The Church of Facebook

Religion. Yeah I said it. It's out there and I have found it. Call Mark Zuckerberg what you want. Many do not have kind words for this guy because he founded a revolutionary medium for millions of people to network socially and professionally via ill-intentioned means. He was a computer programmer scorned, the second greatest fury that hell hath no.....But he has turned that vengeful act into one of the biggest communication ventures in our history and millions of us are benefitting from it, for free. It's brilliant. Use it for bad, and lives are ruined. Use if for good and people like me are no longer exiled and isolated from a world of friends that lives and skis and kayaks and travels and raises kids just down the street. And thanks to Steve Jobs, may he rest in eternal peace, I get to view it on a snappy, little operating system with a big beautiful screen. Facebook is a way to reach hundreds of people you know, you knew in high school, you knew in college, you knew in your first job, or the people you went down the river with in 1993. It is also a way for me to share my life with others, the cool trips and photos we've taken around the world, the river adventures, the soccer games and the martial arts tests we've done. It is a way to tell people where you stand on issues, to express your political views and for sharing differing points of view. It is also a place to find inspiration, divine if you will.

Despite being convinced I've been there a few times already, I do not believe in Hell. I do not believe that there is a purgatory that awaits corrupted souls to punish them for all of eternity. I'll probably burn for that but really? With all of the love and joy in this world and the human kindness that exists globally, I cannot believe that a single human being, faced with their own end will pass to the next life without one shred of goodness. Granted, there are evil people out there and I have had impure thoughts for some, but sending them to eternal hell is not the answer for a species that thrives on positive spirit. Besides, eternity is a really long time and hell exists right here on Earth. You can dabble in Hell all you want without having to go "down" to the fiery furnace below. Later, you can repent your evil ways and be accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven, find enlightment, take your seat next to Allah or come back as an elephant on your way to Nirvana.....That's the really good part about religion. Make a comeback, accept Jesus into your soul and BAM! You are in. That is an awesome escape clause, one of which I am counting on.

In the last few months, my life has taken an obvious turn and my mortality has been dangled out in front of me like a carrot on a string. I'm not even close to looking into the abyss and already, I have had some big conversations about what the end of my life might look like. Do not misunderstand that I have any intention of going in for a closer look. I am here to stay for awhile and thrive in the glory of heaven on Earth known as social networking. Yeah, I said it. Heaven. THAT I am sure exists because that too, is right here on Earth and is represented by the collective consciousness of hundreds of people sending positive inspiring thoughts in the same direction.....in my case, via Facebook. The outpouring of kindness I have received is overwhelming. Old school friends, ski racing friends, river friends, soccer friends, new martial arts friends, nursing and work friends, have all chimed in to say, "Hey, we're thinking of you, sending you good wishes, thought and prayers and standing behind you while your life changes in ways you didn't anticipate." And I swear I FEEL it. How do I know? Because every other Tuesday when I go for chemo, I feel great. Yep, great. I feel like there is energy flowing in my direction and it gives me so much courage, and lifts me up in ways I cannot explain. In return for this gift, I feel it is absolutely necessary to find whatever good there is in this experience and to send it back in the spirit of the Physics law of conservation of energy where energy is neither created nor destroyed but transformed to one form or another and transferred. I can do this via social media, and in return, it makes me feel better about myself. It's like a twofer really.

Here is a thing about people with certain illnesses. Whether they have Cancer or an auto-immune disease or any disease that affects the way they fight infection, it is dangerous and difficult for them to leave their home or inner circle at certain times throughout their illness because it can mean the difference between life and death. They have no ability to fight an opportunistic infection that regularly healthy people can fight. Expose a cancer patient receiving chemo to the flu and it's curtains. One little sniffle or cough can mean a hospital visit and a hospital visit can expose them to REALLY bad stuff. The idea is to stay away from hospitals when your immunity is in the tank and the safe bet is not to go where the germs are flying around in search of the weak animal in the herd. Let me just add a little sidebar that modern medicine has created a magical new drug that inspires your blood cells to give your immunity a bump. It's called Neulasta or Pegfilgrastim. It's produced by Amgen and at $9000 per injection, it's worth every penny. It will literally save my life..... as long as I don't do anything stupid like lick the bottom of someone's shoe. But, I'm off topic.....again. Throw in a nasty case of fatigue with compromised immunity, and a trip to the grocery store is an event that can require a 3 hour nap for recovery, best done in the confines of one's own fluffy, bed. The fact is, these patients don't leave their homes much, if at all which can be isolating. People don't visit for fear of passing on a bug or a germ that might be cataclysmic for their friend. It can cause a nasty case of depression for a social butterfly such as myself. I must interact, share ideas, impart my limited wisdom and make at least one social blunder on a regular basis. I can do this with Facebook and email, and with the new mobile technologies of laptops, smartphones and tablets, I can do all of this at some of my most unpleasant moments and no one is the wiser. Its genius.

I am truly in great spirits right now and even when I feel really crappy (especially when I feel crappy), if I can find a positive thing to share, I throw it out into the Facebook collective and I get ten positive ones back! AND IT'S FREE! It's awesome! And it doesn't hurt anyone! It takes someone less than thirty seconds to write a positive post, well, for most of my friends...... I think my friend Polly is still hunting and pecking out there, but most everybody can get the job done in a small amount of time and it goes a LONG way. I am here to tell you that a simple gesture of quoting a movie line, or engaging in a little fun sarcasm or posting a photo about milk being the 2% makes me giggle out loud! I especially like music posts from the 80's...reminders of one-hit wonders and the like...It is THERAPY! You should all get $95 an hour which in 30 seconds does not equate to much ($0.80 cents to be exact) but the value of that 80 cents is huge. It may very well save my life. Between Facebook, and the phenomenal cooks in my community nourishing my body, I've got body and soul covered.

I am willing to bet Mark Zuckerberg did not intend this outcome. It's an application of an idea that is sort of a bonus, a negative turned positive, kinda like the billions of dollars in his bank account. Certainly, social media can also be used for less than savory ways of social destruction but in my case, it's a tiny bit of salvation. Don't get me wrong. I am not going to start exalting Mark Zuckerberg and start drinking his particular brand of Kool-Aid. I've got my own. It's called Adriamycin. It's bright red and it makes your hair fall out. However, I must applaud him for being brilliantly smart (whether he stole it or not) and putting social networking into action. I am a believer.

A few words of friendly caution: don't forget to check your privacy settings for the occasional stalker or unsavory person who is a little further from enlightenment than the rest of us. I highly recommend either embracing your political polar opposites (after all, they do present good arguments from time to time) or simply blocking them. There are some people out there who feel a need to give the gift of negativity, woe and despair. Here is another great thing about Facebook: you can flood them with positive energy of peace and love and strawberry ice cream thoughts and if that doesn't work, simply unfriend them, digitally. It's painless! It's the new cyber purgatory and if your friend repents with kindness, love and light, you can re-friend them! Salvation! Forgiveness! All at your fingertips. And if things get unbearable, switch to email.

