Here and Now as best I am able

(If you click on the image, it'll load with more oomph).

I am quietly astounded with gratitude's ability to come in different sizes. To have awakened in the night only once for the first time in five weeks - heaven! For me proper sleep is non-negotiable; I become borderline psycho in its absence. Even on this summer's mostly magnificent road trip, sleep was rarely a stranger. I feel a return to groundedness surrounded by fluttering thank you's. Thank You, God!

Monday's visit with Dr. Doom was interesting. I was prepared for another blood test - I mean, that's what they do with me - and wondering how I would beg/plead/negotiate for staying OUT of hospitalization Round Two through Christmas. I had that body armor of knowing a battle was brewing and unsure of my tactics. 

Silly me.

After waiting an hour, he asked the nurse to draw blood and then announced, "If your counts are good, we'll do another bone marrow biopsy today." Now with all the glories of Pavlovian conditioning, the mere mention of those words has tended to find me involuntarily shuddering while eyeing the door. I experienced two surprises: Not only was this third bone marrow biopsy not expected, but my body did nothing in anticipation. My mind simply registered the words. My inner editorializer mused, "After what I've been through, another needle in my butt bone is just what it is. So what!" I have also taught myself that with or without a narcotic, the procedure still hurts like the dickens. Why be spaced out, hung over and in pain? I did my normal hollering which included such pleadings as, "..... please please please finish please...." He did and I was gone. 

My blood work was normal. I almost cried again. I haven't seen numbers like that ever. After several years of my white count dog-paddling in the two-range ('normal' is 4.5 to 10), seeing 5.7 startled me. Even my platelet count is a TYJ 151! Normal is 144-390. I was receiving platelet transfusions in the hospital every time they dropped below 20 - all told, probably close to half a dozen times.  

I will change oncologists in the coming weeks because I need someone who will compassionately treat all of me. This includes education as well as orchestrating the mechanics. I need a talker. My current oncologist, while brilliant, is not. As well I did not choose him but landed in his office in disarray while my original hematologist was on vacation. I'll share more about who I feel led to step into this role. In the meantime, I continue to feel so liberated that tears erupt without warning. 

I have taken nearly all of the beautiful cards I received while hospitalized and put them up at home. There is one small gaggle in my bedroom along the wall-to-ceiling border. In the moments before I shut off the lights and allow sleep to visit, I think of the love and prayers that have come... and am struck humbled, grateful, alive. 

Will you take me to see the Wizard?

It's Sunday night in my little Berkeley "hobbit house." It's little because it clocks in at less than 400 square feet (as do some Manhattan lofts)! "Hobbit" because while I'm not about to get out my tape measure, the ceilings are less than standard height. The living room skylight adds some height and eases an edgy I live in a box feeling.  "House" because it is not an apartment, duplex, room in a Real House, yurt, English Country cottage or something quaintly similar. It was advertised as a cottage. I have called it various things, from shack to cabin to bike shed. After a distant sociological experiment in a very spacious apartment surrounded by every imaginable n'er-do-well (don't get me going on the nutcase with the shrieking parrots right underneath me), I decided to trade size for privacy. I have neighbors in the front Victorian duplex I really LIKE. Here I'm surrounded by yard. It's quiet. It's funky. It works today.

And it beats the hell out of a hospital room!

I feel tremendous gratitude to be here. This is an opportunity for more than a few of my good friends to snicker, since I have indulged in whining and wailing about it ("I want a real house! I want to move away!") for at least 2 years. But you know, while it has not gone through a startling transformation in and of itself, I am very GLAD to be here. 

I am not hooked up to an IV pole, with things dripping into my veins I hadn't specifically decided were a fun idea. But that's the deal when one signs and sighs on for medical care. "I agree to let you treat me.... and here's my arm." I don't have to ask to have some smuggled health foods carted out of the fridge in a pantry I cannot step into on my own. I can sleep in my own bed, although doing so through the night eludes me. I've put my work on hold right now, so I'm not shattered by that seeming inconvenience. I'd rather awaken here than there.

I went to my Church this morning for the first time in a month. I tried on outfits the day before to make sure I had something glamorous enough to match my jet black cap snugly covering my now hairless head. What was dodgy, though, was the 18-mile drive over the I-580 bridge to San Rafael. Normal (pre-chemo) faculties would find me chattering on my cell phone - earpiece, only! - while sipping coffee, messing with the CD player, rusting through my purse with one hand and just being rather zippy for the most part. This morning it took all my concentration just to drive. I was humbled and not a small amount nervous. 

