The Big C

No, I'm not talking about my silly disease. I'm talking about the Showtime series starring one of my favorite actors of all time, Laura Linney.

As a self-confessed LL junkie, I've seen (and loved) almost everything she's starred in. The Squid and the Whale? One of my favorite movies. John Adams? Never missed an episode. Primal Fear, Kinsey, P.S., The Exorcism of Emily Rose, The Mothman Prophecies, Love Actually, Mystic River? But of course. Most people haven't even heard of the movie Jindabyne, and I own it.

So when I heard about this new TV series starring Laura Linney, I couldn't wait to see it precisely because of her. I wasn't even that interested in the subject matter which deals with, coincidentally, a woman (played by Linney and named Cathy Jamison) diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. 

A couple days before I checked into the hospital, when I was really struggling with the pain in my gut and my failure to keep food in it, I started watching the show. As I rested in bed, nursing my bloated tummy, I watched the first two episodes and I started thinking, "What if I was in Cathy's shoes? What if I had Stage IV cancer?" 

I'm not saying I had a premonition or anything -- finding out about my diagnosis was definitely not what I expected to hear -- but, as I always do with great characters in film or TV, I really try to understand and connect with the character.

But I couldn't connect with Cathy. She wasn't fighting! She was giving up on her chances for survival, refusing to share her news with her family, and switching to a diet solely consisting of dessert and cocktails. I liked her character, but she drove me crazy. I tried to convince myself that getting news like hers is complicated and trying, and who knows what they'd do when they found out, but I checked myself and knew in my heart that I'd never do what she was doing. I'd tell everyone about my diagnosis, accept their love and support, fight for every second of my life, and, above all, I'd never give up on myself. I wouldn't be like Cathy, I thought to myself as I watched the show. And then I probably got up and ran to the bathroom to vomit.

I abruptly stopped watching the show when I couldn't keep down a swig of water, which was my telltale sign that it was time to go to the hospital. I didn't get back to it until I was a couple of weeks out of the hospital. The finale was two weeks ago, and I watched it with happy tears in my eyes.

I love The Big C. Cathy eventually saw the light and started fighting for her life, so now I love her, too. But what was incredible about the show, and the timing of it all, was that it nudged me toward thinking about my attitude if I faced cancer…before I even knew I was facing it. I got a little preview, a hypothetical that really wasn't, that forced me to consider how I'd deal with that news and what my attitude would be going forward. I searched my soul and decided on my attitude before I needed to…so when I actually needed to, it was easy. 

Before I learned of my diagnosis, I knew that if I ever got that news, I'd fight. And today and every day, I'm fighting.

What are the chances that my favorite actress would be starring in a TV show about a woman diagnosed with Stage IV cancer at the exact time that I battled Stage IV cancer, and that watching a couple of episodes of it pre-diagnosis would prepare me to fight cancer with a great attitude right out of the gate?

I don't know. Some things were meant to be.

Sigh No More

I've got another song to add to my cancer-beating soundtrack, and wanted to share it with you, my dear readers. I hope it inspires you and fills your heart with joy like it does to mine.

Unlike Maino's "All the Above," the rap anthem that is first on my victory soundtrack, this song is not about toughness and struggle in the pursuit of success. Mumford & Sons' "Sigh No More" is simply about love. The song has always touched me, and was even more powerful to hear live at the Mumford & Sons concert on the day I received my first chemo treatment. I always make sure that this song is playing on my iPod as I recline and close my eyes as I drift off to a Benadryl-induced naps during my chemo treatments. And I can't wait to hear it when I wake up from my next surgery.

The song is particularly moving to me because of the following lyrics, which choke me up more often than not:

Love -- it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,
It will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.

There is a design,
An alignment to cry,
Of my heart to see,
The beauty of love as it was made to be

Love, in my view, is what makes my strength and resolve and positivity possible. I am always  animated by love -- the love I feel for others, the love I know that others feel for me. To connect with another person in a deep and meaningful way is such a beautiful thing, and, frankly, I might be addicted to it. Love is the most powerful thing I experience on a daily basis, and is far more powerful than fear or doubt or pain. Love is what it's all about! And cancer could never touch that.