So if you are wondering how to make a difference in this life from the comforts of your own home, get yourself in a positive frame of mind and then share it. Share a funny quote, post a funny picture about a found cat (which was actually possum or a badger or something....funny!), post photos of your last adventure, post a video about an autistic kid who sings the star-spangled banner and needs a little help (loved that one!), or just say hey, I'm thinking about you. It WORKS! It will make a difference to the person you sent it to and it will make you feel good inside and it's free, for now. I love to hear from people. I encourage any interaction you can muster, even if it's a way to process grief. It's what makes me feel human in a world that has lost its humanness (through the same technology of which I exalt...). If you can be funny or happy or witty or clever, great. In case you can't, don't let that shut you off from those of us that can. Connecting is more important and allows us to be present in the moment, a moment that may pass as easily at came and allows for a better feeling or idea to bubble up. Plus, it gives others an opportunity to do something good which in turn makes them feel good, which makes you feel good, and so on. The bad news is none of us are getting out of this alive. We are all terminal. The good news is (if you share my view) there is only one way to go, so we got that going for us. We have choices. I am choosing happiness as often as I can. I am choosing to give my best each day because it is good for the positive current of the universe and I am convinced that this current uplifts people no matter where they are. If I can't muster happiness then gratitude is the next best choice. I share it whenever possible and it comes back to me in spades. Look for me on the internet. I'm out there, And if you can keep those awesome comments, "likes" and posts coming....I am deeply grateful that you took 30 seconds of your time to save my life.

Weed

Chemotherapy-induced nausea is unpleasant. I have tried the anti-emetics (anti-throw-up medications), eating profuse amounts of ginger, ginger snaps, crystallized ginger, ginger ale and sushi ginger without success. The nausea remains. I thought I could just power through it. I was determined to eat even if I didn't feel like eating or that it would cause me to expel my gastric contents. However, the repulsiveness of food is an amazingly formidable opponent. I am stymied and feel that not eating anything is far more appealing. However, not eating anything only exacerbates the nausea and the vicious cycle begins. Granted, I have not been very good at nausea management. I have not taken the medications until the nausea gets so bad that I am deep in the nausea hole that no small rope can get me out of. I should know this being a nurse, that managing symptoms starts with early management and acknowledgement of symptoms...Healthcare workers are the worst patients. I guess part of it is curiosity: "How bad can it get?" Well, last week, I got my answer. It is not pleasant as I have mentioned before. I must take full responsibility for my misery, and I do.

In the last two months, I have received overwhelming bits of information about medical marijuana. Whenever I mention (read "complain") about the intense nausea, people have asked if I have started "smoking weed." Nurses, teachers, parents, all responsible individuals recommending that I start toking. Even some of the older ladies I know (well into their 70's...), "Honey, you gotta try smoking some herb!" I can't help but laugh. Me? Smoke pot? I'm a responsible mother of 2 and registered nurse who took an oath not to partake in such nefarious activities! Besides, I smoked enough weed back in High School that would put even the stoutest Rastafarian to shame. Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against my Mary Jane-loving friends. They are good people with jobs and families and probably more inner peace than most anyone else I know. The plain simple truth for me is that pot makes me stupid. I mean really stupid and just a little bit paranoid. Smoking pot to alleviate my nausea would only be trading one miserable condition for another. I would no longer be nauseated, but I would then be unable to focus on my daily activities. I would require more assistance from my husband and family because I would be forgetting why I was rummaging through the pantry for anything resembling potato chips or gorp.

I mean if I am going to recreate pharmaceutically, give me an opiate narcotic any day of the week and I'm good. Why would I prefer the poppy over cannabis? Who knows? Both of them are organically grown, exist in nature and have their desirable central nervous system effects. However, pot is variable in its potency and molecular structure. Opiates are, well opiates, extracted in labs, measured in milligrams and dispensed by someone who is legally required to know the exact contents. I find this a little more comforting than the machine-gun toting groups that bring Cannabis to market. Who knows what's in that stuff besides the naturally occurring tetrahydrocannibinol (THC)? Sure, there is also Marinol which is the pharmaceutical version for those people who do not wish to go the natural route and can get it from their local pharmacy. However, I'll say again that it just makes me stupid and really, I'm just trading one undesirable condition for another. I do not partake of the poppy very frequently. When I do, it is usally post-operatively or when I am not responsible for children, cooking, driving or anything else, which is pretty much close to never. I view pot in very much the same light. The conditions must be right and the planets must line up perfectly and since they rarely do, smoking pot is just another recreation I simply cannot afford.

However, now I am a Cancer patient. So why not start smoking pot? Marijuana (and opiates for that matter) affect the central nervous system, a.k.a. the brain, spinal cord, and corresponding nerves, more widely accepted as your conscious ability to deal with stressful situations, and flee from the sabertooth tiger that is standing in front of you. When I was in labor with Stella (approximately 9 years ago), I tried to deliver naturally. After 28 hours of intense 90 second contractions every 2-3 minutes, I finally cried uncle and begged to be relieved of my misery as any sane pregnant woman would and has done for millennia. They administered a drug called Stadol a.ka. Butorphanol, a morphine-like synthetic analgesic and safe for pregnancy. Up to that point, I was dealing with my contractions. I knew they were coming and I would focus on breathing and anything else to get myself through these intense contractions. The Stadol did not reduce my pain at all. It made me sleepy and took away my ability to focus and handle my situation. Essentially, I felt like I was crazy and had the irresistible urge to scream and assault people. I begged them not to give me anymore of that stuff and I am pretty sure my OB nurses were relieved to oblige after subsequent hours of my many Linda Blair impressions.....

I have choices in my treatment. My goal is to do this as gracefully as possible with little impact on my family and community. I would like to do this bravely and with courage which means I need my mental clarity. Polypharmacy is a slippery slope. I have a whole basket of supplements I keep in the kitchen, Vitamin D for my deficiency, Vitamin E for tissue healing, Milk thistle for my liver, Juice Plus for the phytos I simply can't eat enough of, Kyo-green for immunity, Probiotics to re-colonize my gut, Glutamine for mucositis and gastrointestinal symptoms, Prune Juice and Miralax for the obvious.....In the bathroom, another basket of meds, Emend, Zofran, Compazine and Ativan all for nausea, Docusate Sodium to potentiate the effects of the prune juice (chemo and all the anti-emetics are constipating), special fluoride for my teeth, and special mouthwashes to keep my mouth moist and free of mouth problems. Adding one more drug to the mix just seems like way too much to manage, especially a drug that varies in potency and effect. If I managed the drugs I already have a little better, the need would probably not be so great.