I started getting teary-eyed 2 blocks from Church. These are the people with and for whom I've sung for 5 years nearly every Sunday save for my summer adventures when the choir takes off. This is where I've donned a starched white alb with cincture (when not singing) and served on the altar as an acolyte - Eucharistic Minister is the official term. These are some of the people who have prayed for me, some multiple times a day, since I was hospitalized on October 27th. These are people who know I'm a bit odd and love me anyways. I was so welcomed back. I had tears during the service. I took Communion for the first time in a month. At the Passing of the Peace, where people scurry around hugging one another or shaking hands while mumbling, "The peace of the Lord be always with you," "... and also with you!" Hug hug hug. "It's YOU!!" I wasn't expected to be there. I was welcomed with cheer in their smiling faces. 

I'm moving at half-speed. An hour's fun errands and shopping with Stacey yesterday wiped me out but scored four more colorful scarves from local Tibetan shops on University Avenue. I'm home for now. I can stretch, walk, do my own laundry, shop for yummy food. I can think about Thanksgiving and, if I have the oomph, a Recovery Retreat with "Sister B." beginning the next day and lasting the weekend. I will carpool with two friends if I feel I can go, an admittedly lame confession (well enough to go on retreat? ahem...). I meet with my oncologist tomorrow at 10 am to talk about Next Steps. And this weekend I have not been on one single medication. Freedom!

I find that freedom is relative. I have coping mechanisms for institutional settings. They're designed to help me cope and their cost is my autonomy. I do have some good muscles for being the now-revered pain-in-the-ass patient. If something is off, which thankfully is rarely, I badger for information or outright refuse it. I also try and connect with the medical staff as people, which is how I expect them to treat me. I'm not just "the leukemic" - I'm Diane. Damn, I hate that term "leukemic"! Not that noun; the other one - I may have leukemia (presently in remission!) but my selfhood is not encapsulated by it. 

There will be more treatments. I don't know exactly what or when or why. I will in due time. 

And then there is God's Grace. For that and for God's presence I am thankful.

Well, aren't you powerful ones.....!

..... who pray, who visualize, who dream, breathe, meditate upon, cross fingers for, create good intentions for... all! The white blood cells, neutrophils, fevers and platelets shrieked in the presence of your strength and hightailed their formerly resistant fannies (if you're British, this means bums) straight into THE RIGHT COUNTS!

I'm writing this from home. 

And I didn't get here by myself. Will you please stand up and give yourself a round of applause? Pour a nice cuppa or a stiff one (I'm going to get cross-Continental hell here, but who cares), breathe peacefully or shout ecstatically - your prayers et al have totally helped me become SPRUNG!

Thank you! And Thank You, God. It's been one Mr. Toad's Wild Ride since Oct. 27th. I was released on Day 25 of this whacky and baffling episode of Diane Goes to the Hospital. 

The phlebotomist at 5:45 am was Nicole, whom I'd met once before. Kind, real, present. No one came into my room without a socially pleasing greeting followed immediately by something to the extent of, "I'm rooting for my white counts & neutrophils! Then I can go! Isn't that great?" People were getting pumped. After Nicole gently drew blood, she held the vial up to my glorious gallery of cards, photos and religious icons, making a slow sweeping motion from right to left. "Take in all this energy," she said to the vial. I blessed the sample with her. We wanted it to be a winner.

It was. 

While these are not the only things having been working in my favor, they were the most exciting for me personally. Of course I got filled to rolling eyeballs with IV antibiotics. And since Monday of this week, I was given one shot a day (subcutaneously) of Neupogen and watched the fireworks of white count boosting on a daily basis. Was this a quick fix? Of course it was. Will my counts go down to some extent now that it's been removed for now? Yes. Neupogen has been used, studied, put in clinical trials, argued over and finally accepted after many years. I didn't care that it was a booster shot. It was my ticket, and as much as I hate needles - and received continuous opportunities to encounter this attitude - it came at the end of one. Sometimes painfully. This is already with the IV deal going. In 5 days my overall white blood count went from less than 300 (.3) to nearly 5000 (4.9). I don't ever remember getting a blood test in the past 10 years with that number! We rooted for a thousand and quintupled it! And the absolute neutrophil count (ANC) which was practically unchartable right after the chemo (meaning ZIP) went from nearly zip to 354 to nearly 3000! We blew past a thousand so fast it didn't see us coming!

