn't always get done. Ahem. Anyway, while they were working, I heard maniacal laughter from the backyard. Turns out that Little Middle climbed up on the roof and JUMPED OFF onto the trampoline. Be still, my heart.

*Baby's favorite indoor "decoration" is the Little People nativity set. He is constantly rearranging the the animals and the characters, and pushing the angel down so she will "sing." He loves to sing along to Away in the Manger, and I cracked up when I heard his sweet voice sing "the little Bo Jesus laid down his sweet head." I mentioned that the right lyrics are "little LORD Jesus," and he said, "Hmmm. I always thought it was Bo Jesus." He keeps on singing it that way.

*Goliath is going to be Penguin #7 in the school Christmas play. It reminds me of this.

*I was totally blessed by two groups of MOPS moms from my church who adopted me as their "service project." One group took three baskets of our laundry to the laundromat, and the other group went to the grocery store for me. I literally wept when I saw the full refrigerator and the baskets of neatly folded clothes.

*Christmas came early for Hubby this year. He is the proud owner of his first new car since 1998. Believe me, he deserves it.

*I am on a personal mission to seek out joy this holiday season. It isn't coming as naturally to me as it usually does, so I am being very intentional about looking for it.

*While we were in Houston, my brother invited my boys over to his house for Nephew Camp. It might be the greatest thing that's ever happened to them--they are still talking about it! Baby now wants to get a Christmas tree to use in his room for a nightlight, because "that's what Uncle Phil let us have."

*I could probably construct a small temporary shelter with the lint I pulled out of my dryer today.

*Gus the dog is no longer my friend. He ATE the blue cover that goes over the trampoline springs, for crying out loud! What's worse, he doesn't much care what I think of him. He only has eyes for Hubby.

*Princess Puppy Love has stiff joints now that the weather is cold. Watching her struggle to get up and down (and I don't mean because she's plump) makes it easier to forgive finding her hairs on my new black sweater.

*I am not a fan of the new hair growing on my head. It is curly and it is the color of ugly dirt. The good news is that my eyelashes are finally growing back.

*When Hubby changed jobs back in September, we paid to COBRA our health insurance for about six weeks, until his new benefits kicked in. They were quick to take our money, but have yet to pay out one single claim that my doctor's office has made. What's more, we haven't been able to do much about it because we didn't get our ID cards until two weeks after COBRA was up. This has been so frustrating!

*Every single room in my house has at least a few silly bandz scattered around the floor.

*When I got up this morning, I got my glasses off my nightstand. It wasn't until I turned on the lights in the kitchen that I realized I was wearing my sunglasses.

*Goliath did a family tree project for social studies. I enjoyed helping him put together the information and telling him stories about the memories I have of my great-grandparents.

*One of my favorite things my husband does for me is to get the coffee pot ready every night. Each morning when I get up, there is already fresh coffee waiting!

*I bought something on Cyber Monday for the first time ever.

Plan B

It's been a ho-hum sort of week--and it's only Tuesday. Some of my blah-ness comes from the fact that my eyelashes are falling out again. I've been watching them with suspicion for several days, but yesterday morning when I was putting on makeup I realized there weren't even enough there to justify mascara. I called my mom at 6:30 a.m. crying.

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things, eyelashes don't matter. Hair won't get me to heaven. My husband won't judge the temperature of our relationship on whether or not I can flutter my eyelashes at him. The boys won't remember that Mommy's makeup looked different from other mommies. But to me, in the here and now, it matters. It suddenly seemed to matter even more after I questioned my chemo nurse about it, and she told me that there is a very real possibility that I could re-lose the hair on my head as well.

I recently read Plan B by Pete Wilson. A friend gave it to me and wrote inside the book that it was "a good read, probably one you could've written." BD, I'm sure you didn't mean for this book to tear me apart, but that's pretty much what happened. It's been a long time since a book has affected me to the degree that this one did. And I think it got to me because the premise of the whole book is this: What do you do when God doesn't show up for you in the way you thought He would? That question is one I've wrestled with for quite a while now.