It's funny when I resist the urgings of friends to start smoking weed. They are incredibly persuasive.

"Patients report it works for them!"

"Well, you would be smoking it legally and they have many different kinds of marijuana now that are not as potent, not as contaminated, not as....."

".....I'm growing a particularly mild version that I think you might like!"

Despite explaining my misgivings to my good-intentioned friends, and politely turning down free offers from well-meaning suppliers, I sense a sort of angst. It is as if they are frustrated with me for not heeding their advice or implementing their suggestion. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's more for them than for me. No one wants to see a friend suffer for any reason and almost everyone I know wants to help in some wonderful way and make the difficult parts all go away.

I am honored that people would reach out and try to take away my nausea or my misery. And if you are reading, may I just say thank you for your kindness. However, sometimes life is just hard. It's what makes the good times, .......good. I have these moments everyday. They come out of nowhere and they are wonderful.

In the movie "Braveheart", towards the end when Mel Gibson's character, William Wallace, is about to be drawn and quartered in a public display, the Queen, who is smitten with him and carrying his child (we find out later)....brings him a numbing poison that will help dull the pain of the horrible death he is about to endure. He refuses, claiming, "I must keep my wits about me." Now granted, this example is a little dramatic, but I feel much the same way. As horrible as things might be sometimes, I feel that I must "keep my wits about me" and remain clear to be able to focus on enduring the task at hand, and be open to the really good things that happen. It is the experience of life, and when you are faced with your mortality at an early age, you start to appreciate every experience, bad or good, as a gift of living. The life I choose to lead after the chemo and radiation are done, and the side effects are no longer as awful, will be a life of clarity, and hopefully a life free of any pharmaceuticals. Hopefully, this choice will remain mine to make. It is a choice that is formulated deep from my humble beginnings, and bears no judgment on the choices of others.

I have a very long road ahead of me (much like my first labor and delivery). There may come a time when I've had it, and all I need is a really good joint, a bag of Salt & Pepper Kettle Chips, and a jar of peanut butter, but for now, I will pass the pot brownies, the pot pizza, and the cannabutter to my friends who have had more years of experience with this sort of thing and politely refrain from adding one more chemical compound to my already chemically toxic wasteland. Thanks to all who are looking out for me any way they can. Please feel free to smoke a bowl for me anytime. It will probably do wonders for my nausea......or at least your experience of it.

Tambushka

Many years ago, I was working in the emergency room (ER) as a registered nurse where I had been working for quite some time. We had recently hired a new nurse into the ER and I was making an attempt to welcome him to our new team. He was an interesting character. He came out of Detroit, Michigan, and he had a teardrop tattoo, two of them, on the left aspect of his neck. I never got a chance to ask him about this, but the traditional meaning of the teardrop tattoo is that he knew someone who was killed or went to prison. I believe the practice originated in gang culture, which did not seem likely of him. He was professional, rough around the edges, rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle and wore his hair spiked and dyed blonde in Billy Idol fashion. He was funny and very sharp-witted and I liked him right away. I nicknamed him "3-1-3", for the Detroit area code where he came from. He called me "5-3-0" and we had a strong, working friendship.

One day, he approached me after learning that I had once been a member of the U.S. Ski Team. He asked me, with eyes wide in admiration, "Did you know Picabo Street?"

I admitted, somewhat abashed, that yes, I knew her and long before she became a household name. I had stories that would embarrass both Picabo and myself and decided I'd save those for later. However, my friend, 3-1-3 then proceeded to tell me how great it was that I knew Picabo because she was, ( in his words) "The greatest American female ski racer that ever was."

First off, nothing against Picabo. I did know her and she is an energetic, upbeat, and very nice person. She is a beautiful skier with a wonderful touch on the snow, and strong and graceful in the air. In short, I respect her for turning all eyes on U.S. Skiing and winning a gold medal for our country in the Olympics.

However, when I knew Picabo, she was coming up through the ranks. She was younger than I was, and our relationship was more characterized as one of an old dog and a new puppy. She was bouncy, effervescent, always asking questions, full of cheerful smiles and a party attitude. I was more of an old dog, kinda grumpy at times, saving my energy for race day and wishing I was training with the big girls who probably felt the same way about me as I felt about Picabo.

So, when my new colleague and friend managed to tell me that Picabo had not only achieved greatest American female skier status, he was comparing her to all those went before her.

I begged to differ.

My tirade started by asking him if he had grown up in a closet, in the dark, on Mars....If he were really a ski racing fan, he would have done a little more research before challenging me on this subject that is nearest and dearest to my heart.

Most people recognize Picabo Street as one of the winningest female skiers because she won a gold medal in the Olympics. The Olympics are the Coups de gras of most sports because it's publicized as the competition of the best of the best of each country. In some sports, this is true. Swimming and Track for example are sports where the very best compete against each other and the winners represent the true upper echelon of those sports. Skiing is different. The reason is because the Olympics require that each country has a quota for each event. For example the United States can only have 4 competitors in any one event. That works out great when the field of competitors is generally well-balanced. However, Switzerland, Austria and Germany have a long tradition of skiing, ski racers and skiing excellence. It is the National sport in those countries unlike the United States, Italy, and well, Jamaica for that matter. While Jamaica might be hard-pressed to have 4 competitors to meet the quota, Austria has 8-10 per event that could decimate the entire field of Olympic competitors. It is a distinct advantage for the Olympic field that countries like Austria and Switzerland must whittle down their Olympic teams to 4 starting racers. Therefore, an Olympic win is sort of a gimme. Take 12-15 of the world's best out of the field and everybody's got a fighting chance. In ski racing the World Alpine Ski Championships allow rosters of 8 competitors per country meaning that each country gets to fill its quota with the best it has to offer. The World Championships are held ever two years and are the true testament as to who is the best ski racer in the world. For Men's Downhill, there is another true test of excellence: The Hahnenkamm Downhill race held every year in Kitzbuhel, Austria. The other coveted titles are World Cup titles. Each country submits its best skier to a year long series of World Cup races in Slalom, Giant Slalom, Super G, Downhill and Combined events. Winners of these titles are the athletes who best the world's best in those disciplines and they are the true basis for bragging rights in ski racing circles.

So, getting back to my defense of the "Greatest American Skiing female that ever was," I proceeded to educate my friend, 3-1-3 in the error of his judgment. At that time, there was only one woman with the kind of results that afforded her this title. She stood on her first World Cup podium at the age of 16, 5'4" tall and a svelte 115lbs light. She was a game changer, changing the way the game was played from large, power-driven technique to finesse and grace at high speeds. Her touch on the snow was unparalleled and I often tried to mimic that touch which brought me podiums of my own on my own rise to success. She won 4 World Championship medals, one of them gold, stood on 45 world cup podiums, won 4 World Cup titles with 18 World Cup wins and did it with grace and style. She was kind, she nurtured those of us "new puppies" that had stars in our eyes when we had the good fortune of racing with her, and she was a professional who promoted the sport of skiing through her big smile, "southern belle" kindness, and positive attitude.

