Tube is removed!

My Tuesday CT scan went smoothly (I get the results this coming Tuesday) and my Wednesday visit with the Wound and Ostomy Nurse gave me lots of new information to process. All good!

On Friday morning, I was scheduled to get my nephrostomy tube removed. Woo hoo! In the pre-appointment phone call, they told me this: The doctor will inject dye into the tube and make sure that everything is flowing smoothly. If it is, they will remove the tube, and no sedation needed. If not, they will make a decision of what to do, and it may involve sedation.

The uncertainty on the medical front can be a little crazy-making. The logistical side also weighs on me, as I don’t like to inconvenience people, but I cannot drive myself home from these appointments. This requires me to ask a friend to keep the whole day free to pick me up at “whatever” time and in whatever drugged shape I am in, and to find folks to manage childcare, school pick-ups, etc. To top it off, my husband was out of town.

But friends were flexible and generous, we solved the logistics, and I was eager to finish up the week of appointments. On Friday morning, the Uber arrived promptly and I got into the car, looking forward to some quiet time to settle in before my procedure.

“Hi, are you Marie?” the driver asked in his unmistakable Minnesota accent. Knowing that the typical Midwesterner is chatty, I settled in for a conversational drive. My quiet time would have to wait.

We arrived at the hospital on time (despite traffic, construction zones and rain – very impressive) and I checked in. They asked me to have a seat until they called me, so I did.

Next, two women walked in together. One was dressed like any customer you might see at Starbucks. The other was dressed in what I think of as hospital clothes: Ugly clothes that you can easily wash in scalding water or might even choose to burn. She was quite thin (like me!) and her clothes hung on her like a hanger. I’m guessing that she was the patient.

“Hi,” she cheerfully greeted the person at the check-in desk. “I’m Deborah. D-E-B-O-R-A-H.”

She chatted like I do when I am nervous, about the pencils and her students. Once she was checked in, they called for me and someone led the three of us (Deborah, her friend, and me) downstairs to the room where they prep us patients. I still wanted to have some quiet time, so I walked behind the others. We checked into pre-op, then sat together.

I noticed that Deborah was wearing a nephrostomy bag. As much as I thought I needed quiet, I was compelled to ask her about it. She lamented that no one could tell her how to live with this, and I could relate. (They only told each of us, “You’ll figure it out.”) We shared our few personal tips and tricks for wearing the bags and handling the tubes, how to sleep (which is, not), etc. She told me that, at one point, she had two of them, and she hated them. I could relate to that too. I didn’t tell her that I hoped to get my tube removed that day. We joked about having so few body parts left inside our abdomens.

Soon they brought us each to our own little curtained area so we could be prepped for our procedures, and I wished we could chat a bit longer.

The nurse anesthetist walked into my curtained area, and we immediately recognized each other from my prior procedures. She was also chatty. Clearly, I was not going to get my quiet time yet, so I put my own agenda aside and conversed.

She described what would happen in the procedure room and – I love this part – NO ONE PUT AN IV IN ME. No one. I was prepared for them to say, “Just in case we need this” but no one did. I was thrilled.

Soon they wheeled me out of my area, past all the other patients. Everyone looks so sick in this context so I try not to look at them, but I suddenly saw Deborah, and we gleefully yelled out “Hi!”

The nurse wheeled me to the procedure room, where I transferred my body face-down to another table that had an x-ray machine hovering over it. The nurse kept talking and talking, now about another patient who loved to do food-related travel and was soon going to Greece with a famous local chef. She also talked about his love of wine and how he promised her a bottle of something really special. It occurred to me that while she may not be administering anesthesia for this procedure, she was effectively distracting me. She does her job well.

She transitioned to telling me that my doctor does a wine-tasting fundraiser every September to benefit the Boy Scouts. I was intrigued. His son was in Scouts, she explained, and he fully supports his son in everything he does. Then she mentioned that he also sells handmade lanyards to raise money for autism, and I was again intrigued. I briefly shared our family story with her and the doctor appeared.

He introduced himself, then immediately turned his focus to directing the Fellow, who was doing the hands-on work. The procedure moved quickly. I loved that the doctor said all good things during the procedure, like “this looks good” and “it’s a smooth flow.” I don’t think he said them for my psychological benefit, but I was still grateful.