I had lots of dreams and plans once upon a time. Those plans might have looked mundane and boring to some people, but for the most part, I've always known what I wanted from life. It was simple: I wanted to fall in love, get married, raise a family, and live happily ever after. Yes, I went to college, and yes, there are days that I think wistfully of that framed diploma gathering dust in a box in our garage. Some days I think I would rather run an office than a carpool, or I would like to make money instead of cookies. But my four guys remind me that I'm living my dream, and even on the hard days, I know I wouldn't trade it for anything.

In the summer of 2007, though, my little world came to a screeching halt with a cancer diagnosis. It had never occurred to me that I could become Wife and Mommy and then get sick. Since then, and especially this year, I have had to abandon my perfect Plan A for my life and accept Plan B. Plan B means that instead of giving my family homecooked meals every night, I am ordering more than my fair share of pizza. It means that some other kid's parent gets to share a new experience with my son because I can't go on his field trip. Plan B means that my Goliath frets like a little old man when he is away from me because he is fearful that something will happen and I won't come back. Under Plan B, my husband digs through a basket of wrinkled laundry to find clean clothes. I hate Plan B.

If I didn't feel like the cloud of cancer was hovering over me so closely, I might find it humorous that God allowed this to happen to me. Really, God? Me, of all people? The girl who despises change and upset in the order of things?

"Your dreams may not be happening, and things aren't turning out the way you expected, but that doesn't mean your life is spinning out of control. It just means you're not in control." (Wilson) Ouch. No doubt about it: I am definitely not in control here. I have spent much of the last 9 months asking God for a way out, begging Him for relief. I couldn't count the number of times I have said, "I just want my life back."

Ironic, huh? I have walked with Christ for most of my life, but when we came to this, THE thing, I misstepped. I allowed fear and anger and uncertainty to creep in too close, and I begged God to give me what wasn't mine to begin with. I gave my life to Him a long time ago. I promised my husband on our wedding day that I would do my best to love him in sickness and in health--why would I do less for my God?

This season of maintenance chemotherapy is hard. I fully expected that it would be much easier, both physically and emotionally, because--hey! I survived chemotherapy! The reality is far removed from my expectations. It still feels like chemo: I am tired, I'm taking LOTS of meds, I'm losing hair. The difference is that before, life was spinning around me, and now it is trying to sweep me along with it. A lot of days I feel like such a fake! On the outside, everything appears to be fine, but on the inside, I'm barely holding it together. What I know in my head doesn't match up with what I feel in my heart.

One of my favorite quotes comes from Andy Stanley: "Every day we have this choice to make. Am I going to define God by interpreting my circumstances or am I going to simply trust that God is who he says he is?"

My Plan B isn't at all what I expected, and certainly not what I wanted. But I think maybe I'm making it harder than it has to be by over-thinking. I might not ever know why God allowed this suffering. I'm not sure why it seems that He is silent at times when I need Him the most. Maybe it's time, though, for me to pull it together. "We're called to be faithful to God even when it seems he hasn't been faithful to us. We're called to love him even when we feel abandoned. We're called to look for him even in the midst of the darkness. We're called to worship him even though our tears." (Wilson)

When darkness veils His lovely face, I rest on His unchanging grace.

In every high and stormy gale, my anchor holds within the veil.

His oath, His covenent, His blood, support me in the whelming flood.

When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay.

I choose to continue to look deeper and love more, trusting Him through my Plan B.

Hopeful

I met with my oncologist yesterday. The appointment was not routine, rather, I requested the meeting in order to discuss the difficulties I have been having with maintenance chemotherapy. A bit of background: When I began maintenance chemo in August, I was told that it would be no big deal in comparison with the IP chemo I had just completed. I was assured that I could resume my regular activities and that I would feel much like my old self. The nurse told me then that the maintenance chemo would be "just like drinking water." Well, someone apparently poisoned the water hole. The maintenance has been horrible. I have experienced many of the same symptoms that I had with the regular IP chemo: debilitating leg pain, prolonged headaches, and EXTREME fatigue, to name a few. The big difference is that with IP chemo, I could plan to be sick for a few days, but I knew I would gradually feel better before it came around again. On the maintenance regimen, I am always either going to chemo or recovering from having been there. It is a constant cycle of misery and trying hard to get ahead. Even worse, my precious family is paying a very high price. I have been unable to do much of what I normally would. My Hubby is trying to take over for me in a lot of ways, but he is exhausted. I am doing minimal mothering, and the little cowboys deserve better.