While Lindsey Vonn has recently earned the title of Greatest American female skier, she may not have realized that title if Tamara McKinney had not set that bar so high and inspired generations of ski racing girls such as myself. Today is Tamara McKinney's birthday. It's probably some anniversary of her 29th birthday as each birthday is for all of us but no matter. She is still as beautiful inside and out as always, and is still inspiring generations of young ski racers in California. I wish her the happiest of birthdays and hope that one day we will get to ski together again.

As for 3-1-3, despite my historical (and hysterical) ski racing tirade, he still wanted Picabo's autograph. (sigh) I was trying to find a way to contact Picabo to see if I could get this for him, but I halted efforts when 3-1-3 died in a terrible motorcycle accident some years ago. His spirit is missed.

So if any of you would like to discuss Greatest American Female Ski racers, I'm always game, but know your stats, because I'm a fan and I'm determined to give credit where credit is due.

Happy Birthday Tambushka!

Irony

"Sometimes the only sense you can make out of life.....is a sense of humor." ~ Unknown

Cancer is a mutation of cells; Cells growing out of control without a stopping point. It is not a venereal disease or an invasion of an antigen that takes over its human host. It's a genetic anomaly induced by environmental or hereditary conditions that cause the mutation of a gene. It can be awful and fatal but it can also be entertaining. Recently, I went to a movie called "50/50" with J. Gordon Levitt and Seth Rogen. It's based on the true story of someone who had an absolutely hideous cancer experience. I was mortified by the professionalism of the patient's healthcare team and the unbelievable treatment of his shallow, self-absorbed girlfriend. Then there was his relationship with his therapist. He was her 3rd patient ever and she was trying to counsel him as if she were reading from a manual. It was so ironically awful and tragic that it was funny. I was thankful that someone put all of this in a movie.

Irony. I had almost forgotten how important irony is for finding humor in tragedy. Alanis Morissette neglected to make reference to the irony of having a whole drawer of hair products, i.e. barrettes, combs, ponytail holders, headbands, hair spray and hair gel etc. and a Cancer diagnosis......"It's like a drawer of combs....with a clean shaven head.......And isn't it ironic? Dont chya think? It's like raaaaaaiiiin.....on your wedding day......" I could talk about irony forever. I find it tremendously ironic that the food I crave the most is refined sugar. Refined sugar or any sugar feeds cancer cells. Cancer LOVES the stuff, and I have a hankering for Mango Sorbet....Isn't it Ironic?

It's ironic that I got cancer while working as an oncology nurse....As my friend Jim said, "I know you're dedicated....but this is taking it just a little too far." Now that's funny.....and quite ironic.

I like to write with wit and sarcasm. I like to make people laugh when I share stories and I was determined to keep my posts light and funny while describing the human side of battling cancer. The problem is, cancer is not funny. Mention the "C" word and people get this awful, frightened look on their face that is hardly ready for a punch line. I have tried a hundred ways to make light of my experience, but recognize early that my gallows humor, born out of 12 years of Emergency nursing, only appeals to a select group of friends. Even when I am in a jovial mood, making light of my situation in groups of friends, I still sense deep sadness and tragedy that has since been magnified with the shaving of my head. This morning, my husband and I were discussing the last few days and the intensity of my symptoms with this last administration of chemo. I admitted that it was difficult and that I would probably be someone very different after all of this was over.

He responded, "Maybe you'll be nicer."

It was funny. His timing was perfect. It made me laugh and I was reminded that there IS humor in all of this, very deep, and rooted in tragic psychology that many people are not conscious of or are completely uncomfortable with. The key is timing and delivery and finding the really funny aspects of all of this that everyone can relate to.

Not everybody speaks "chemo". If I were to tell you a joke like,

"How many chemo patients does it take to change a light bulb?"

Answer: None, they don't have to change a lightbulb because they already glow in the dark.

One would have to know that the agents used in chemotherapy are often brightly colored (like antifreeze) or that they are so toxic, glowing in the dark almost seems like a plausible side effect. Most people don't get it. How can you be funny if you tell jokes that people just don't get? Or that people don't want to laugh at. Lately, I've been getting courtesy laughs and blank stares of "does she really think that's funny?"

The recent shaving of my head has created a new challenge for me in keeping things light. People stare and look away or tell me I have a "beautifully shaped head." It's sweet, but it makes me laugh. How do you respond to that? I like your head shape too? I try to come up with quotes from G.I. Jane or break into renditions of Sinead O'Connor songs but people don't laugh except for my friends with the same sick sense of humor who take it one step further with Kojak or Grace Jones references. Being bald is funny and so are the other side effects. One of the major side effects of the chemo is the nausea. When asked what it feels like, I explain, "It's like the hangover that follows a 3-day drinking binge of Jager-tee, Jagermeister, and Stroh rum at high altitude without eating anything prior." Most people have not had this unfortunate experience or anything similar to it. I wonder if I should be embarrassed that the wealth of my experience affords this analogy. Some people laugh because it is totally like me to have done something so wild and unbelievable, and lived to tell the tale. Others find me sad and unrefined. I say, drink the Jager-tee but stop there. It's enough to get the idea....

Another side effect is the intensification of one's sense of smell and taste. I can smell a ripe pineapple from a mile away. I can smell an oncoming rainstorm. I can smell my daughter's shampoo 3 rooms down the hall. Imagine the unpleasantness of this new heightened ability.....Yeah. Getting rid of the cats smells like a great idea.

Then there's this weird thing with appetite and taste. For women who are, or ever have been pregnant, they can probably relate. Once, when I was pregnant with my daughter Stella, I had an intense craving for chocolate cake. I wanted it freshly baked and frosted so I spent the greater portion of my day, while on bedrest, baking and frosting a cake. At the end of this laborious process, I was so excited to cut a piece of chocolate heaven and enjoy what was to be an experience of culinary mastery despite its Betty Crocker origins. I giggled with anticipation. I took one bite and then two. After three bites, I wanted to hurl. I cried for an hour that the joy of eating chocolate cake was so fragile and so fleeting. Marek gained 20lbs when I was pregnant, largely because this phenomenon occurred frequently and there was no one else to eat a perfectly well-baked chocolate cake. I was saved by an intense need for refrigerated, Entemann's, buttermilk doughnuts that never waned and thankfully, kept me out of a deep psychological despair. However, it also kept me out of a size 6 and my favorite bikini for quite some time too. Chemotherapy is much like being pregnant in that respect. One minute, I want huevos rancheros and the next, I am shuttering at the thought of an egg or anything resembling food. Water is repulsive. Despite the throbbing headache from being severely dehydrated, the thought of drinking water resembles the abhorrent act of eating a cockroach. I simply cannot do it. I can take small sips of Kombucha or fizzy drinks but water is detestable. My body needs it and I know it, but I swear it will kill me if I drink it. It's easier to curl up and wait for my ER friends to bring me IV fluids, .....which they never do of course because that is illegal, unethical and unprofessional.....I am still hoping that the healthy equivalent of refrigerated Entemann's buttermilk doughnuts will soon present itself. My psychological well-being depends on it.