The Fellow injected dye, watched it on the x-ray machine, removed the stitches and the tube, and bandaged me up as the Attending Doctor guided him through it.

As they wrapped up their work, the doctor said to me, “All done. Now you never have to see me again.”

“The first time I saw you, you made me cry. Gulping, devastated sobs.”

“You were furious with me.”

I laughed. “I was. I hated you.”

The nurse interrupted us. She shared that she told me about his fundraisers, and I shared that we had a few things in common. He started to tell me all kinds of stories about his son and daughter. He was obviously proud of them both and had a good sense of humor about their personalities. I loved listening to him animatedly share the details.

When he left the room, the nurse said, “I have NEVER seen him talk so long, much less to a patient. That was something.”

During college, I had a job as a bank teller. One of my favorite moments of the day was taking a super grumpy customer and shifting their mood before they walked away from my counter and into the rest of their day.

In that moment, I had that same feeling. Though I suspect that this time, I was both the teller and the customer.

As they wheeled me back to the pre- and post-op room, we passed Deborah, getting wheeled to her procedure. The nurses stopped so that we could connect one more time.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have a quiet morning. Apparently, it wasn’t what I needed.

You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes well you just might find
You get what you need

Rolling Stones

I hope you find that you get what you need, as well as what you want!

Blessings and love,
Marie

Angel appearance

Quick health update: All appointments went well! Thank you so much for your prayers, positive thoughts, and everything else. I swear that you can move matter, and I really appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Thank you.

I have three stories to share, so I will do them in three separate posts. The first one is from Friday night, after a long three days of medical appointments.

Suddenly craving pad Thai, I googled to find the best places near me. (Does one capitalize Google as a verb?) The top recommended spot wasn’t exactly “near” me but the drive was tolerable.

If you have spent time with me in person, you may have noticed that I rarely carry a purse or wallet, and even more rarely carry cash. I usually carry my phone, whose case holds exactly two credit cards.

Back to pad Thai. I called, placed my order, grabbed my phone (with its two credit cards) and made my way to the restaurant. Once inside, I noticed an ATM machine. That usually means the establishment is Cash Only. Sure enough, when my eyes scanned the counter, I saw the large sign: CASH ONLY.

No-name ATM machines (with their additional withdrawal charges) annoy me, but it was more annoying to drive back home to get cash that I wasn’t even sure I could find. So, I tried my Visa card in the ATM. Didn’t work. I tried my American Express. Also didn’t work.

I called American Express and while I got excellent service from a real live person, I couldn’t get cash. I hadn’t set up the process in advance and it takes 21 days. Too long to wait for pad Thai.

I called Visa. Because it was issued by the same bank where we have our checking account, I thought I would have some luck with them. But despite giving them every bit of identifying information, they couldn’t share my password or help me get cash.

Unsure what else I could do before I left, I decided to try the card one more time and guess one more password.

While I was doing this, someone hugged me.

Lisa!

She and her husband had appeared suddenly, out of nowhere! It was so fun to see them there. And then, on top of that, they had CASH. Not a lot, they said, but they were willing to share what they had.

In my usual greedy way, I ordered way too much food. I was willing to accept some cash, but I didn’t want to take all their cash. But guess what! Whoever took my order over the phone thought I said that I would call back to confirm the order.

That meant that they hadn’t even cooked or assembled my little piggy order! I could order from scratch! Pad Thai was less than $10, and it was all I really wanted anyway. So I ordered pad Thai as Lisa and her husband handed $10 to me and went on their way.

Wow. Gratitude and awe. Angels all around. I hope you can see yours, or that your invisible ones are giving you the support you need.

Blessings.
Marie

All is good!

I’ll admit that it is way easier to celebrate God when things go well.

I’m totally celebrating! I am thanking God and all of you for all your prayers and help in making the surgery even more successful than ANYONE expected.

The plan was to place a nephrostomy for at least two weeks, to make sure there is no infection, to deflate the kidney and make it easier to place the stent, etc. And the doctor told me, he never places stents in the first surgery because he always has to go back and fix it.

