It’s hard to believe that a year ago I was waiting for results of a CT Scan and expecting to be told that my GCT had returned. I will always remember the elation of getting the phone call from my Gynaecologist telling me that the scan was clear. That was definitely the best Christmas gift ever.
I am still feeling wonderful (knock on wood as I don’t want to curse it) and looking forward to spending Christmas with our sons and two boisterous grandchildren. The year has gone by so quickly! My wonderful Mom always said that as I got older, the time would fly by faster every year. She was so right! And I am only 53..... I can’t imagine what it will be like in 20 years!
But for the record, things weren’t exactly perfect. I had a rough fall psychologically with no discernable explanation at the time for the emotional roller coaster I was on. Health wise, everything seemed to be fine. But as I come out of that ‘doom and gloom’ fog I was in, there seems to be one dominant thought factor. I am still missing the companionship of a canine friend, even more so now than last year at this time. I thought that, after nearly 2 years, I would have gotten used to not having a four-legged, hair shedding, pesty little critter around, but guess that is not to be. I have had a pet for way too many years and I think this is the longest that I have gone without.
I am hoping that this urge will pass. I have no immediate plans to run out and find a replacement, mainly because I can’t imagine as strong a bond with another animal as I had with Rocky. But also because my husband and I have plans to travel and a dog would definitely tie us down. So I will persevere.... Wish me luck!!
Merry Christmas everyone!!
And until next time ........
~ BOptimistic! ~
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
THE UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE – Living with Ovarian Cancer
In 2009, I was asked to be the Speaker at the Grand Lake Relay for Life Survivor dinner. I was honoured to accept the invitation. This is my cancer story. I am finally ready to share it with you.
THE UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE – Living with Ovarian Cancer
I am facing mortality. Well, not quite, or at least I haven’t been given my walking papers yet. But every so often mortality peeks around the corner, just checking in to make sure I remember that each day is precious and reminding me that I won’t be around here forever.
OK, no one likes to talk about cancer. But there are very few people who are unable to use the word “cancer” in the same sentence when talking about themselves, a friend, or a loved one.
So, just to soften this conversation up a bit, I’d like to give mortality a name. I’ll call him “Mo”; that sounds a little less intimidating, don’t you think? I personally compare Mo to that distant family member that just pops in for a visit every so often to let you know that he’s still around; that one relative that you really would prefer not to associate with, but hey … Mom always taught you to be nice to your relatives no matter what, right? Well, Mo has been to visit me three times over the past seven years and he’s really wearing out his welcome.
I almost missed Mo’s first visit. Oh, he knocked on the door, but it took me awhile to answer it. He didn’t knock very loud and I didn’t recognize the sound of his tapping. Nor did the group of doctors and specialists I was hanging out with at the time. But once we realized where the sound was actually coming from, there he was. And being his presumptuous self, Mo had brought along a friend, one of those low-life characters that you really don’t want coming in through your front door and getting comfortable in your favourite chair. But I guess Mo thought it was time I met his friend, OC, and her offspring GCT.
Perhaps you’re already familiar with some of OC’s relatives – her lineage runs deep. OC is a descendant of the Cancer family, on the Ovarian side - the group of relatives that usually stays underground plotting and waiting, ready to jump up and yell, “Surprise!” when you least expect it; that fear-mongering, unrelenting group that is difficult to get rid of once they know where you live. And if you don’t know the Ovarian Cancer family personally, I’m sure you know someone who has tales to tell about this group.
For my part, I have to hand it to Mo. He knows that I’ve always liked to stand out in the crowd, even though I would never openly admit it. So just to help me keep up this façade, Mo decided that my visit from OC would be a little different – I would get a chance to really bond with her offspring - a rare sort – Granulosa Cell Tumour - nicknamed GCT. GCT is supposedly friendlier than other members of this clan; a relative that purportedly comes with a much better guarantee policy for a long and fruitful life, providing, of course, that GCT doesn’t get too attached.
Oh, and for good measure (Mo really knows how to rub it in), doctors really don’t know a whole lot about GCT because, it appears, this particular family cluster isn’t big enough yet to get as much attention …… or perhaps this group just isn’t as ‘in your face’ as the other 93% of the family is.
At this point in time, surgery is the standard treatment for GCT. No success has been proven with follow up treatment such as chemo or radiation. So there isn’t even a plausible option at this point other than surgery. So, thus far at least, I have not been exposed to the dreaded effects of either treatment. I personally see that as a good thing - at least during this stage of the game - which might surprise some people; but that’s something my Oncologist and I will, hopefully, never have to discuss.