The good news is my bikini still fits....well, sort of. Having one breast instead of two makes the bikini presentation a little....uneven and disturbing. The question is do you flatten the right side or build up the left with a silicone prosthesis? It's hard to hide the duct tape so flattening is a challenge. The problem with the silicone prosthesis is that it looks far better than the 30-year old, post-breastfeeding, slightly downward-turning breast on the right. (Yes, I said 30. I did not get breasts until I was 15.....so shutup). So, the bikini fits on the bottom but not on the top. After years of ski racing, cycling, and playing soccer, with far too much junk in my trunk, it is the first time in 37 years that this has ever happened. Now THAT is ironic.

Commonalities of culture

4am comes early. Seems like I am developing a pattern of waking up at 4am the mornings after I receive treatment. Shaky and slightly disoriented, I consider whether or not it is safe to get up and walk to the kitchen for a cup of warm, Kombucha tea. I am motivated because I am soaking wet from night sweats which requires a shirt change. I feel a draft. Oh yeah, I am hairless. It's the strangest experience of detecting temperature change on the back of my neck near the occiput. It's like a little mini weather station. Yesterday, on the drive home, I started having hot flashes. Yep, the pre-menopausal ones that make you feel like your head is on fire. It's a little trippy. They subside and when they do, my chilled, hairless neck picks up a draft. It is its own heating/cooling system. I'm just here for the ride.

I experienced questionable nursing for the first time at UCSF yesterday. We waited an extra 3 hours because my nurse was just not on the ball. The only reason I know this, is I am a nurse myself. First, lab did not draw all the tubes of blood they were supposed to, so when I went for my infusion, there was a critical lab result that was missing. My nurse proceeded to tell me that it was essentially my fault for not presenting to the infusion lab instead of the processing lab, both in the same building, doing the same job. I informed her of the importance of new patient teaching and that if I was supposed to get labs drawn in the infusion center, then I shouldn't have been specifically instructed to report to the lab on the 1st floor by the last infusion nurse. We started out on the wrong foot......

After the redraw, we waited two hours for a lab result and another hour for my chemo agents to be prepared by pharmacy. The talk of the floor was "Why is the patient in Chair 2 still here?" The rest of the nursing staff was incredibly helpful. I don't think I would have been as chapped if my friend Marian hadn't offered to drive Marek and I down for the day. I felt responsible for the fact that she would be spending her entire day off in a cancer infusion center. She, of course, is the poster child for grace and kindness. Selfishly, I was happy to have her there to keep me company while Marek ruled the world with his technological devices from the waiting room.

Meanwhile, we had a lovely view of all the patients that cycled through that day. One woman, a breast cancer patient, bald like me, was on a different treatment. She said she had already been through my treatment of AC-T and had a lot of advice. I'm not sure why she was on a new treatment, but I suspect she either had a recurrence or started deeper in the cancer hole than I. I worried about the possibility of recurrence. I reeled over the fact that after 6 months of chemo, she had to start all over again. That would require some serious durability.

She was lovely. She was a tiny thing and wore a brightly-colored scarf and just the right lipstick color to bring out her pretty features. She lacked eyebrows and eyelashes but her eyes were big and beautiful and her smile made up for the hair deficit. Her skin was alabaster white. She showed us photos of her nuptials, recently married in Kauai. Apparently, she and her fiancee had rented a villa in the South of France but her Oncologist said it was too far for her to be away from her Cancer treatment center at this point in her treatment. Kauai did not disappoint and her photos were stunning. She was radiant and happy (and durable). I was inspired by her.

In another chair, a woman came in from Guam. She gets her treatments at UCSF because she travels so much. She was receiving Zometa, a medication given to protect the bones from complications related to chemotherapy and prevent bone metastasis. I will receive this medication after my chemo treatment. She was also a small, filipino-looking woman and reported that she has been traveling all over southeast Asia, the Phillipines, China etc.

She was happy to talk of her travels and looked fabulous with textiles I recognized from far away lands. She too, inspired me.

There were some sad stories too, but these two women lit up the room and brought an interesting vibe to the place. I felt irritable about waiting so long for lab results and chemo and recognized almost immediately that I was not living in the moment. Because my experience had started out unpleasantly, I was motivated to leave which made waiting more painstakingly difficult. However, I was fascinated by the stories of these two women who were visibly radiant and happy (and durable). I wanted more of that and less of my irritability. Not feeling well physically fosters my frustration. I was hungry, anxious, clashing with an argumentative nurse.....and I let it shape my attitude. I realized this just in time, and engaged in the stories of the other women and suddenly the vibe changed. It reminded me of traveling.

If you have ever traveled in the third world, or on a budget in the first world, you may have shared a small train car, a chickenbus, a youth hostel room or a Thai longboat with people from other countries, other cultures or your own. Admittedly, I am amazed at how much common ground we share with those from different places. We took the girls to Thailand one year and took a tour to Phang Nga Bay. It's fairly famous for its "James Bond Island" featured in the movie "The Golden Gun." Phang Nga bay is full of limestone islands that over time are eroded by the waters of the bay forming these incredible formations that jut out of the bay. Colonies of monkeys live on them and the fishing is pretty good judging from all the longboats out in the morning. Part of our experience was visiting a Muslim Fishing Village at Panyee Village. We shared a jet boat with a really nice family from Spain and a group of Korean women. Because our Spanish was better than our Korean or Thai, we obviously struck up conversations with the Spanish family. They were not fond of our former American President and grilled us with questions of the new regime. They were incredibly nice to us and their two kids played with our two kids throughout the trip.

When we arrived at Panyee Village, we all sat down at a table for lunch. Panyee Village is traditional muslim. The practice of this religion puts me on edge. They have different personal space distance, treat women differently and have a devious look toward foreigners and infidels. The women, with their heads and bodies covered served the meals while the men sat and did nothing.