So I was prepared (as much as I guess I could be – was still freaking out) to have the nephrostomy and a constant companion bag.

BUT they not only placed the tube but they also PLACED THE STENT!! We were thrilled.

The show isn’t done: This is sort of a “starter stent” and I have to have the “big girl stent” placed another day. And I still have a tube hanging out of my back, along with a huge bandage (and still no showers allowed). Awkward.

But, really, NO BAG for the expected 2-4 weeks! I had it for about 36 hours, more than enough for me, as I’m running out of places to hide bags under my clothing. Woo hoo. Hopefully soon, I can have the tube removed and shower again. But in the meantime, I am THRILLED about the forward progress!

I know for sure that your prayers and support made the difference. So much energy going that way. Thank you. When I was under conscious sedation, I could feel it. I believe that faith can move mountains. What a difference! Thank you.

If you want a story from the day, here is one. Otherwise, thank you for reading this far and for all you have done with your connection to God and the great energy grid! Sending love love love! And, now, this story:

I arrived pretty nervous, but EVERYONE I encountered was not only pleasant but also uplifting. After I signed in, the receptionist sent my husband to the cushy breakfast area while a volunteer took me and another woman (older than I am) to get prepped.

It was a little bit of a walk, including an elevator ride, so the volunteer made small talk and I let the other woman carry the other side of the conversation. I really wasn’t into it.

When we reached the prep area, the volunteer left and the other woman and I sat in adjacent chairs, waiting to be called.

Already in chatty mode and actually quite friendly, the woman asked me, “Is this your first port?”, leading me to I assume she was there to have a port placed.

“Oh, I’m not here for a port,” I told her. “But I do have one.” And I showed it to her.

“They ran out of veins,” she sighed.

“Oh, the port is MUCH easier. Much. To be honest, it took a couple of months to get used to it.” Her eyes got wide, so I quickly added, “But now I barely think about it.”

Like me, she had a right-side mastectomy, so I told her they would likely place the port above her left breast. “I do notice it when I drive, when the seat belt hits it a certain way. Otherwise, I really don’t think about it.”

They called my name and I told her that she was going to be great. We never shared the type of cancer we were dealing with, or why I was there, but that is okay. Allowing myself to make a connection helped me to relax and regain confidence, and I hope that her procedure went just as well as mine did.

Thanks to God and to you!

Love and blessings,
Marie

 

 

You are always welcome

Thank you for hanging in there with me. I’m still recovering but getting a bit better every day! Just getting out of bed, showered and dressed is an accomplishment. I spend my days lounging around the house between naps. Being in the house for weeks can feel isolating. It is great to know that I’m not really alone.

During one of my lounging sessions, I caught the movie Moonstruck on TV. My favorite part is the last 20 minutes or so. If you haven’t seen it – SPOILER ALERT.

The movie centers around an Italian family. This final scene takes place first thing in the morning. The mother is in the kitchen cooking oatmeal and, one by one, people arrive – either from upstairs or through the front door. First the daughter (Loretta, played by Cher), then the brother of Loretta’s fiancé, followed by Loretta’s aunt and uncle, Loretta’s father, his father, and, finally, Loretta’s fiancé, each joining the crowd in the kitchen, until there are more people than chairs assembled around the table.

When I first watched this movie in the 1980’s, a coworker from a British family told me that she loved the movie but the ending was unrealistic: People don’t just show up at your doorstep! And why would the mom make so much oatmeal?

But for me, growing up in an Italian family, that scene was the most realistic scene in the movie. Friends and family are WELCOME to show up at your door, anytime. And of course there is always food on the stove, plenty for everyone.

As I watched this final scene last weekend, I realized how incredibly grateful I am to everyone who just shows up. Sometimes it is at my door, which helps to alleviate isolation and adds color and dimension to my day. Sometimes it is online, or through meals, or cards, or a myriad of other ways. You are so very welcome. And while I don’t always have something on the stove, I am happy to share whatever I have. Again, you are always welcome.