When I was first diagnosed as having GCT in 2002, I had one malignant tumour the size of a small watermelon plus a benign grapefruit size Dermoid Cyst which I lovingly nicknamed Harry. These were removed from my abdomen along with my ovaries, uterus, cervix … well, you get the point. But the good news was that not only was the deadly C removed from my body, no more monthly cycles for me!! Mo also knew how I felt about that. Thanks for that one, Mo!
My tumour was packed up and shipped off to a lab in Toronto and was staged as 1C. I’m sure that being familiar with cancer staging, you all know that this is good. The cancer was in the early stages and still contained – it hadn’t spread to other organs.
I was informed by my gynecologist that there was a very good chance that it would not return and also given the upper hand on the odds – 95% in my favour. But return it did – in 2007. We’ll probably never be certain why GCT came back for a visit, but this time there were four tumours. Perhaps it was because during my first surgery the tumour ruptured and possibly “seeded” in the abdominal cavity. Perhaps the tumours had already started sprouting but were just too tiny to be noticed. Perhaps … perhaps … perhaps - A waste of time pondering that one; they were back - period.
But Mo had a battle on his hands. I refused to give in to the “poor me” syndrome. I referred to my circumstances, and still do, as a speed bump in the highway of life; very similar to a pregnancy – once it’s in there, it has to come out. These four guys had to go!
So once again I was faced with the probability of “going under” and not “coming back up.” I’m sure I’m not alone with that fear and that anyone who has undergone surgery can relate to this apprehension. Should I say my good-byes now just in case? Should I write little notes to friends and family telling them how much I love them? Should I put someone’s name on the underside of all of my favourite possessions so each item gets passed on to the person of my choosing, saving my husband the stress and hassle of divvying up the things that he will never use – my craft supplies, my guitar, my treadmill? Oh wait a minute; I don’t use any of those things either!!
Well, that was two years ago. I survived that surgery, albeit with a little excitement when the surgeons had trouble turning off the tap on one of my blood vessels. I was topped up with two litres of blood to replace what I lost and, after several more hours than initially estimated, I was back in my room and once again on the road to recovery.
I thought I would be out of the woods, so to speak, for at least another four or five years. But Mo had other plans. About a week before Christmas 2007, less than a year after my previous surgery, I had my first indication that something was amiss; a sharp pain in my lower left abdomen followed by a discomfort that lasted for four or five days. I compare this discomfort to how I might feel if I went to the gym and did too many sit-ups in one session.
There was nothing else to indicate a problem; just this pain in my abdomen that was gone, without a trace, within a week. I was actually feeling better than I had in years. I tried to ignore it, hoping beyond hope that I had pulled something while I was tossing about with my grandchildren the previous weekend. But, deep down, I knew that Mo was once again lurking in the shadows, playing peek-a-boo with me, tormenting me.
Mo gave me a chance; he knew that I wouldn’t ignore the clues, that I would eventually give in and get it checked out. But just to make sure I got the hint, Mo started throwing in a few other symptoms that were very familiar to me – headaches, stomach upset, and a frequent requirement for afternoon naps. So, less than two months after the initial pain in my abdomen, I followed my hunches and consulted with my gynecologist. A CT Scan once again confirmed what I already knew. GCT was back.
OK, so if you don’t know me personally, I always try and see the silver lining in any situation, even this one. My husband is amazed with my positivism. My friends ponder my sanity. But I managed to find it - the glimmer of hope that I was seeking. This time there was only one tumour. Perhaps, I thought, it was just a “left over” from the previous occurrence, hidden and gone unnoticed or too tiny to be discovered the previous year.
Needless to say, Mo once again had me in his grips – sitting on the edge, trying to prepare myself for what I was going to hear when I went to visit my oncologist in. Mo’s a smart one. He knows that I hate – no, thoroughly despise - not knowing what is going to happen; especially having to wait any length of time to find out. And, between you and me, it is getting a bit more difficult to remain positive, to not dwell on Mo and what’s in store.
But I’ll tell you my secret for pulling myself back up. When I start to feel sorry for myself I just look around at the world, at this country, at the small Village that I live in. And I realize that things could be a whole lot worse. I’ve had more than 50 years of being loved, spoiled, and admired - at least I think those looks were admiration – and that’s a whole lot more than some people get in a lifetime of 70, 80, even 100 years.
Appointment day 2008 arrived - beautiful, sunny and warm - and off to Halifax we went. It was a great day for a drive and I barely thought of why we were making this journey and just tried to focus on the beauty of the day. That was the best thing I could have done. Had I known what the news would be, the trip would have been much less enjoyable.