So I said that to Dr. M. I told him that the quality of life that I have with the maintenance protocol is unacceptable to me and my family. I told him that I needed a change. I was worried that he might try to assure me that everything is fine, so I was greatly relieved when I described my symptoms to him and he said, "None of these things should be happening!" Good--I thought I was going crazy. We spent quite a while hashing out the details of a new chemo plan. In the end, it looked like this: I will not be receiving Taxol at all anymore. The once-a-week Taxol IV has been replaced with a once-a-day-Cytoxan pill (When I googled Cytoxan, one of the search results was "types of medicine for cats with breast cancer." Yikes!). The Cytoxan is another chemo drug--not as preferred as Taxol--but well-tolerated and effective. I will continue to receive Avastin as an antibody every other week and participate in the clinical study for that drug. The schedule remains the same: I will have a CT scan at the end of this cycle (mid-November), and another scan at the end of the sixth cycle (February-ish). At that time, if no new cancer shows up, I will be released from therapy and we will continue to monitor with scans and physical exams.

In addition to working out the chemotherapy mess, I also felt ready--sort of--to ask some hard questions. Up until now, we have dealt with whatever issue was at hand and pushed all of the looking-into-the-future things to the side. As my body and my treatment have changed, however, so has my thinking. As much as I wish it could be different, my reality is that my body is affected by a life-threatening illness. I very much want for Dr. M to tell me that without a doubt, I will live to be a very old woman. I want to hear that I will raise my little boys to be fine men. That I will sit in the front row at their high school graduations, that I will take them to college, and after I leave them in a dorm room somewhere, that I will go home and bake cookies for the care packages that I will send them. I want him to say that I will dance at their weddings and that their wives will be the daughters I never had. I want him to say that there will be plenty of time for Hubby and me to travel together, and to build our dream house with a huge porch where we will sip coffee in our rocking chairs when we are very old (but still very much in love). So I just asked him: Best guess...what does my future look like?

Deep breath. Almost certainly, the cancer will return. Hopefully it will be a few years, during which time I will live like I want to live instead of living according to what cancer dictates. When it does come back, it will most likely redevelop in the pelvic region, and everything I've done this year will need to be done again. Will cancer kill me? Maybe, maybe not. Dr. M is noncommittal, although we got a big lecture about the power of positive thinking.

All in all, the news and the steps taken have left me cautiously optimistic. I have been so sick for so long that I almost expect the next thing, whatever it is, to be bad. Today my weary body and my discouraged heart feel ready. I am ready to try again, and encouraged to start putting one foot in front of the other. The journey is l-o-n-g, and the steps are so small. At the same time, my God is SO BIG. Even in my days of despair, He has been faithful and excessive in the ways that He shows His love for me.

"I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul. You have not handed me over to the enemy but have set my feet in a spacious place." Psalm 31:7-8

I am trusting You, Lord, as we take these next small steps together. Give me the will to keep up the good fight and to keep pointing back to You. Help me to be the best wife and mom that I can be to my guys. Thank you for walking with me and flooding the path with Your light when I can't see where to go or what to do. I will continue to hold tightly to Your hand and follow Your lead. Amen.

I Want to Say...

I wrote a new post earlier today while I was in the chemo room. I went back and read it, and realized it did not make a bit of sense. Crazy drugs and crazy people will do that to you. The crazies will also crush your ability to put together coherent thoughts, stand up straight for any length of time, or tolerate any noise/chaos/changes without wanting to pull your hair out (if you had any to pull).

I have a lot to say, but I don't feel like I am able to get it down well enough or fast enough to justify telling it. Would you put up with one more bullet point list? Thanks. I want to say:

*That maintenance chemo is harder than regular "big" chemo in a lot of ways. At the top of the list: Going every single week. Thursday used to be my favorite day of the week, and now it is my least favorite. Even The Office can't make Thursdays OK for me anymore.