I am so so so grateful. (Perhaps we could form a Winning Lottery Grand Prize Manifestation Club!)

I'm also pleasantly tired. 

I get to sleep in my own bed without being tied to an IV drip. I will be able to awaken without some cheery nurse coming into my room around 6 am to do my vitals, preceded or followed by someone drawing blood. I will not be asking nicely to have the borrowed thermos from Stacey filled with boiling hot water for the PG Tips tea Ruth & Davy sent me from Rafford, Scotland. I can boil my own water. I think I want a month to sleep in, just to show my body that I can. My friends around me continue to offer their love and 3D support (shopping, chores, walking partners, etc). Wow! 

My friend Alan picked me up by 2 pm and brought me home. We stopped en route at a local barber's college to get the remaining 94% off of my head. Since I am ordered not to use a razor blade (bleeding issues), it's not Mr. Clean clean but we won't dwell on what it had become. We then raided the local Monterey Market (a Berkeley legend) for food, glorious food. My favorite coffee place for fair trade Sumatran since I'm ready to train to become wired again, then the Hopkins Bakery for a sugar cookie shaped like a turkey. That was IT. Tired Diane was brought to her little place and writes to you from here. 

I'm still in the woods but I am no longer quite as lost nor tangled in a brier. And I can see a lot more light. 

I think I'll walk towards it now..........

a request for an added visualization!

Please keep visualizing 1000 - and add neutrophils to the white blood count. Oh the details! The suspense! The tearing apart of my will! The WBC actually has several components - the neuts are the fighters. Perhaps they can be doing a more non-aggressive form if you prefer (Aikido?) but there you have it. The absolute neutrophil count (ANC) has joined the party along with a perfectly normal temperature. Nurses are here, catch you later!

Sunny days and surprises

I have been thrilled by two things today: One, that my WBC has gone from 300 to 800! Go, Neupogen (it's a jump-starter). Please keep visualizing past a thousand! And two, one more pump on my IV pole was removed. There's only one now and not three! Just walking down the corridors with a far easier to maneuver piece of hospital gear gives me a lift. I'm rootin' for Friday; I'm praying to be sprung in 48 hours. I would so like that!

Part of my healing has included the care of my dear friends Alison and Tony while on vacation

in Madeira. They texted me internationally daily and brought me along on their holiday! This is Ali poised graciously on the rocks. They work their butts off year-round managing their historic holiday cottages adjacent to the Findhorn River. As well Tony is an amazing contractor/carpenter and Ali a skilled psychotherapist. One of my favorite expressions of Ali's is, "Get real!"

My hair is 90% gone. I've been wearing caps day and at night.... scarves, too. I will have it shaved sometime soon, although I suspect I won't be able to until I leave. Yes, I've asked the nurses.... they're not allowed to do this and there ain't a barber in sight. Yes, I am pissed off. However, a shining light of cheer is Tony (where if you rent one of their Scottish Highland holiday cottages on your next vacation, you will likely never stop thanking me for the suggestion). This is his imitation of a Saudi hit man - in solidarity with my new scarf persona. I will wait now for any and all commentary on my gross political incorrectness. (If you're of Middle Eastern descent, I do apologize if I've offended you; otherwise, get a life). 

Broadly, I'm on four different antibiotics. I'm on a hydration drip as well with various bits added like phosphorous and potassium that have to be kept separate from the antibiotics. I presume I would explode or something like that if they dared commingle. I take other pills by mouth. And my PICC line, which joined this party at the very beginning and which has let the goodies in while being an innocuous vehicle for the daily blood draws (sometimes more!) has been removed due to infection. The good news is that I have another line going directly into a right-hand vein. The bad news is that it took five tries, two .5 mg. (that's point five) lots of Dilaudid and not a small amount of hollering. 

Another thing helped me today, encouraged by my raised spirits: Asking others how they are doing. I may have moments of listener energy, where others feel safe to share. A couple of people did that with me today (staff!).... a blessed series of minutes where it wasn't all about me. 

Marilyn & Cindy sent me a squishy teddy bear named Howard, Anglican prayer beads and..... a gorgeous hand-knit scarf with two matching caps! From Marilyn's sister. My mind reels at this gift of extended family. 

Oh, and Howard's etymology? Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Howard Be Thy Name.....