The consultation with my Oncologist was disappointing. He explained that, after taking a thorough look at the CT Scan, there appeared to be one obvious tumour and several lesions that could be tumours as well. That wasn’t exactly the news I wanted to hear. I managed to keep my strong façade in play and asked all of the relevant questions that I felt needed answers – Could the larger tumour have been missed last January? (Possibly, but it would be difficult to confirm); Should I be having regular blood work to check my Inhibin levels so we would know sooner when the cancer has returned? (In my case, probably not necessary since I am so in-tune with my symptoms); Do we really have to discuss adjuvant treatments like chemo now? (No, we’ll know more after the surgery and I would have to gain my strength back anyway before treatments could actually begin); How soon can you book me into a suite at the Victoria General? (Probably within three (3) weeks).
The drive home that afternoon was the longest journey I’ve had to make in a long, long time. The wind had been knocked from my sails, so to speak, and for the next few days I let Mo have his way with me, feeding my mind with negative thoughts. But as each day passed my optimism returned and, even though I was exceedingly nervous about the actual surgery and what would be discovered once they were inside, I reminded myself that I was a survivor and that I would deal with whatever hurdles I had to overcome.
Well over a year has passed since my Oncologist and I met in his office to discuss what my options were. I recovered quickly from the surgery and am pleased to say that there were absolutely no complications - there is always the chance that I may come out of surgery with a temporary or permanent colostomy should the tumour be attached to the bowel. Although I know I could deal with this if it came to be, it is always the first question I ask when they bring me out of my deep sleep. It’s amazing what your mind retains.
There was no blood transfusion required last time either. The surgery, my Oncologist tells me, went much better than he expected. I’m a bit apprehensive to ask him what he expected!! Perhaps that’s a question that I will leave unasked. He did, however, advise that the additional spots on the CT scan were not tumours but probably just scar tissue from previous surgeries. I got to do the happy dance after all!!
I remain optimistic. I believe in prayer (both giving and receiving); I believe in miracles; and I’m confident that the old saying “Three times a charm” might actually prove true for me this time.
Whether any of us like to admit it or not, we all have that little fella, Mo, following us around on a daily basis. None of us know when Mo will pay his first visit or which of his friends he’ll bring along. There is no expiry date printed anywhere on our bodies to let us know when our “best before” time runs out or when we will no longer be a living part of this planet; breathing the air, feeling the earth beneath our feet, or hearing the laughter of our friends and family.
But you can be sure that Mo is there, checking in on us every so often. Don’t worry though. He’ll let you know when he’s around by showing up at your gate, albeit sometimes subtly. Just make sure you pay attention to the little knocks on your door. And if he just happens to have one of his friends from the Cancer family with him, learn all you can about that friend’s lineage. It’s a good plan of action to be on familiar terms with your enemies. It makes it easier to know what they might be up to.
Oh, and one more thing. Be forewarned, Mo. You haven’t won this battle. There is a very good chance that I will live to a ripe old age, giving up the ghost because of some other disease, or perhaps even lucky enough to leave this world due to natural causes. But when it comes right down to it, Mo, it’s just a roll of the dice - between you, me and the man upstairs. I like the odds.
Updated June 2009
THE UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE – Living with Ovarian Cancer
I am facing mortality. Well, not quite, or at least I haven’t been given my walking papers yet. But every so often mortality peeks around the corner, just checking in to make sure I remember that each day is precious and reminding me that I won’t be around here forever.
OK, no one likes to talk about cancer. But there are very few people who are unable to use the word “cancer” in the same sentence when talking about themselves, a friend, or a loved one.
So, just to soften this conversation up a bit, I’d like to give mortality a name. I’ll call him “Mo”; that sounds a little less intimidating, don’t you think? I personally compare Mo to that distant family member that just pops in for a visit every so often to let you know that he’s still around; that one relative that you really would prefer not to associate with, but hey … Mom always taught you to be nice to your relatives no matter what, right? Well, Mo has been to visit me three times over the past seven years and he’s really wearing out his welcome.
I almost missed Mo’s first visit. Oh, he knocked on the door, but it took me awhile to answer it. He didn’t knock very loud and I didn’t recognize the sound of his tapping. Nor did the group of doctors and specialists I was hanging out with at the time. But once we realized where the sound was actually coming from, there he was. And being his presumptuous self, Mo had brought along a friend, one of those low-life characters that you really don’t want coming in through your front door and getting comfortable in your favourite chair. But I guess Mo thought it was time I met his friend, OC, and her offspring GCT.