Love,
Marie

The skinny branches

Our second-story bedroom window looks out at a group of deciduous trees. (I’ll post a pic on-line at some point…)

Now that the leaves have fallen, I pass the time in bed by watching the squirrels run across the branches. The branches sway and the squirrel sometimes pauses. But I’m constantly awed at the ability of the squirrels to stay balanced on such skinny limbs, and the ability of the branches to stay strong and hold the squirrel.

This season, we’ve had many turkeys in our neighborhood. Up close, they are much larger than I imagined. From our kitchen window, I can see them nibbling on the kale and chard in our planter:

The other day, I noticed a group of turkeys at our neighbor’s house and was amazed to see them walk across the top of on a fence.

And then, I saw one nesting in a tree!

Larger and heavier than a squirrel, I was even more in awe of their ability to balance, and of the tree’s ability to hold them.

I recently received the results of my CT scan, and was thrilled to hear that everything looks stable. I know that I am lucky to be alive this far out from my initial diagnosis, and at this time of year, I think back to the time I was initially diagnosed.

For me, the roughly 8 weeks between my diagnosis and start of chemo was unsettling (to say the least). It felt like I was facing a death sentence and unable to do anything about it.

During this time, though, one of my friends sent an article to me about a scientist named Stephen Jay Gould.

Stephen Jay Gould was a professor of zoology at Harvard University, and a specialist in the theory of evolution. In July 1982, at the age of 40, he was diagnosed with mesothelioma, a rare and incurable cancer, with a median survival time of eight months after diagnosis.

The distribution curve looks like this (adapted from the graph on page 12 of the excellent book Anticancer by David Servan-Schreiber):

This meant that half of the population diagnosed with mesothelioma died before eight months.

“But the other half, on the right, naturally spreads out beyond eight months, and the curve … always has a long tail that can extend to a considerable length of time.  … Stephen Jay Gould died twenty years later of another disease.”

He figured that someone’s got to be on that skinny end. It might as well be him.

I decided to adopt his mindset, and while I have wobbled on those skinny branches from time to time, I’m gratefully still here.

The squirrels and the turkeys remind me that although it might look crazy and impossible to balance on those skinny branches, they do it. They inspire me.

And it occurs to me, frequently, that you are helping to keep those branches strong, and to remind me that sometimes, they sway in the wind but it is all good. Thank you.

With love and gratitude,
Marie

 

Connections in Various Forms

Although I like to picture myself the way I have always been, sometimes I get shocking glimpses of my body that I cannot ignore. For example, I walked by a mirror and wondered “Who is that woman with the super skinny arms?” (Yes, one can be too thin.) Or one of the kids recently asked me to go bike riding with him, and when I said yes, my husband noted that I had not been able to move from the same spot for almost three hours – was biking a realistic possibility?

I don’t want to see myself like that; it just feels too limiting. Inside, I feel like the same person and I don’t like to think that my body has changed at all.

In the meantime, I again experienced a series of morning sneezes. They started a few weeks ago – two or three sneezes just after waking. Usually, sneezing really hurts my abdomen but these did not. Still, they came one after another every single morning before I got out of bed. Over the weeks, they became four, then five. The other day, I counted six sneezes in a row.

At sneeze number six, I finally remembered that my grandfather used to do the same thing, so I laughed and asked if this was him.

The sneezing stopped. I smiled, thinking that meant he got his message across, letting me know that he was with me.

A few hours later, standing in the driveway of a friend’s house, I remembered that morning and the sneezing. I laughed at myself and decided I was making too much of a coincidence.

Was it really you? I asked him in my mind as I looked from the driveway to the street.

As if in answer, a landscaping truck drove by. In large letters on the side of the truck was the name of the company, which was the same as my grandfather’s last name.

Okay. I can be skeptical but honestly, this stuff is such a kick! I’m glad that we remain connected to those we love, regardless of the form we each take.

We all grow and change form, in one way or another. We gain and lose weight. We build muscle and lose it. We change our perspectives and beliefs. We wear fancy clothes and sweatpants. Our hair changes length, color and volume. We age. My own physical form may be changing but, like my grandfather who is no longer here in physical form, we can still connect in the ways that we are able. And it can be so much fun.

Regardless of your form today – whether this is a fabulous day or you have areas where you would like to be “better” – I hope you have fun connecting with someone or something you love.