A man and 2 women joined us at our table and we learned that they were from Iran. I bristled. Of all the muslim cultures, Iran was depicted the worst in the American media....my only source of Iranian culture and political news. The women were uncovered in modern western clothing with beautiful olive skin, eyelashes that swept their dark bushy eyebrows and heads of jet black Iranian hair cut short in defiance of their women counterparts. I remember being irritated by the presence of their male companion because he was presumably their chaperone. They all spoke perfect English and they were lovely. Stella and Zoe asked unabashed questions about Iran and these women answered radiantly about how they had to have special permission to leave on vacation, and that their country required a family male to accompany them. (Validating my irritation). However, the Iranian man at the table was very progressive and pleasant. He "allowed" the women to speak openly and outwardly and did not appear to control them in any way. He was quiet and placid, and our interaction with him enlightened me that, perhaps, he was not comfortable with his country's assignment of duties. Both of the women were highly educated and had a far better grasp on world politics and the role of the United States than we did. They were fascinating and kind and possesed a level of hope for the future that I did not. It was another example of how changing the way you see things, changes the world around you.

Recently, we traveled to Morocco and took a train from Marrakesh to Fez. Our seat assignments placed us in a car with an older, married Arab couple from Algiers. They did not speak English. We didn't speak a grunt of Arabic, but I spoke the butchered version of French. The man also spoke French. However, there was a cultural difference that made it difficult to break the ice. In Arab cultures, men do not address married women or women who are accompanied by a male. The conversation begins with men addressing men. When we entered the car, Marek addressed the female with a polite hello and a smile. As a woman, I immediately read her body-language as uncomfortable. She pulled her head covering close to her and turned her head out the window without responding. The Algerian man started talking with Marek in French. Unfortunately, Marek can't speak a lick of French, so Marek turned to me. I addressed the Algerian man and explained that my husband does not speak French but that I speak a little. The Algerian man then turned to Marek and addressed him again. Marek smiled, and turned to me....and thus our conversation was born. After awhile, the Algerian man addressed me directly. We discussed politics and governments and how different they were from the people they represented. Our American government is not perceived well, but thankfully, everywhere we went we were welcomed as American people. Our differences are not so great at the very basic levels of food, shelter, water and a desire for our kids to be happy. We talked greatly about the destabilization of the Middle East and how it was affecting the people of Algeria and Tunisia with problems of food and water shortages and lack of good medical care. They had two sons, now grown who were having a hard time making an honest living because there were so few jobs for young people. The stories were familiar but a lot more real. These stories made real by talking to an Algerian man in French with his obviously suspicious wife on a train in Morocco. We parted ways in the city of Fez, Morocco after a few hours of train travel. The wife warmed up to us finally with a smile and a wish for a pleasant journey.

Honestly, I had a bit of angst at first when they mentioned they were from Algeria. Mostly, because I knew nothing about Algeria other than the Arab culture that resides there and the depiction of Arab culture in the American media. Fear of the unknown struck. I was honored to talk to them and learn more of who they were which was not much different from us. It was a fantastic epiphane albeit limited in complexity. Nonetheless, it gave me a framework with which to approach my fears of unknown cultures and the people who practice them.

Cancer is another culture. The outward physical expression is frightening at times with physical disabilities, bald women with one or no breasts, speech impediments, extreme cachexia or significant obesity, or simply people from Guam and other parts of the world coming to UCSF for treatment. We must learn to speak the language, learn the way from veteran cancer travelers and find our place in this new world. Some of the attractions to see on our adventure are unbelievable hope, determination of survival, and the power provided by a network of friends. I wish I could take pictures, but it is not customary to take pictures of the inhabitants without their permission. I don't want to forget, despite the chemo's best efforts. While I am disappointed that the Robinson family will not be traveling to the far reaches of the planet this year, I am renewed by the new adventure before us complete with a different culture, language and set of social rules. I must prepare for my new adventure. I think a new wardrobe and some fabulous shoes will do quite nicely.....:-)

Hair

I've almost always had long hair. Long, like down to my bra strap long. I wear it in a ponytail half the time and the other half, I pull it back. I don't like a lot of hair in my face. Styles over the years have ranged with differing versions of long hair. Mullets, bangs, layers and even Jennifer Aniston's signature look, etc. have all been in my style repertoire. I cut it once on a whim in Bend, Oregon. My thought process was centered on ease of maintenance. How great would it be to have short hair that I could just wash, shake and go. I went from very long hair to very short hair, and I loved it.....for a month. When I found out that short hair needed a lot of attention with gel, style, multiple and frequent haircuts, and the reversal of the inevitable bedhead, I realized I had made a grave mistake. Short hair was high maintenance. I exiled my head under a baseball cap until it grew back. I love the versatility of long hair. I can pull it back, curl it, braid it, color it, up-do it, or my most favorite....do nothing with it. I like options.

In 1987, Sinead O'Connor released "The Lion and the Cobra" CD. She caused quite a stir with her "Nothing Comapres 2 U" video. The talk of the town was "Did you see the bald chick on MTV?" She was beautiful and I was inspired to shave my head because of her. Ever since then, I have wanted to shave it all off. I was never brave enough. After all, Sinead had a face that could pull that off and a successful music career to finance a quiver of wigs and hairpieces in case she got tired of her bald look. I was 21 and living in a skitown. I was sure I would frostbite my ears.

I found a hundred reasons to talk myself out of it and did.

There's no getting out of it this time. Cytoxan, one of the chemotherapeutic agents used to treat my cancer is classicly known for it's side effect of hair loss. Dramatic hair loss. Like, hairless-cat-like hair loss. That means everything. Eyebrows, eyelashes, arm hair, leg hair, pubic hair, mole hair, nose hair, underarm hair, and the peach fuzz on the nape of my neck. One word comes to mind: slippery. I'm going to have to use a non-greasy emollient cream. The good news is we will save all kinds of money in hair removal products and Marek's dream of the Brazilian bikini wax will finally come true.

However, I have an issue with watching my hair fall out little by little. It's a degradation of sorts. Pulling my hair out in clumps on a daily basis will be the obvious effect that Cancer and the treatment is having on me. My life is changing. No doubt about it, but rather than painstakingly suffering the changes day by day, I would rather just face them and be done with it. I am at war, and waiting for the enemy to come to my doorstep is just putting off the inevitable. I would rather run straight at it.

