A Profound Chat...With The New York Times

Amidst all my rockin' and rollin' these days as a newly emancipated cancer warrior, an exciting thing happened. My friend Nancy Roach, the Chair of the Board of Directors at Fight Colorectal Cancer (one of the most awesome cancer advocacy organizations in the country), sent me an email. But it wasn't just to me -- a reporter from a little newspaper you might have heard of, the New York Times, was also cc'd. She provided the most gracious of e-introductions and explained that Andy the reporter was writing an article on cytoreductive surgery plus HIPEC -- you know, my "pick it out/pour it in" procedure -- and was interested in speaking with a patient who had laid it all on the line (or, more appropriately, the operating table) for Dr. Sugarbaker or Dr. Lowy or another HIPEC wizard. Luckily for your pal WunderGlo, she immediately thought of me.

Today, Andy and I spent nearly two hours chit chatting about my whole story: from bloated tummy to vomiting at Good Samaritan to my first surgery to chemo and "pick it out/pour it in" and back to chemo. He was an incredibly nice guy, and incredibly knowledgeable, too. It's super cool when a layman (as in, someone lacking a cancer diagnosis) can speak my language, and he did. At the end of our conversation, he told me that he had met a lot of cancer patients, but none like me. Aww, thanks, Andy!! I gave him a WunderGlo bracelet for that one.

There was something I told him that I want to share with you. It's something that I've never quite articulated -- not on the blog or in conversations, or even to myself. I told him that my battle with cancer has totally freed me. Instead of feeling limited or robbed by my diagnosis, every door has opened for me. I feel like I can do anything, and I want to do everything. Nothing scares me anymore, and nothing even upsets me. My cancer diagnosis, and the way I received and processed that diagnosis, did all of that for me.

You know how, when you first get a cell phone, it has that protective film over the screen? And when you peel it off, it reveals a perfect, shiny new screen? Some people try to keep that cover on for as long as possible, trying to preserve the screen but walking around with a cell phone with a silly plastic film on it.

Before my diagnosis, my life was great, but it had that protective cover on it. That sucker got peeled off the day I received my diagnosis, and I'm so glad that it did. I live my life with no fear, no doubt, and utter confidence that my every second of it is working out just as it should.