Blessings and joy always,
Marie

Windows of Opportunity

About two years ago, at Shira’s suggestion, I worked with Dale Swan. Her fabulous work with Tibetan bowls physically changed my energetic vibration in a positive way.

Shortly after we started working together, she was diagnosed with a cancer recurrence. This time around, the diagnosis shook her at her core, and she stopped work to focus on healing.

We connected very occasionally, and each time, I witnessed her struggling more and more. I heard it in our brief phone conversations, could feel it in her emails messages and once, when I ran into her, I saw that she did not have the strength of life force and the confidence that one has when you are feeling well and grounded. To me, she felt smaller and scared, and it scared me.

After that, she sent an email to me saying that writing would help her, but she was unable to get any words out. Could I work with her on that? For a million reasons, I never did get back to her, and we didn’t communicate again.

In recent months, I have been thinking of her and feeling her presence in the way that I feel when people have died. I was afraid to check and kept pushing the feelings away. But recently, I woke in the middle of the night, again with her presence so strong around me. I couldn’t get back to sleep until I googled her name.

And yes, she had died.

I read her obituary. I checked out her website, and I re-read our old email correspondence.

I got to learn all these other dimensions of Dale, like her work with the Indigenous Grandmothers and as an ordained minister, and I was sorry that I didn’t get to explore those with her when she was alive. I was sad that I didn’t step into the opportunity to help her write again.

She did indeed drop into an abyss, but as I read more, I learned that she rose out of it to write again. A few months after she wrote to me, she had a breakthrough and her writing started to flow. She got to record her story for her children and her grandchildren in a way that was powerful for her and, I hope, for them.

I read as her voice grew stronger and she regained her grounding. Learning this made me feel a little less guilty about not stepping up.

Bigger than that, though, I paused in wonder at how, if we are supposed to be doing something, God will somehow provide that window and the support. We may need to be patient, but the opening will appear and we can choose what to do.

For whatever it is that would help you to grow into who you would like to be, I pray that the right openings present themselves and that you are able to see them and step into them. And I am grateful for the openings that I have been given, and for my strength in stepping into the ones that I have. It always changes my life.

Love,
Marie

The reverberation of my time with John of God

Thank you for all your prayers and support. I am fully convinced that there are greater powers at work, and I appreciate that you tap into that to help me. Thank you.

I took last week off chemo to go see John of God at Omega in Rhinebeck, NY. Because I took a week off early in September, I was a little nervous about taking this week off as well. But I also know that when I see John of God and the entities who work with him, I experience positive and unexpected changes.

So off I went.

I arrived at Omega with specific intentions in mind so that I could be clear during the many hours of meditation and prayer.

Rather than describe the experience, I’ll share some of the outcomes.

But first, I will share a little background. The first time I went to see John of God (in Brazil), my primary intention was to be healed of tumors. (My summary of that trip is here. If you want to read more about it, I have more details starting on July 30 in that same blog.)  When I returned home, friends asked if I was upset that I wasn’t “healed.” But I felt great. Compared to a few weeks before, I was softer, happier, less judgmental. I felt like layers of yucky feelings had been removed from me. Maybe I still had the tumors, but I also had my life back. That was worth even more.

Because of that experience, I bring my own intentions but trust that the best things will happen.

And yes, one of my intentions was to remove the tumors, and specifically, the tumor in my belly button.

Here is what I experienced:

• On Tuesday afternoon, I had the start of a bowel obstruction. I could barely move. By now, I know the gig for these: I’m up all night, in pain and vomiting, until everything frees itself. But this time, I lay in bed (still feeling intense waves of pain) and FELL ASLEEP. That has NEVER happened before. When I woke in the morning, the pain was gone and the obstruction was freed. Immense gratitude!
• On Wednesday, I felt the belly button tumor. Doing that gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I need to know if there is any change. It wasn’t there. In place of that small, hard ball was soft mushy skin. Hmm. I checked again on Thursday. And Friday, and Saturday. I’m still not sure what to make of that.
• The opening in my belly button is barely noticeable.
• When I skip a week of chemo, I am usually in more pain that second week and my energy level is low. But right now, I’m actually in less pain that I have been in years. I can lift grocery bags and move the dryer. I had the energy to attend a religious service, go to the grocery store, and cook two full meals, all in a good mood!