Perhaps you’re already familiar with some of OC’s relatives – her lineage runs deep. OC is a descendant of the Cancer family, on the Ovarian side - the group of relatives that usually stays underground plotting and waiting, ready to jump up and yell, “Surprise!” when you least expect it; that fear-mongering, unrelenting group that is difficult to get rid of once they know where you live. And if you don’t know the Ovarian Cancer family personally, I’m sure you know someone who has tales to tell about this group.
For my part, I have to hand it to Mo. He knows that I’ve always liked to stand out in the crowd, even though I would never openly admit it. So just to help me keep up this façade, Mo decided that my visit from OC would be a little different – I would get a chance to really bond with her offspring - a rare sort – Granulosa Cell Tumour - nicknamed GCT. GCT is supposedly friendlier than other members of this clan; a relative that purportedly comes with a much better guarantee policy for a long and fruitful life, providing, of course, that GCT doesn’t get too attached.
Oh, and for good measure (Mo really knows how to rub it in), doctors really don’t know a whole lot about GCT because, it appears, this particular family cluster isn’t big enough yet to get as much attention …… or perhaps this group just isn’t as ‘in your face’ as the other 93% of the family is.
At this point in time, surgery is the standard treatment for GCT. No success has been proven with follow up treatment such as chemo or radiation. So there isn’t even a plausible option at this point other than surgery. So, thus far at least, I have not been exposed to the dreaded effects of either treatment. I personally see that as a good thing - at least during this stage of the game - which might surprise some people; but that’s something my Oncologist and I will, hopefully, never have to discuss.
When I was first diagnosed as having GCT in 2002, I had one malignant tumour the size of a small watermelon plus a benign grapefruit size Dermoid Cyst which I lovingly nicknamed Harry. These were removed from my abdomen along with my ovaries, uterus, cervix … well, you get the point. But the good news was that not only was the deadly C removed from my body, no more monthly cycles for me!! Mo also knew how I felt about that. Thanks for that one, Mo!
My tumour was packed up and shipped off to a lab in Toronto and was staged as 1C. I’m sure that being familiar with cancer staging, you all know that this is good. The cancer was in the early stages and still contained – it hadn’t spread to other organs.
I was informed by my gynecologist that there was a very good chance that it would not return and also given the upper hand on the odds – 95% in my favour. But return it did – in 2007. We’ll probably never be certain why GCT came back for a visit, but this time there were four tumours. Perhaps it was because during my first surgery the tumour ruptured and possibly “seeded” in the abdominal cavity. Perhaps the tumours had already started sprouting but were just too tiny to be noticed. Perhaps … perhaps … perhaps - A waste of time pondering that one; they were back - period.
But Mo had a battle on his hands. I refused to give in to the “poor me” syndrome. I referred to my circumstances, and still do, as a speed bump in the highway of life; very similar to a pregnancy – once it’s in there, it has to come out. These four guys had to go!
So once again I was faced with the probability of “going under” and not “coming back up.” I’m sure I’m not alone with that fear and that anyone who has undergone surgery can relate to this apprehension. Should I say my good-byes now just in case? Should I write little notes to friends and family telling them how much I love them? Should I put someone’s name on the underside of all of my favourite possessions so each item gets passed on to the person of my choosing, saving my husband the stress and hassle of divvying up the things that he will never use – my craft supplies, my guitar, my treadmill? Oh wait a minute; I don’t use any of those things either!!
Well, that was two years ago. I survived that surgery, albeit with a little excitement when the surgeons had trouble turning off the tap on one of my blood vessels. I was topped up with two litres of blood to replace what I lost and, after several more hours than initially estimated, I was back in my room and once again on the road to recovery.
I thought I would be out of the woods, so to speak, for at least another four or five years. But Mo had other plans. About a week before Christmas 2007, less than a year after my previous surgery, I had my first indication that something was amiss; a sharp pain in my lower left abdomen followed by a discomfort that lasted for four or five days. I compare this discomfort to how I might feel if I went to the gym and did too many sit-ups in one session.
There was nothing else to indicate a problem; just this pain in my abdomen that was gone, without a trace, within a week. I was actually feeling better than I had in years. I tried to ignore it, hoping beyond hope that I had pulled something while I was tossing about with my grandchildren the previous weekend. But, deep down, I knew that Mo was once again lurking in the shadows, playing peek-a-boo with me, tormenting me.
Mo gave me a chance; he knew that I wouldn’t ignore the clues, that I would eventually give in and get it checked out. But just to make sure I got the hint, Mo started throwing in a few other symptoms that were very familiar to me – headaches, stomach upset, and a frequent requirement for afternoon naps. So, less than two months after the initial pain in my abdomen, I followed my hunches and consulted with my gynecologist. A CT Scan once again confirmed what I already knew. GCT was back.