Hollywood calling

I'm still trying to entertain and impress. I can tell because I resist communicating about the past several days of spiking fevers and spending way tons of time in bed. It's amazing how easy it is to do this when it is the wiser of more immediate options - for example, having a scintillating stroll down the hospital corridors (I almost typo'd 'horridors' - I love how quaintly Freudian are my errors) accompanied by my 2-3 pump IV pole. If its base was more solid, I'd hop on it and .... what, skateboard?.... Careening into the walls would not be too bright. So yes - I fantasize about play and allow bed rest. Today my Findhorn Angel was "Relaxation" - and my new one (they are on GMT after all) is "Wisdom." I can be wise, even when I'm not particulary  entertaining. 

That's Dick Wezelman's job (the handsome man in that t-shirt). He and his wife Beany travel the world collecting ethnic artifacts which they sell privately from their artsy Berkeley home several times a year. Full of life doesn't begin to describe them. They came by yesterday bringing an earthy feminine healing statue from the Congo and some TJ's chocolate (did I say I have enough chocolate? I am luxuriating in abundance!). They will return tomorrow with a load of washed clothes for me and some homemade organic beef stew. After 22 years, I'm back on the red stuff, as long as it had a conscious life. 

I rarely had fevers before, it seemed, although I can look back with as much bias as anyone. But fevers are weird - you space out and heat up. And the strangest thing helps them - Tylenol! Honest, I didn't know that. I'm a folk remedy aficionado..... garlic as nature's penicillin, apple cider vinegar and honey hot drink, fresh organic foods, gazillions of immune-building supplements, anti-oxidants. [Ok, so I have a little strong coffee and chocolate jones....]. However, having multiple antibiotics dripping into my veins isn't something which with I readily resonate, so I do what I can in the absence of a complete internal transformation - I detach. Big time. In these series of moments I find that very useful.

I'm rootin' for 1000 - and I hope you are for me, too! That's the magic number for my white blood count to rise to to get me sprung from this joint. The reds are holding their own, which is nice. Platelets are a bit manic-depressive (had another platelet transfusion today). Whites were the baby thrown out with the bath water in chemo guerrilla warfare - and now they need some coaxing. Come on, white blood count! 

a little more clarity, briefly

0% blasts means that the chemo worked. It killed the leukemia cells. But full remission requires also that my blood counts rise to normal before I am discharged - ideally in 7-10 days or less. (I'm rooting for less. I want OUT). 

Consolidation chemotherapy (round) two is more of what I'm going through and with higher doses. They want to make SURE I'm in remission. 

Onward!

Life is contextual

I have no idea where I come up with these goofy titles but I let 'em rip. There is always enough of a duh element to them where I roll my eyes and think, "...and..?" If I can divide the irony from scorn, some more gentleness may ensue.

So it's been an edgy bit wondering about the results of yesterday's bone marrow aspiration, for which I was given 2 mg. of Dilaudid and spent the remainder of the day lost in space. 

"You'll be a little groggy," they had said. 

"Really?" asked doubtful moi, recalling her low-tolerance-for-substances days. "For how long?"

"Three hours, maybe," they said.

That was how long I was practically out cold. The rest of the day and evening were in a lollygagging haze of oh it is so very nice to rest here. 

The Question of the Day 14 bone marrow aspiration was: How many leukemia cells were killed? We were shooting for 5% blasts or less, although my doc said, "We'll take 10%, we'll take 20% and deal with it." I'm a complicated case because my AML came out of the MDS. Right at this precise moment, I'm not really in the mood to be terminally unique. But so it goes. So I've boomeranged and crawled between morbid fatalism, gross uncertainty, a detached nonchalance and the realization that I am just not fully understanding what's going on here. If the chemo didn't work, one option was to repeat it before I was discharged from this portion of the show. Neither my doctor nor I wanted to go there. It's poison. Too much is, you know, lethal. 

The doc came in by 5:30 pm looking tired. "You look tired," I said observantly. He is edgy and moody although as far as I can tell brilliant and highly competent. I forgot what we even talked about before I said, "Well? Are they in?" 

"Yeah. Zero."

I looked at him. "Zero blasts?"

He nodded, but his demeanor was distracted. 

"Isn't this GOOD NEWS???" I said. "It is, but full remission means no blasts and a return to normal blood counts. Yours have to come back up, and that is one of the complications of having the MDS." He then went on about drug treatment for the MDS, going onto the National Marrow Donor Program (NMDP) since I have no full siblings who are living (my little brother David died in 1967), the antibiotic cocktails I'm getting to keep me from keeling over right now with no immune system worth spitting about, other things. I felt as though I should be happy but couldn't quite leap into excitement.   