Plus, one more fun event that happened after I arrived home, totally unrelated to health.

I bought these Birkenstocks, wore them once, and left them in the car.

Birkenstocks

Recently, I noticed there was only one on the floor of my car. I looked through the car and the house. I asked my husband and kids. No sign of it anywhere. I hate losing things, especially brand new things.

The shoe was missing long enough that I considered throwing away its mate, but I didn’t.

On Saturday, I drove one of our sons to his friend’s house. My husband usually does this, but I was feeling great and wanted to go. I had never been to the house and was driving slowly to find it when our son said, “His house is right there, the one with the fence that has your shoe on it.”

He was very matter-of-fact, like this happens every day. Ha ha, I thought, funny.

When we walked to the house, I examined the shoe. It was the same style and color, the right size, and even the right foot. Hmm, maybe I’ll keep it, I thought. I can use it. It was even brand new. It felt just like mine.

Once in the house, I asked my friend about the shoe. She had found it on the sidewalk in front of her house. They considered throwing it away, but it was brand new, so thought they would put it on the fence. Maybe whoever lost it would come looking for it. It had been on that fence long enough that they again considered throwing it away. But they didn’t.

I was just thrilled.

But I had never been to the house. How did it get there? We figured that my husband drove my car there, and it somehow fell onto the sideway. Possible.

I’m just giddy that all the pieces fell into place and I have my pair of shoes together again! (Now I just need the warm weather to return.)

On another note (literally), I attended a beautiful Humanistic Judaism service at Kahal B’raira. I wanted to share this song with you, especially the words in bold, because I so appreciate the way you share the source of strength deep within you.

Song: Makom hako’ach

            Makom hako’ach b’tocheinu,
            M’korot ha-b’racha m’chevroteinu.

           May the source of strength
           That dwells so deep within us,
           Help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing,
           And let us say: shalom.

            Makom hako’ah b’tocheinu,
            M’korot ha-b’rakha m’chevroteinu.

           Bless those in need of healing with refuah sh’leima
           The renewal of body, the renewal of spirit,
           And let us say: shalom.

– Debbie Friedman
Adapted by J. Falick, M. Jerris , and A. Chalom

Blessings and love,
Marie

A Walk Down Memory Lane

On September 18, 2015, Carnegie Mellon University posted (on Facebook) that 8 years ago, Randy Pausch delivered his famous Last Lecture.

My memory does not reliably record dates. I have a little rhyme to help me remember the birthdates of our sons; I definitely don’t remember any dates connected with any of my cancer news.

But my initial diagnosis is forever linked to Randy’s talk.

That September, our four-year-old had just started pre-K at a new school. We were about to move into a new home. And, on a Monday or Tuesday sometime during that month, I had a colonoscopy. The doctor found something that looked like cancer but we would have to wait for pathology to confirm. He assured me that they got a clear margin, though it was thin. “Clear margin” was encouraging. I had had brushes with cancer in the past, but we always caught it early (funny moles, DCIS), so I wasn’t particularly anxious as we waited for the results.

On Thursday of that week, my friend Julie called to tell me that there was an article in the Wall Street Journal about a talk given by Randy Pausch. She recalled that Randy and I knew each other from our days at CMU. We were no longer in contact, though I did hear through the grapevine about his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.

I read the WSJ article, mentally noting that it was written by Jeff Zaslow, one of my favorite WSJ reporters (who coincidentally also graduated from Carnegie Mellon). The next day, Friday, in the very late afternoon, I decided to watch Randy’s hour-long lecture online. I figured that I would watch for 15 minutes and if I wasn’t drawn in, I would stop.

Of course, I was drawn in. I watched and watched and watched. I recognized so many aspects of the Randy I knew 20 years before – the way he laughed, how he moved his mouth when he made a joke, his style of jokes. I admired how he had grown into an incredible lecturer and how his values, still the same, became even stronger and more clear.

When I finished watching, I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. Still sitting there a few moments later, basking in the after-effects of the lecture, our home phone rang.