OK, so if you don’t know me personally, I always try and see the silver lining in any situation, even this one. My husband is amazed with my positivism. My friends ponder my sanity. But I managed to find it - the glimmer of hope that I was seeking. This time there was only one tumour. Perhaps, I thought, it was just a “left over” from the previous occurrence, hidden and gone unnoticed or too tiny to be discovered the previous year.
Needless to say, Mo once again had me in his grips – sitting on the edge, trying to prepare myself for what I was going to hear when I went to visit my oncologist in. Mo’s a smart one. He knows that I hate – no, thoroughly despise - not knowing what is going to happen; especially having to wait any length of time to find out. And, between you and me, it is getting a bit more difficult to remain positive, to not dwell on Mo and what’s in store.
But I’ll tell you my secret for pulling myself back up. When I start to feel sorry for myself I just look around at the world, at this country, at the small Village that I live in. And I realize that things could be a whole lot worse. I’ve had more than 50 years of being loved, spoiled, and admired - at least I think those looks were admiration – and that’s a whole lot more than some people get in a lifetime of 70, 80, even 100 years.
Appointment day 2008 arrived - beautiful, sunny and warm - and off to Halifax we went. It was a great day for a drive and I barely thought of why we were making this journey and just tried to focus on the beauty of the day. That was the best thing I could have done. Had I known what the news would be, the trip would have been much less enjoyable.
The consultation with my Oncologist was disappointing. He explained that, after taking a thorough look at the CT Scan, there appeared to be one obvious tumour and several lesions that could be tumours as well. That wasn’t exactly the news I wanted to hear. I managed to keep my strong façade in play and asked all of the relevant questions that I felt needed answers – Could the larger tumour have been missed last January? (Possibly, but it would be difficult to confirm); Should I be having regular blood work to check my Inhibin levels so we would know sooner when the cancer has returned? (In my case, probably not necessary since I am so in-tune with my symptoms); Do we really have to discuss adjuvant treatments like chemo now? (No, we’ll know more after the surgery and I would have to gain my strength back anyway before treatments could actually begin); How soon can you book me into a suite at the Victoria General? (Probably within three (3) weeks).
The drive home that afternoon was the longest journey I’ve had to make in a long, long time. The wind had been knocked from my sails, so to speak, and for the next few days I let Mo have his way with me, feeding my mind with negative thoughts. But as each day passed my optimism returned and, even though I was exceedingly nervous about the actual surgery and what would be discovered once they were inside, I reminded myself that I was a survivor and that I would deal with whatever hurdles I had to overcome.
Well over a year has passed since my Oncologist and I met in his office to discuss what my options were. I recovered quickly from the surgery and am pleased to say that there were absolutely no complications - there is always the chance that I may come out of surgery with a temporary or permanent colostomy should the tumour be attached to the bowel. Although I know I could deal with this if it came to be, it is always the first question I ask when they bring me out of my deep sleep. It’s amazing what your mind retains.
There was no blood transfusion required last time either. The surgery, my Oncologist tells me, went much better than he expected. I’m a bit apprehensive to ask him what he expected!! Perhaps that’s a question that I will leave unasked. He did, however, advise that the additional spots on the CT scan were not tumours but probably just scar tissue from previous surgeries. I got to do the happy dance after all!!
I remain optimistic. I believe in prayer (both giving and receiving); I believe in miracles; and I’m confident that the old saying “Three times a charm” might actually prove true for me this time.
Whether any of us like to admit it or not, we all have that little fella, Mo, following us around on a daily basis. None of us know when Mo will pay his first visit or which of his friends he’ll bring along. There is no expiry date printed anywhere on our bodies to let us know when our “best before” time runs out or when we will no longer be a living part of this planet; breathing the air, feeling the earth beneath our feet, or hearing the laughter of our friends and family.
But you can be sure that Mo is there, checking in on us every so often. Don’t worry though. He’ll let you know when he’s around by showing up at your gate, albeit sometimes subtly. Just make sure you pay attention to the little knocks on your door. And if he just happens to have one of his friends from the Cancer family with him, learn all you can about that friend’s lineage. It’s a good plan of action to be on familiar terms with your enemies. It makes it easier to know what they might be up to.
Oh, and one more thing. Be forewarned, Mo. You haven’t won this battle. There is a very good chance that I will live to a ripe old age, giving up the ghost because of some other disease, or perhaps even lucky enough to leave this world due to natural causes. But when it comes right down to it, Mo, it’s just a roll of the dice - between you, me and the man upstairs. I like the odds.
Updated June 2009
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Dogs - More Than Just Your Best Friend??