Now that the headlong into another dimension whirl is shifting into more present-minded consciousness for me, I can begin to do some focused research on my own. Trying to be proactive in that regard while dissociating in a chemo gut- and mind-wrench wasn't happening. Clearly I will not be spoon fed every aspect of this journey, as much as I would prefer that in tripled ample servings. I bought an expensive Moss Report on AML that Stacey busted her you-know-what to wrench from FedEx for me; 475 pages and nearly $375. I have websites, print-outs, brochures. And I get to weave it in with perusing cancer headwear sites, since the hair fallout has begun. Just when ya get over the chemo, more shit happens.

I hope to be discharged from this induction phase or whatever the hell it's called by the weekend of the 21st-22nd. I thought I'd have a month off - freeeeee as a birdie! The doc said 2-3 weeks. And then it hit me: I'll be in the hospital for the consolidation phase (more of the same) for Christmas.

And that really felt awful. 

My liturgical and participatory Christian faith is core to my life. Preparing for Christmas through Advent, practicing our hymns and anthems with my choir - that's my food, my manna. {Breathe}. I have to detach to deal with this. Oh yes, I then thought, "Yo ho ho, I'll be a jolly little singing elf and bring carols to 2North!" Of course I can, but I'm not ready to be that noble today. I will ask for guidance. 

Again, every single email and card (you should see what is here!!) and gift bless me. Bless YOU for blessing me so! My heart seems to want to leap and not know how high. Local friends do favors like rescue a now-functioning cell phone or bring yummies from Whole Foods (you know who you are). Yes, this sucks. And there are angels and miracles and love abounding. 

Meanings and moments

It's cat-and-mouse with my mind, with whom I've shared a most cantankerous relationship for much of my life. Right now, in spite of two different antibiotics flowing into my veins and awaiting a 3rd (you see what fun I can have between 10 pm and Midnight), I feel at peace. When I think of the Day 14 bone marrow biopsy tomorrow, my guts tighten. What you focus on expands. Yeah, alright already, I know that. So perhaps I can take a lesson from Stacey & Leland's kitty Sasha (a purebred Somali) - lie back and think of rainbows.  

I could also be enjoying surrender. Not giving up; not even giving in. This is what is right now. I believe in the Risen Lord Christ and His Redemption for me; I believe in the power of YOUR prayers; I believe that a miracle is a coincidence where God chooses to remain anonymous; I know that not everything can be explained. But this life is mortal. I could well beat this, by gum! Show 'em all what a rootin' tootin' fightin' overcomer I am as I have been! I could die tonight. I don't have a helluva lot of control after a certain threshold. I believe in positivity and even affirmations to a certain extent, but I don't think that's what this wild ride is about. I think had I known that I'd be given this absolutely slapped on the side of the face with little warning diagnosis, I might've ditched the hospital route altogether. And I did not. I'm here, being stuffed with so many high tech drugs than I've ever contemplated. 

I'm not unduly peeling back the allegorical elements of blood and bone marrow. This isn't say a benign mole that can be cut out; these be my insides, analogous to my core which I know is soul and spirit. I am open to deeper meanings, but in the meantime all I can pile on my little plate is what is in front of me from hour to day to onward just enough. I had a whackomania schedule with wondrous parts of my life all darting in and amongst themselves this fall. I'm one busy kid! Too busy! Now I can't even make choir practice. I miss Church, worship, the Eucharist, the movies, Sacred Harp singings, hikes in the hills, my friends, my 12-Step meetings. Perchance without too much denial, what their graces give me are here right now. I wouldn't recommend this as a long term venture, but so far.... maybe I'm simply having a nicer day than I have in a few weeks. 

Some people have asked about donating blood in my name. Yes, please, if that suits you. I don't know exactly how it works, but I am told that if you go to a blood donation center and give blood, and say it's for me here, it will help very much. You don't have to be my type, which cosmically or amusingly is the somewhat rare B-positive. :-). I have had perhaps eight blood transfusions and 3-4 platelet transfusions since I arrived. This is too unreal!