It was the doctor calling to confirm that I had colorectal cancer.

“Thank you,” was my first response. He thought I didn’t understand him, so he repeated himself.

“I understand,” I assured him. “Thank you for calling to tell me, especially on a Friday night.”

“I’ve never had someone thank me for a cancer diagnosis. Are you okay?”

I tried to explain that I just watched this lecture but I didn’t say much about that before I started feeling silly, so I switched to, “I’m just glad you caught it.”

We talked a bit more – he recommended surgery because the margin was thin but we could discuss particulars next week – and then we hung up.

Shortly after that, the phone rang again. It was my primary care doctor.

“Dr. C told me that he talked with you. He is worried that you are in shock, because you kept thanking him. I wanted to check in.”

“I’m fine. I just watched this lecture….” I again started to explain and then I trailed off. It was Friday night and quite generous of these doctors to spend that time with me. I didn’t need to ramble on about something irrelevant to them.

“I’m fine. I’ll be okay. Thank you for calling.”

(She wrapped up by giving me her cell number and telling me that she was available all weekend if I wanted to talk. I totally love my PCP.)

Not only was Randy’s talk fabulous, but also, I happened to watch it at the perfect time for me. The way he handled his diagnosis and his life both sobered and inspired me. His Last Lecture created a mindset and space that provided a buffer where I could receive the news of my own diagnosis, which didn’t feel nearly as dire. In fact, I felt like I was in a state of grace.

Carnegie Mellon’s Facebook post reminded me that it has been eight years since this all occurred. I am grateful for and awed by the gift of that time.

At the many points when this path felt impossible, I would often think of Julie’s prompting, Randy’s talk and the phone call that immediately followed. These serendipitous events marked the beginning of feeling like I was being cared for and carried. They helped me to trust that the support I needed would come. Sometimes from surprising and unexpected places, but it would come. When I remember the connection between the events of that week in September, I am reminded that I can trust that.

I know that many of us have been handed enormous burdens. I hope that you can feel tangible ways in which you are being cared for and carried, that serendipitous events make your burden more bearable, and that you feel the love all around and through you.

Blessings and light,
Marie

Climbing the mountain – one gratitude, miracle, connection at a time

“You never know what’s around the corner. It could be everything. Or it could be nothing. You keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then one day you look back and you’ve climbed a mountain.”

-Tom Hiddleston

The other week, Tom connected me with a woman I will call Jae, a mother with young children whose cancer has recently recurred, and she was told that it is inoperable.

She and I live on opposite coasts but were able to have a phone conversation, where we covered the tip of the iceberg of things we have in common. When we discussed anxiety, I remembered an assignment I received from an energy healer:

When you get up in the morning, take one full minute and list OUT LOUD the things for which you are grateful. You can list anything from a close relationship to the sunshine or the ability to breathe. When you are ready, do it for two minutes, and continue increasing until you get to five minutes. Do it even longer if you like!

One minute. Ha! I thought that I could easily go for five minutes, right out of the gate. Once I started, though, one minute suddenly felt like an eternity, and I felt a bit like a crazy person saying all these gratitudes OUT LOUD while my husband (not exactly into “cheery early mornings”) did his best to tolerate my latest exercise.

However, I persevered and it really made a difference for me, so I shared the advice with her.

Shortly after our conversation, I received this video, out of the blue, from a friend:

http://lifeasmama.com/if-everyone-started-their-day-like-4-year-old-jessica-the-world-would-be-a-better-place/

Essentially, the little girl in the video lists a long list of things she loves in a very upbeat fashion. I enjoyed the video but quickly realized – this link was cosmically meant for Jae!

I am grateful that I got to connect with Jae and maybe even be of help. I am grateful that my friend sent that link along to me, at exactly the right time for it to mean something to someone who could use it at that very moment.

I am grateful for my connection with you, and I am grateful for the ways in which we are all so interconnected, even when we don’t try to be.

Your actions make a difference in the lives of those you touch, then they ripple through and touch even more lives.

Each action, no matter how small, helps us all to put one foot in front of the other and climb our mountain. Thank you for your positive impact.

With love and joyful gratitude,
Marie