Here's the song in its entirety. I hope you like it. Actually, I hope you love it.

For those of you on iPhones, you can listen to the song here

Plotting The Course

Now that I know my surgery date, I’ve started planning my pre-surgery trip: a cross-country drive from L.A. to D.C, from home to the hospital.

I thought about this cross-country trip from the minute I learned that my next surgery would be on the East Coast, which means the minute I got out of my first surgery.  I’d gone on a cross-country trip before -- with Will after we graduated from Duke -- and always wanted to hit the road again, but couldn’t figure out a time to break away from work and make it happen. I figured that the post-chemo and pre-surgery time frame, when I’d be feeling strong and in need of some adventure before my surgery-mandated rest period, would be my golden opportunity. I kept my idea quiet for a while, and wound up pitching it to Will and my parents after a couple of weeks. It would be a week-long trip and, admittedly, it would be in either January or February (not exactly the best months for driving).

Cancer is not without its benefits, and one of those benefits is getting your loved ones to agree with you and your bright ideas. It took about 5 minutes for my three caretakers to sign on to my cross-country trip plan. All I had to do was wait for my surgery date and plan the trip...and now I’m doing it.

First stop: the Grand Canyon. Will and I spent a couple of days here during our post-Duke trip, and loved it. Since we’re bringing Winston (10 pound Yorkie Terriers aren’t exactly rugged) and it’ll be late January, we don’t expect to do much extensive hiking. Still, I look forward to doing some hiking and to soaking up the beauty that is literally all around you when you’re there.

Next stop: Santa Fe, New Mexico. I loved New Mexico when I drove through it the first time, and I’ve always wanted to visit Santa Fe. I’m thinking about booking a hotel with a nice spa and getting a nice massage or other super-indulgent treatment while I’m there. Again, the physical beauty of the Southwest will be inspiring, and I look forward to drawing strength from the gorgeous surroundings.

Next stop: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. We’ll be cruising through Amarillo, Texas, as we make our way to Oklahoma’s capital city. This will be one of our heavier driving days, but it should be a fun one. We’ll be stocked up with audiobooks and I’ll make special playlists for the drive. Looking forward to stopping at this Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma City that Will and I tried out years ago which has the best huevos rancheros I’ve ever eaten.

Next stop: Nashville, Tennessee. Good music, BBQ, and cowboy hats. What more can you ask for? Really looking forward to visiting this fun city again.

Next stop: Durham, North Carolina -- home of Duke University. As if I wouldn’t be making a pit stop at my beloved alma mater. I can’t wait to get back to campus and spend some time in the Duke Chapel, eat some delicious food at my favorite restaurants, and -- of course -- attend a Duke Basketball game in Cameron Indoor Stadium. I can’t think of a more inspiring place.

Final stop: D.C., or more accurately, my second cousin’s home in Maryland. We’ll be staying with her (Vivian) and her family (husband Brendan, daughters Erika and Erin)  in the days leading up to my surgery. We already have a trip to the Luray Caverns planned, which sounds cold and beautiful and slightly creepy and awesome.

So there it is -- the WunderGlo cross-country plan! It’s going to be epic. And everyone is welcome to join for part or all of the trip. Seriously. :)

(Re)Introducing Myself to Myself

It's been a little over two months since my diagnosis. It'll be a little over two months until my next surgery. And me and my body have gotten through it and will get through it together. But this entire period has been an interesting one for me and the ol' body -- a time of realization and re-introduction.

First, realization.

When I heard the words "Stage IV colon cancer," I realized that I didn't know my body as well as I thought I did. Understatement of the century, right? But really -- what the heck was my body doing behind my back? Never once did I feel like I was even a little bit sick, let alone strapped with an illness of this magnitude, until it smacked me in the face (or the gut, which would be more appropriate) with an intestinal blockage. I realized that, from that moment on, I needed to pay attention to my body and to stop pushing myself just because my mind said so and my body complied.  

Then, re-introduction.

