Make your bucket list ... and get 'er done!
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Thursday, October 30, 2014
The Guest House - Poem by Jelalludin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
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| A Passing Storm Original Painting by Brenda L Despres |
As I work on a painting tonight, I am multitasking by listening to an audio book entitled, "The Joy Diet: 10 Daily Practices for a Happier Life" by Martha Beck. Don't get me wrong. I am definitely in a good place right now - both mentally and emotionally, but I always strive to find ways to keep that feeling steady.
In the first part of this book, Martha recites a poem that I find quite interesting ... and definitely worth sharing. It sanctions mood changes .... the ups and downs of everyday life ... and encourages us to accept and greet those altering personality shifts with a smile and a welcome.
Take a minute to read it for yourself .... I would love to hear your comments!
The Guest House - Poem by Jelalludin Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Meanwhile, I must get back to my art.
Until next time ....
~ B-Optimistic ~ :-)
In the first part of this book, Martha recites a poem that I find quite interesting ... and definitely worth sharing. It sanctions mood changes .... the ups and downs of everyday life ... and encourages us to accept and greet those altering personality shifts with a smile and a welcome.
Take a minute to read it for yourself .... I would love to hear your comments!
THE GUEST HOUSE
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks
Meanwhile, I must get back to my art.
Until next time ....
~ B-Optimistic ~ :-)
Sunday, September 14, 2014
LIFE: The Memory Factor
I find it amazing how certain events that have happened
during my lifetime have been etched into my memory with such force that just
hearing the event mentioned takes me there immediately – all senses on high
alert. My heart still hurt whenever I would
hear of another team being sent into space. Immediately I return to 1986, sitting
in my car at the end of my driveway, tears rolling down my cheeks and a feeling
of sadness and disbelief spreading over me. Why? Because that’s where I was
when the news came on the radio announcing the explosion of the U.S. Challenger,
just seconds into its flight and resulting in the death of the first female
astronaut in the U.S. Space program. I will always recall the image of my
co-workers in D320 hovering around a computer monitor uttering cries of
disbelief as we all huddled together watching the events unfold during the
terrorist attack of the World Trade Center in 2001. And me, standing inside my
back door looking out in June 2002, home alone and crying my heart out, thinking
that my days were numbered because I had just received a diagnosis of Ovarian
Cancer an hour previously.
It’s more than 12 years later and I no longer see my
diagnosis as a death sentence. I go through the entire range of emotions with
each re-diagnosis, but the feelings of helplessness and fear of having cancer have faded over
the years. They have been replaced with a combination of dread and anger –
dread more for the surgical and recovery processes than the fact that the tumours
have returned. Anger because this thing just won’t go away permanently … and
probably never will. I have learned to live with my disease and I deal with
each episode as it occurs, but I find that I become more frightened of the
surgery itself rather than the disease and the fact that this process – not the
actual cancer – could hold my fate.
But, as my oncologist and surgeon have both told me, there
is absolutely every possibility that I will be around for a very long time,
passing eventually from something totally unrelated to my cancer. With a strong
faith in a higher power and trust in the expertise of my surgeons, that could
very well be true!
Until next time ......
~ B-Optimistic ~
September is Ovarian Cancer month in Canada. Know the symptoms.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Would you Want to Know Everything?
Would you want to know all of the details of your cancer prognosis ..... every little detail, no matter how devastating? According to this article, that might not be what you get from your doctor.
My gynecologist/surgeon was very forthcoming with every detail of my condition, both before and after my first surgery. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. By knowing all the details, I was able to educate myself and, hopefully, ask better questions the second and third time I went under the knife.
Would I want to know if I had only months to live? You betcha. Because I would make the most of every last minute that I had remaining. Gory? I don't think so. It's the real deal. We're all going to go sometime.
Tim McGraw says it best ...... Live Like you were Dying
Until next time .......
~B-Optimistic~
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
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 ~
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 ~
Friday, December 4, 2009
A Flash of Insight!
Wow! I can’t believe that my last post was in August! For anyone that cares, this is a good thing. I have been busy researching the technicalities of writing a non-fiction book and also working on a few new paintings. Life is good!
The best thing of all - I am once again planning for the future! After my third cancer surgery in six years, it was impossible for me to plan for the next week, let alone years down the road. But I found myself doing just that this past week. And wow. What a feeling it gave me when I realized what I was doing!! The fact that I am able to dream means that I am free from the black cloud of cancer …. At least for the time being. And I am happy with that!
So, with a husband about to retire, two beautiful grandchildren, and an attitude of “look out world,” life as I know it has become much brighter!
Until next time ……
BOptimistic!!
The best thing of all - I am once again planning for the future! After my third cancer surgery in six years, it was impossible for me to plan for the next week, let alone years down the road. But I found myself doing just that this past week. And wow. What a feeling it gave me when I realized what I was doing!! The fact that I am able to dream means that I am free from the black cloud of cancer …. At least for the time being. And I am happy with that!
So, with a husband about to retire, two beautiful grandchildren, and an attitude of “look out world,” life as I know it has become much brighter!
Until next time ……
BOptimistic!!
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