A couple of weeks ago I had a visit from a relative on my husband’s side of the family. She had just received news the week before that she had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Horrible news, especially since her husband is presently undergoing an experimental treatment for Stage IV Lymphoma. She is a strong woman, but even strength can wear down when dealt too many cards at once. This is not her first experience with cancer. Her first husband died from cancer related illness and her son went through surgery/treatments a few years back and fortunately is now doing fine. Through it all, she has been the strong one ... the caregiver. What now?
During our conversation, the subject of their little dog came up. I’m sure you’ve heard of studies where dogs have been shown to have a sixth sense when someone has cancer? Well, it appears that their little pooch had been trying to give her a message prior to her diagnosis, but unfortunately, they hadn’t put the clues together. Over the last little while, the dog has been staying close to her – sitting on her knee every time she sat down and pushing its nuzzle into her chest – an action that was unusual in itself since the dog has been loyal to her husband since they first brought it home. Now, after her diagnosis, she understands why the change in loyalty .....
After they left, I started thinking about how Rocky, my dog for 16 ½ years, used to push his head into my abdomen. I always thought he had itchy eyes! Little did I know that he was trying to bring my attention to the Ovarian tumour that was growing inside.
I wish I had known then what I know now. Rocky's persistence may have been a very useful insight into what was wrong with me, saving a lot of unnecessary tests requested by the docs who were looking for everything but cancer.
So, the moral of this story? Pay attention if your dog (or cat) is showing signs of over-friendliness and pushing their heads into parts of your body that dogs normally don't stick their noses. Take note of where they are focusing and see your doctor, pronto!
Until next time ....
~ B-Optimisitic ~
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Reflections ....
Last week, as we took a cruise with the top down to cool off from the day’s mugginess, I seemed to be more aware of my surroundings and very in-tuned to my feelings and emotions.
As we drove past each little “community of residences” within our Village, I couldn’t help but think about the changes that have occurred over the past ten years; the people who no longer live there ... or, in some cases, the people who are no longer living.
For some reason on this particular evening my psyche seemed to stop. All of the memories of these people came crashing in around me, awakening a feeling of sadness and mourning that perhaps I had left bottled up inside and not dealt with as I should. It wasn’t a tear-filled period of time, just a feeling of longing for time to turn back .....
I feel absolutely blessed; but there are times when I can’t help but wonder why I have survived when so many have passed on. It makes me think that there is something that I need to be doing; some reason that I am still here. But perhaps I am doing what is required of me at this time and it’s just not openly visible!
Enjoy your time today. Don’t waste time planning what you need to do tomorrow ... there may not be a tomorrow. If you have a desire to accomplish something in your life – no matter how large or small – make it happen. It is in you. Don’t become that empty house where no one lives.
Until next time ......
~ B-Optimistic ~
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Some Days I Wonder ....
I am in one of those moods ... not sure what emotions I am experiencing, but know that there is definitely a variety of them stirring up something that might – or might not be – good.
A lot has been going on, but not so much affecting me directly. However, isn’t it strange how outside influences can sometimes affect your train of thought and dig into your psyche like a worm in wood?
My biggest personality flaw is worrying about others, to the detriment of my own thoughts and feelings. Putting others first is good, but after a time it can really wear one down. I think that is how I am feeling today.
But, being the optimist that I am, I know tomorrow will be a better day!
Until next time .....
~ B-Optimisitic ~
A lot has been going on, but not so much affecting me directly. However, isn’t it strange how outside influences can sometimes affect your train of thought and dig into your psyche like a worm in wood?
My biggest personality flaw is worrying about others, to the detriment of my own thoughts and feelings. Putting others first is good, but after a time it can really wear one down. I think that is how I am feeling today.
But, being the optimist that I am, I know tomorrow will be a better day!
Until next time .....
~ B-Optimisitic ~
Saturday, June 5, 2010
It's Relay for Life day in my Hometown!
It's hard to believe that it is already that time of the year when Relay for Life gets underway across the country! Today this event is being held in my community and I look forward to seeing a lot of familiar faces from the past four years, and bidding adieu to those who will not be returning. They will forever be in our hearts.
I have been asked by the Relay Committee to read a poem at this year's Luminary Service. This, to me, is quite an honour and I have decided that the occasion warranted an original poem. So, I have taken pen to paper, writing a course of verses to reflect the them of this year's event: Celebrate - Remember - Fight Back.
CELEBRATE … REMEMBER … FIGHT BACK
Written by Brenda L. Despres - Grand Lake Relay for Life - June 2010
This evening we gather as comrades
Who are all here to CELEBRATE life.
The battle we’ve fought makes us stronger
And we smile despite heartache and strife.