A lot of things about my body are the same -- my extremely high pain tolerance, my food cravings, the soreness in my muscles after a hard workout, the way it feels to shoot a basketball. I love those parts of my old/current self, and I almost feel a kinship with those things. Good old me -- dependable, strong, and athletic. It's as if the real fabric of who I am physically is still right there, regardless of the first surgery or the chemo or the idiotic cancer inhabiting my body. It's still me.

A few things, though, are different. Obviously, the scar on my abdomen has changed the physical appearance of my mid-section. I have a circular area of skin -- underneath it, my port -- slightly protruding just below my collarbone. Now that my GI tract is working like a charm, I can almost feel my body digesting food. And I'm way hungrier. Although these things are new, I've embraced them as the current me -- the part that is battle-tested and battling, ensuring that I'll be even stronger going forward. 

And still, more things will change. 

The most palpable will be the loss of my ovaries during my "pick it out, pour it in" surgery. This has and will change my plans regarding future children. Although I've got some fertility options and may even be able to have my own biological child one day, the future me will never be pregnant (between you and me, this fact isn't exactly that upsetting to me). In addition, I'm pretty sure my incision scar is going to be even larger after this second surgery, which will continue to alter my physical appearance. I'll also lose snippets of organs and bowels during surgery, which will undoubtedly take a period of adjustment.

But most importantly, the future me will be devoid of cancer. And I can't wait to meet her.

On Fist Fights and Surgery

I've never gotten into a fist fight...and I've always wanted to.

Not to hurt someone else, of course, but to unleash. To fight a willing foe, who is dead set on hurting me, and to triumph. To use my strength and my will on something other than going to the gym, going to work, being a happy person, etc. These things don't actually test out those gut impulses. Isn't there something about a physical confrontation that shows you what you're made of? Courage, character, the "fight" you have within...yes, these kinds of things. You don't readily check these things when you've attended some of the swankiest schools in the country, live in a gorgeous loft in downtown L.A., work at your dream job, and have the best friends and family in the world. Who the heck would I be fighting? 

Every time I've gotten remotely close to a physical confrontation, the other person has backed away, run away, or made amends somehow. In truth, I've always pined away for a fight...somehow, somewhere.

Then, a couple of months ago, I found my willing foe. Not a human being or even an animal, but some chaotic cells in my own body. Ever since that day, I've lived my life with even more gusto than before because, finally, I have my fight. My opportunity to show myself and everyone else what I'm made of -- and it's been great. You never really know yourself or what you can do until you're pushed physically, emotionally, psychologically. And it's awesome to know that what I've always thought about myself -- that I've got more fight in me than anyone I know (sorry, everyone I know...I still love you) -- is actually true.

This morning, when I woke up, the first thing I remembered were my CT scan results. To know that I've fought this cancer and made it back down fills me with joy and a satisfaction that even a good fist fight couldn't bring. I'm so incredibly inspired to keep on fighting hard -- to continue eating healthily, sleeping well, exercising daily, staying unyieldingly positive and strong, and centering my mind and spirit...all in preparation to achieve this one singular goal: to beat this cancer to death. 

I found out my surgery date today after talking with Dr. Sugarbaker's wife, Ilse -- who does all of Dr. Sugarbaker's patient intake and runs the show in D.C. (my surgery is in D.C., at the Washington Hospital Center). After chatting a bit and letting her know how treatment was going, she said I sounded indestructible. I loved it. It's true!

Back to the surgery date. On February 3rd, 2011, Dr. Sugarbaker will open me up, pick the cancer out, pour the chemo in, and close me up. The surgery will take anywhere between 8 to 14 hours. I'm supposed to be in ICU anywhere between 2-5 days, and will spend another several days in the hospital.The point of this surgery is to take every single scrap of cancer out of my body and leave me cancer-free. In the process, I'm going to lose my ovaries, maybe some of my bowels, maybe a sliver of liver, and whatever else Dr. Sugarbaker thinks should go. 

Yes, this will be a big surgery. I've got my fists up, though, and I couldn't be more excited.