That is why, 5-10 of my friends are coming over today and shaving my head. My long, brunette locks are coming off today and I am going for the G.I. Jane look. I'm a little sad. Change is hard. While I will still be the same on the inside, there is no denying that the rest of the world will perceive me differently. The world still has its stigmas and stereotypes and I am sure that there will be moments where I will have to stand against inaccurate presuppositions. I fear more for my daughters. Do they have the steadfast werewithal to be able to handle the onslaught of questions that will be hurled upon them in unfamiliar environments? Or the confidence in me to endure despite the onlookers and random sympathies of strangers....("I'm so sorry." "How long have you been sick?") I want to protect my kids and with a bald head and a fresh can of whoop ass, I will be inclined to strike when provoked. The effort to remain poised and calm will be harder than ever for all of us because my illness is now expressed outwardly. Certainly, a smile goes a long way in softening the outward expression of a life-changing illness, but this too will be difficult as the tendency for me to draw within will be just a little stronger. Open, outward attempts to engage others will be a little more daunting. The true test of losing my hair will be the test of whether or not I am comfortable in my own skin. The honest answer is "I don't know." I like to think that I am comfortable with who I am, the choices I've made and the way of life I choose. But under intense scrutiny....I have no idea. Whatever being bald brings, the good news is hair grows back and I have every intention of not being a cancer patient forever. There will be vast opportunities presenting themselves each day. I hope I don't miss them. One thing I do know is that I am durable and that I don't have to stand against the scrutiny alone. That helps.

Damaged

I've received significant correspondence on the title of my blog "The Damaged Diva". I feel compelled to clarify my choice for using the word "damaged". Damaged, in my view, is more of a term that represents "demoliton". I did toss around the idea of calling my blog the "Demoliton Diva" but it doesn't quite roll off the tongue as well. Then, I came across a contest where you send in a photo of yourself after you've crashed at some velocity and while damaged, managed to survive the experience. Well, this sort of struck a chord with me. The Damaged Diva blog was initiated.

The term "Damaged" has come to mean different things in today's language. My definition of damaged is a state where the final product no longer represents its original form. Take my car for example....a 2000 Subaru Outback that has seen better days. My husband will be happy to tell you that I am a fantastic driver as long as I don't drive less than 30mph and as long as I am traveling in a forward direction. I have had 3 or 4 fender benders, all of which occurred while I was going backwards. Let's face it, backwards is not my chosen direction of travel. However, we all must go backwards to go forwards sometimes. Turns out, you actually have to turn around and look at what's behind you. Hey, if I'm backing up....the children, the family dog and everything else know to run for cover. Unfortunately, parked cars do not afford me this luxury....Needless to say, every Subaru I have ever owned has a dent just above the right rear brake lamp. It's damaged, but it still goes 90 in a forward direction just fine...proudly I might add.

Damaged is a state that refers to being harmed without affecting function. I guess, I refer more to the "aesthetic" damage of a thing but a blog called "The Aesthetically Damaged Diva" also does not roll off one's tongue easily. I am proud of my damage. I have broken bones, lacerated skin, had concussions X 3, sprained ankles, replaced a hip, shredded the end of my finger, bloodied my nose numerous times, been tumbled in rivers, fallen down mountains, and been ripped in two by two adorable children. The wealth of these experiences I would not trade for a single cell that has been altered by these events. I am so glad to be "damaged". It speaks to a life of experience and a testament to my ability to bounce. I have the scars to prove it. Hence, damaged describes me well.

In today's vernacular, the term damaged has earned a new meaning. We refer to people who are "damaged" as mentally transformed in a negative way. For example,

"Dude, you do not want to date that chick. She is seriously damaged."

So "damaged" sort of refers to being a little high maintenance, which truthfully speaking, I am not far off from as well. Just ask my husband about my most recent cell phone drama....I am a brat sometimes. Of course, if AT&T was worth a darn and Blackberry could design a phone that works....we wouldn't be having this discussion.

There is one thing that bothers me about being "damaged". The definition of the term (according to Dictionary.com ) is, "Injury or harm that reduces value or usefulness."

Most of my damage has not reduced my value but rather has enhanced it. Despite my bumps and lumps, I am aging more like an antique or a fine bottle of wine and not a field of crops that got wasted by a storm. So technically, the term does not apply according to the original definition. I have looked the word up in other references and all of them have something to say about reducing the value or usefulness of the original material.

In the Spring of 2001, Marek and I were on a kayaking roll....(no pun intended). We had great water, and I was getting to paddle more and more Class V sections with very minor "damage" incurred. We paddled the upper sections of the South & North Forks of the American River, Pauley and Lavazzola Creeks, and the South Yuba in the Yuba drainage, The Tuolomne river, Burnt Ranch Gorge on the Trinity River, the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus and some other stout Class IV with occasional Class V sections. I was determined to get on Cherry Creek (Strong Class V) that summer as soon as water levels dropped and I was looking to paddle lots of hard stuff to train up for it. I had one such opportunity when a group of us decided to paddle the Upper Clavey River.

The Clavey River is a jewel of the Sierra Nevada. With large granite boulders and a wooded alpine setting of aspens and ancient forests, the river drops an average of 123 feet per mile. Two years prior, I shuttle-bunnied my husband (then boyfriend) and a group of friends to the put-in, deeply disappointed that my kayak skills were not sharp enough to join them. In spring of 2001, I was ready to see this gorgeous stretch of river with only one minor handicap. I did not own a creek boat. I had that year's version of a flat-bottomed play boat with a creek boat on my wish list. However, the opportunity to paddle with some of California's finest kayakers came before my bank account could support my gear needs, I felt the opportunity might not come again. So I rallied like any damaged diva would. The run was awesome. It was everything I had expected and more and I was so happy to be on the river with likes of Dennis Eagan, Jeremy Thomas, my husband, and Phil DeReimer. I portaged the biggest Class V's but ran a lot of hard Class IV rapids.

There was one rapid where I had to make a fairly stout ferry across fast current to get to the eddy where we took out to scout the downstream rapid. From upstream, all you could see was a big house rock and a horizon line which usually indicates a waterfall or large drop. It is customary and wise not to run anything without seeing the bottom of the rapid and knowing ahead of time where you plan to put your boat. Everyone but my husband had gotten out to scout. My husband, in all of his infinite wisdom, waited for me to make the ferry. However, I missed my ferry and flipped above the drop. I rolled up just in time to go over the drop sideways and slightly backwards. I found a small eddy but flipped trying to get to it. I rolled up once and saw a line of boulders and as I was adjusting my line, flipped again. At this point, I feared getting stuck in an ugly place, so I swam out of my boat. As the guys were yelling the line to my husband and scrambling to get back in their boats, Marek, chased after me. We recovered my gear fairly quickly. As anyone who has ever had this experience will tell you, swimming in Class IV/V whitewater is a little edgy. You have to make some pretty quick decisions about saving your own life and it tends to fire up the adrenaline a bit. Once settled on shore with all of my missing pieces put back together, it was very clear to me that I still had 6 more miles of intense whitewater to paddle. We were miles from anywhere and hiking out simply was not an option. Downstream was the fastest way to get home before dark, so I had to get my head in the game, quick-like.