We REMEMBER that some go before us
To be there to welcome us home;
Their courage lives on in the memories
That tonight, in this forum, will roam.
We strive for our health and our dignity
And against this disease we’ll prevail;
We’ll FIGHT BACK ‘til the battle is over
For the healthy, the stable, the frail.
So join hands with the person you’re next to
And share memories of those you hold dear;
We are walking tonight to conquer this beast
So our children can live without fear.
United we march into battle
We’ll continue to fight ‘til we win
Until cancer becomes just a memory
And we’ve defeated that demon within.
I have been asked by the Relay Committee to read a poem at this year's Luminary Service. This, to me, is quite an honour and I have decided that the occasion warranted an original poem. So, I have taken pen to paper, writing a course of verses to reflect the them of this year's event: Celebrate - Remember - Fight Back.
CELEBRATE … REMEMBER … FIGHT BACK
Written by Brenda L. Despres - Grand Lake Relay for Life - June 2010
This evening we gather as comrades
Who are all here to CELEBRATE life.
The battle we’ve fought makes us stronger
And we smile despite heartache and strife.
We REMEMBER that some go before us
To be there to welcome us home;
Their courage lives on in the memories
That tonight, in this forum, will roam.
We strive for our health and our dignity
And against this disease we’ll prevail;
We’ll FIGHT BACK ‘til the battle is over
For the healthy, the stable, the frail.
So join hands with the person you’re next to
And share memories of those you hold dear;
We are walking tonight to conquer this beast
So our children can live without fear.
United we march into battle
We’ll continue to fight ‘til we win
Until cancer becomes just a memory
And we’ve defeated that demon within.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Looking for the words ....
A couple of weeks ago I was asked to participate in the Relay for Life Luminary Ceremony by reading a couple of poems. The organizers provided me with a list of poems that I could choose from and I was also given the option of writing one of my own, should I so choose. That sounds like a fabulous idea to me, but I need to sit down, dig deep, and find the words to put on paper.
I am sure the motivation will come soon; probably when I least expect it - as it normally does. My task will be to put into words the thoughts and feelings of those who walk the track in silence, remembering those who have passed, those who are fighting, and those who have survived another year to join their comrades in the heart warming and wrenching ceremony.
I pray that I am able to do this assignment justice and honour the lives of those touched by cancer.
Until next time ....
B-Optimistic!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Am I Hiding My Head in the Sand????
Our joint community Relay for Life event is just around the corner. Some time ago, one of the organizers asked if I would like to become a member of the new team that is being launched this year for “Survivors Only”. I have yet to give her a definitive answer.
Why have I not made arrangements to become a part of this team? I’m not sure. I do qualify. After all, I AM a survivor and I am very proud of that fact. I’m definitely not the type who never speaks of cancer. I’ll talk about this subject to anyone who will listen because I think it’s important to get the word out.
Is it the commitment perhaps? That thought crossed my mind. I do tend to get stuck in my comfort zone and hate to schedule myself too far ahead. One of the cautions of having cancer I guess. You learn that life can be flipped upside down with just a few simple words.
I’m definitely not shy or backward and it’s not because I won’t know anyone; when you live in a small community of less than 3,000 people, you’re bound to see a few familiar faces hanging around.
I have been constantly watching for symptoms, more so over the past few months. Not because there are any. I am doing fine and feel fabulous. No unusual pains other than those caused by housecleaning (which is a shock to my system, for sure!) and no change in appetite or bowel activity. I’m not sleeping a lot during the day and there is no bloating. Nope, I wish I had an excuse sometimes for the extended waistline - just not that excuse!!
Okay, I just had a brain fart as I wrote that last line. I know why I hesitate to participate. I hate t-shirts!! My body has NEVER been a candidate for this type of apparel and I had always dodged them like the plague. Every year I cringe when I slide the bright yellow t-shirt over my head. That’s right …. BRIGHT YELLOW! Go ahead, throw salt in the wound. I can’t get lost in the crowd wearing bright yellow!
Don’t get me wrong, I wear the darned thing proudly. And I should - because I am still here. There will be several yellow t-shirts missing at this year’s event. The wearers' have gone on to a better place.
So, I guess I need to lay aside my vanity issues, make that phone call, and do my part for cancer research ……. And for those who have passed.
Until next time ……
~ BOptimistic ~
Why have I not made arrangements to become a part of this team? I’m not sure. I do qualify. After all, I AM a survivor and I am very proud of that fact. I’m definitely not the type who never speaks of cancer. I’ll talk about this subject to anyone who will listen because I think it’s important to get the word out.