*After suffering debilitating leg pain, days-long headaches, and extreme fatigue, I spoke up and told Nurse Stephani that maintenance chemo was not at all like "drinking water," as I was told it would be. She agreed that something is amiss in the way my body is responding to the treatment; I have an appointment scheduled with Dr. M on October 18th to discuss what could possibly be wrong and what we should do to fix it.

*I talked with each of my boys and now have their blessing to walk around the house with my head uncovered. Goliath told me that I "look like Uncle Phil, only a girl" with my "new" hair growing in.

*Gus the dog is able to get into more trouble now that he's tall enough to reach more stuff. His cousin Moose refers to him as "that giant puppy."

*I really want to take the boys to the state fair, but I don't know if we can make that happen this year.

*I like to mark in my books when I read. I just finished a book that is so marked up, I don't know if it will even be helpful when I go back to look for something specific. This book tore me up in a good way, and it took me forever to read it because I kept having to stop and absorb the information and apply it to my situation. It is entitled to its own post later on.

*We are being blessed by friends bringing dinner to our house twice a week while I am doing maintenance chemo. A lot of those friends don't seem to think that their gift of food is adequate. Hear me loud and clear, you cooking pals 'o mine: There are days (like today!) when your aluminum dishes full of warm goodness make me stand in the kitchen and cry tears of gratitude. You are doing for my family what I can not do, and that is HUGE to me.

*Earlier this week, city workers came out to repair the sidewalk in front of our house. Baby and I went out and sat on the grass and watched the workers mix, pour, and smooth concrete for the new sidewalk. Little boys love big trucks, and he was a terrific mix of wonder and questions. I love that littlest man, and I loved making that memory with him. He reminds me why I must press on and keep giving everything I have.

*The Neulasta injection I receive every month costs $4,150.00. For ONE SHOT. Let that sink in.

*Insurance is so necessary, but is also such a pain in the rear.

*I love my job. I appreciate it even more now for the sense of normalcy it brings to my life.

*I still have two kids who need Halloween costumes.

*It is hard for me to answer when people ask me "How are you feeling?". I want to be honest, but I don't want to sound like I'm complaining.

*I really wish my sister and brother lived close to me, but I'm thankful for my very cool brother-in-law who does.

*My family is getting used to Hubby being at work all day. We are all adjusting to the new schedule, and we all really like it (especially the part where he comes home)!

*I've had a few lay-it-all-on-the-table talks with God lately. I've been very honest in telling Him that I am weary, and I just don't think I have what it takes to keep on going. I cry. I whine. I beg for Him to make it all go away. He tells me that He is nearby (Psalm 14:17), that I am safe (Psalm 91:1-2), that He has good plans for me (Jeremiah 29:11), and that there should still be joy in the midst of my troubles (James 1:2-3).

*A couple of friends put on a Pampered Chef show a few weeks ago from which all proceeds were to be donated to Team Allyson. I don't know what kind of funds a typical show nets, but it seems like everyone I know bought something! I am so grateful, and so humbled. Thank you, friends.

Ultimate Chemo Brain

My sister and her mister were in town this weekend for the Texas-OU game. I don't want to discuss the game itself, or the fact that they ate a deep-fried PopTart at the fair, so I will entertain you with a true story of chemo brain instead.

I fixed Waikiki Meatballs for dinner last night (thanks, Dee!) and there was enough to feed my hungry Seester when they got back from the fairgrounds. I fixed her a plate piled high with meatballs, rice, steamed sugar snap peas, and bread. I handed it to her, she set it down on the table and excused herself to the bathroom. While she was gone, I cleared the table of all remaining dishes,--including her untouched dinner--brushed all food into the trash can, and loaded the dishwasher. When Jenny came back to the kitchen, she said, "Hey, who took my food?" And you know what I did? I helped her look for it. Oh, yes, I did.

Thank you, chemotherapy, for destroying my brain cells but giving my family a reason to laugh at me.