Someone asked what I did to spend time. {Aren't you bored?} Hah! This is basically a 5:30 am until Midnight (if I'm lucky) deal. The care is frequent to constant and often overlapping. It is endlessly repetitive and meticulous. I usually beg nightly not to be awakened at 4 am for vitals (temp., blood pressure, pulse and some weird deal where you stick your finger in a mousetrap and it tells you how much oxygen you have). There are some angels in here. There are some truly annoying folks, too. Life! Ya just can't get away sometimes. 

So from cognitive dissonance to druggy distraction to slightly displaced altered states to jolts of acceptance to God's pure and enduring grace, here I am. Like Abraham said - and I'm not nearly as cool as Abraham - 

here I am.

Grace, but not terribly graceful

Note: This is not me. 

Every single beautiful card, every heart-bursting email, every call - your love and prayers hold me when I'm huddling under the covers. This is a short entry to say simply and clumsily that I am very sick. Chemotherapy is a poison and it's sucking the life force out of my immune system before my soul and body decide to raise themselves once again. Sheol. Toxic unknown. 

I am not able to answer emails individually right now. I am not always able to pick up the phone or return calls. I will not write every day in this blog - this isn't my "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" testament to my enduring pluckiness. After 7 days of 24-hour chemo, the side affects are coming. I am told that as bad as I feel now, it's going to get worse. 

The love and support I am receiving from you are beyond my doofus-y burbles, which is sometimes all I can cough out. In my 52 years I have never been in a hospital. I thought I needed a new gym or new pair of jogging shoes and some iron supplements. Seemingly out of nowhere it was acute leukemia leaping out of the bushes. Evidently that's what it does. It's hard for me. 

incredibly much larger hope

I voted by mail before I was diagnosed. (Barack Obama, obviously, if you know me!). I've been sick at heart over much.... this country's demise, the string-pullers, the darkness.... my own darkness. But there's hope out there, well past the bumper stickers. I can feel it tonight. It reminds me of my time at the Findhorn Foundation when "WE" meant something that could be felt. On a day when I hit a bottom not worth burbling about, groans of multiple wretchednesses, this evening I can feel a swirl nationwide and think, (1) Blimey, it's not all about me and my stuff and (2) There is hope. I can remember to put Jesus into the mix, too, 'cause He's part of it for me. 

holy selfishness

I'm going to share some deep wisdom from a friend...... part of the blessed cascade that gives my soul and course extra breath. I will do so anonymously. She'll know who she is when she reads this: 

"You are very dear to me, even though we've not spent much time together. I have not told very many people... about my history, but I am going to tell you. I am a cancer survivor. In 1994, I discovered to my utter horror and disbelief that I had a brain tumor. I had a CT scan one day.... went to a hospital that afternoon, was admitted the next morning and had a craniotomy the next day. Wham. Bam. Thank you Ma'am. It was fast and hard to take in. It's a long story, but the gist of it was that it was the most malignant brain tumor known to exist, with grim survival rates. I underwent a year's worth of monthly chemotherapy administrations, wherein I had two surgeries each month. (Read: I was in and out of the hospital for over a year, staying four days with each admit). I should've gotten my own parking space.

"{I heard that}...you were saying "no" to the morning treatment plan, and I said: "good for her!" He looked a little surprised. But you need to be in charge of what happens to you. It is your body. One rule I had for myself was that I would not allow anything to be done to me without my consent. Frankly, the medical community is not beholden to my kind of patient. But, I think the patient who manages her treatment is going to be a lot stronger during and after treatment. So you go girl. Perfect the art of being the "patient from hell." And if you want more advice in that regard, just ask! It is an art-form that I've perfected. Not that I'm bragging or anything.

"Another thing I want to say is to remember that you are going through something physically and psychically horrific. In other words, don't worry about ANYONE ELSE. I mean that, sincerely. Let the people who love you, love you. People will respond in all kinds of ways to this, some ways more helpful than others. But it is absolutely your job to take care of yourself. It is absolutely NOT your job to take care of anyone else. Let {us} do what {we} can, and say "No" if you need space, or just don't want what they are offering. Politeness be damned. You're sick, and this is all about YOU. PERIOD. END. OF STORY. (Read those last sentences on a daily basis, it will help you feel strong!! :-)

"And that begins with me. Take or leave this advice. It is just that I've been in that bed that you're in and it is scary and lonely. And over the year, I found a few ways to stumble my way along, and thought I'd pass them your way. 

"So, my dear. You must be exhausted. I will end this lengthy "How to survive cancer, part 1" chapter. I will hold you in my thoughts, and carry you to God in my prayers. God will listen. God will hear us."