Is it the commitment perhaps? That thought crossed my mind. I do tend to get stuck in my comfort zone and hate to schedule myself too far ahead. One of the cautions of having cancer I guess. You learn that life can be flipped upside down with just a few simple words.
I’m definitely not shy or backward and it’s not because I won’t know anyone; when you live in a small community of less than 3,000 people, you’re bound to see a few familiar faces hanging around.
I have been constantly watching for symptoms, more so over the past few months. Not because there are any. I am doing fine and feel fabulous. No unusual pains other than those caused by housecleaning (which is a shock to my system, for sure!) and no change in appetite or bowel activity. I’m not sleeping a lot during the day and there is no bloating. Nope, I wish I had an excuse sometimes for the extended waistline - just not that excuse!!
Okay, I just had a brain fart as I wrote that last line. I know why I hesitate to participate. I hate t-shirts!! My body has NEVER been a candidate for this type of apparel and I had always dodged them like the plague. Every year I cringe when I slide the bright yellow t-shirt over my head. That’s right …. BRIGHT YELLOW! Go ahead, throw salt in the wound. I can’t get lost in the crowd wearing bright yellow!
Don’t get me wrong, I wear the darned thing proudly. And I should - because I am still here. There will be several yellow t-shirts missing at this year’s event. The wearers' have gone on to a better place.
So, I guess I need to lay aside my vanity issues, make that phone call, and do my part for cancer research ……. And for those who have passed.
Until next time ……
~ BOptimistic ~
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Vitamin B3 beats Big Pharma's Zetia cholesterol drug -- Signs of the Times News
Vitamin B3 beats Big Pharma's Zetia cholesterol drug -- Signs of the Times News: "http://www.sott.net/articles/show/205774-Vitamin-B3-beats-Big-Pharma-s-Zetia-cholesterol-drug"
Thursday, March 18, 2010
How Cells Protect Themselves from Cancer -- Signs of the Times News
How Cells Protect Themselves from Cancer -- Signs of the Times News: "http://www.sott.net/articles/show/204996-How-Cells-Protect-Themselves-from-Cancer"
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Vitamin D Deficiency Now So Widespread That Rickets is On The Rise Once Again -- Signs of the Times News
This message is a little more severe than my post of 8/17/09; are there other reasons for a reduction in Vitamin D absorption by our bodies??
Vitamin D Deficiency Now So Widespread That Rickets is On The Rise Once Again -- Signs of the Times News: "http://www.sott.net/articles/show/204356-Vitamin-D-Deficiency-Now-So-Widespread-That-Rickets-is-On-The-Rise-Once-Again"
Vitamin D Deficiency Now So Widespread That Rickets is On The Rise Once Again -- Signs of the Times News: "http://www.sott.net/articles/show/204356-Vitamin-D-Deficiency-Now-So-Widespread-That-Rickets-is-On-The-Rise-Once-Again"
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Time Flies When You’re Having Fun!!
I’ve been very slack with my blog of late, but you can look at this as a good sign. When things are going well, I have less thoughts of the cancer that has plagued my life for the past seven years. Not to brag, but I’m feeling pretty damned good!!There has been a lot of fun and festivity in my life over the past several months. Of course with Christmas and young grandchildren, there is always much joy in the Christmas season. They do grow up too fast though and I dread the stage in their lives when they no longer believe in Santa. We love seeing the looks on their faces when they open their presents on Christmas morning. I sometimes wonder if we’ll be around to witness that same look of wonderment on the faces of our great grandchildren? Sure, why not? Be optimistic, right?? Haha
Retirement has finally arrived for my husband and it isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be having someone else around the house all day. However, it’s only been a couple of weeks … I’ll check back with you in a couple of months! But seriously, I find that I am enjoying the company. I didn’t realize how much I have been talking to myself since Rocky (my dog and right hand guy) hasn't been here to listen to me; I also hadn’t realized how lonely it was without my canine’s company until I had human company. So it really is nice to have a distraction once in awhile.
Hubby and I are both anxiously waiting for dry roads and free time to cruise “topless” whenever the urge strikes. I’m sure there will be no road untraveled! Winter here on the east coast has been amazing this year, with just enough snow for the outdoor enthusiasts, but clear roads for the travelers. I can almost smell spring in the air!
I’m still researching the art of book writing. Wow, there certainly is a lot to learn and lots to know! I think it’s time now to put what I’ve learned into practice. Wish me luck! I probably don’t know what I’m getting into ……
And on that note, it’s a gorgeous sunny day here in my hometown and perfect lighting to start a new painting. So it’s time to get moving. So much to do ... so much fun to be had!
Until next time . . . .
~ B-Optimistic ~
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