The other issue was, I was the only girl on this trip. Kayaking with some of the best guys in California has an incredible "man-up" effect. I got back in my boat 'cause there was no way I was going to let the Y chromosome torch go out. One or two rapids later, I had to make a crucial move from river right to river left to miss a recirculating hydraulic of whitewater. I was close....but I got a piece of it and it slammed me upside down. After getting hammered through a couple of roll tries, I finally came up and made it to the bottom of the rapid. Two of the guys I was paddling with, Phil and Dennis, were sitting calmly, in a downstream eddy, watching me get a high sierra trashing, and one said to the other, "That girl's got some durability."

We made it safely to the end, before dark, I might add, and at the end of that day, Phil DeReimer came up to me, gave me a hug, and asked me if I felt the river was "over my head." I replied, "maybe a little, but worth it." He proceeded to share with me that I was "durable." While the hallmark of a good paddler is not to get trashed all day and survive, but rather to finesse and navigate effortlessly, I was still proud to get the durability award. Coming from these guys, it was an inspiring compliment. It would not be the first trashing of my kayak life, nor the last. However, my dream of running Cherry Creek that year was not realized as I found myself pregnant two months later. I have not kayaked Class V whitewater since.

The definition of durable is something along the lines of, "able to withstand wear, pressure, or damage." So for all of you folks that have taken the time to read my ramblings and been so kind to remind me that I am "far from damaged," I have chosen to rename my life's testament to "The Durable Diva." I offer you my appreciation for pointing out a very important distinction.

"Rolls" off the tongue quite nicely.......

What to Do

I've often heard from friends and acquaintances that their very best friends are the ones that they met when they were in High School and College. Rightfully so because these are the tumultuous years. The years when we pass from pre-adulthood to adulthood and suddenly the world is a bigger place. We are held to our own standards, left to our own devices and accountable for outcomes. It's a time of uncertainty and to have others to share this time with eases the grandiosity of it all.

I have been fortunate in my life to make close friends throughout my entire adulthood. I contribute this to having chosen many stressful circumstances in which I have lead my life. First, there was High School. Okay, High School is just brutal. It's survival of the fittest. One must balance intense schoolwork and social pressures in a sea of changing hormones, growth spurts, puberty, and school dances while living at home with one's parents. No wonder most of us remember our High School friends. It was hell and we bonded together to survive it.

Then came college which is where you take the parents out of the equation and suddenly are expected to be accountable for your actions. Screw up and there's no one to bail you out. My life took a slightly different turn, as I did not go straight to college. I was fortunate enough to pursue an athletic career and in the midst of traveling around the world, performing at an International level all the while trying to maintain Olympic level fitness and diet regimen, living with 8-10 other women trying to do the same, competitively. I was also trying to figure out who the heck I was, now, essentially out on my own, away from my High School friends and my family. More years of who am I and what do I want to do with my life? It was easy to bond with the women I traveled with. They had the same level of stress, the same unanswered questions, the same level of uncertainty. Not all of us could be gold medalists. We knew it. We knew that each of us would have her particular success and it would be different than the success of our teammates. We were hardest on one another calling each other out if we acted stupidly or slacked off even remotely. We swore, we drank, we unlocked the hotel front door when our friends went dancing and got locked out. Well, at least SOME of us did. We did a lot of growing up fast. For that reason, I am very comfortable with a group of women who simply seem to speak my language. We are able to ignore one another for years and then once reconnected, rip on each other like the old days.

I have had people tell me that in the 20 years since their High School and College years, they have not made the same quality of friends since. My theory is that it is probably because commonly, life's storm gently eases and we are a little more comfortable within our own skin. This is not the case for me because after college, I chose not to engage with the adult world. Instead, I took a job as a river guide, running rivers in California and Oregon and managing to remain off the adulthood grid for roughly 8 years. As any former river guide knows, there comes a new rite of passage learning to be responsible for 27 people in the wilderness on Class III and IV rivers. Our job was to not only navigate the rivers themselves but to also set-up an entire kitchen and river camp for 25-27 people (including children), keep them warm, keep them fed, keep them comfortable and show them the time of their lives without giving any inclination of how dangerous it really was or how clueless most of us really were. We depended on each other. There was no 911 when someone got hurt. There were no taxis to take you to a hotel and one bad attitude meant the death of a trip. Some of the greatest people I have ever known work for a rafting company of some sort. They are connected to the Earth and connected to humanity in ways most people cannot fathom. They are the soul of the human race and I am honored to have shared a campfire with them.

Despite loving that job, it soon became apparent that I would not be able to do it forever. Largely because it didn't pay much and because at some point, the younger generations start to outnumber you. I went to nursing school and ultimately landed a job in the emergency department. Spend a few years (like 12) in an ER with a group of people who are a constant witness to life and all of it's crises and you almost don't even have to speak with one another while occupying the same room. You've shared life and death moments with those people and everything in between and a look between you is usually enough. If words are exchanged they are open, direct and to the point because it's understood that every second counts and feelings are not always the priority in the moment. I have a handful of really close friends that I can't imagine living in this world without and we rarely talk to each other.

Since my diagnosis, I have reconnected with many of my High School friends, my Ski Racing friends, my river friends and my nursing friends. Ironically, they all have that same "deer in headlights" look on their faces and they all confide in me the same thing: "I don't know what to do."

I empathize.

When my friend Stephanie was diagnosed with brain cancer, I felt paralyzed. How could this happen to this young, vivacious woman and what would the world be without her? No one wants to say the word "Cancer', no one wants to allude to the possibility of death or worse (in my case), debilitation. No one wants to be negative. EVERYONE knows that either Cancer itself, or the treatment of it, is hideous and no one wants to go there.

So what does one do when their friend gets Cancer? What does one say?

For me, I have shared a crazy experience of growth or rite of passage with the best of my friends, and in those moments, my true friends would not let me act badly, be negative or slack off. They challenged me. They used sarcasm and harsh words, openly and directly, and slapped me when I was being stupid. They cried with me, but only for a moment and then pushed me back into the fray and told me to quit feeling sorry for myself. They went out and won ski races and sent me post cards. They made the move at Blossom Bar on the Rogue River so we weren't saving their asses in the dark with 27 hungry people looking on. They made me learn the rapid infuser inside and out, made me learn to scrub despite my reluctance and they brought me Ativan, X-ray and lab technicians, and pints of blood when I screamed for it. They showed up on my doorstep, uninvited, unannounced and unphased when I was diagnosed with Cancer, and many of them will soon shave my head. My friends bring out the very best in me by challenging me to be better than I've ever had to be. It is surreal when all of these amazing people tell me they don't know what to do or that they feel "helpless". Naturally, without provocation, they inspire me to endure. I will undergo chemotherapy and radiation and withstand the side effects of both as my friends pick me up, dust me off, pat me on the butt, and send me back into the battle against Breast Cancer. They won't let me whine or whimper and will challenge me to get back up just one more time. And while they desperately search for the thing "to do" that will make all of this better, I don't have the heart to tell them that they already have the hardest job of all.

They will have to watch.