Reprieve

I don’t go to the infusion center this week. Guess why? My liver is five times toxic. (Just barely, by one test; the other numbers weren’t quite so high). So now I’m in the process of figuring out what I can take for lethargy and queasiness, while my liver comes back to itself. My doctor’s supposedly calling back, this afternoon.

And I'm soon to take yet another nap.

"Five Times Toxic" sounds like a really bad garage band. Hmmm.

...and my oncologist here never did call me. I finally e-mailed her, along with my regular GP in Oakland (whom I really like a lot). I'll keep everybody posted.

I didn't realize I hadn't written in a week

Thank you all for hanging in with me. There's essentially no news--although yes, Margaret, I have prayer shawls now. :-) They're beautiful, too.

I have no energy, and I'm queasy all the time. We're wondering if Compazine is really working at all for me. I could take an Ativan and feel better--and sleep until night time.

None the worse and none the better; just... here. Thank you all for praying.

Ugh

It’s Saturday. I’m off of treatment on the weekends. And I still feel just awful.

Part of that might be, because it’s hotter than Hades outside. We ran errands this morning: Trader Joe’s; a big-box bookstore (I got an origami book and Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips; yes, I recommend it), a car wash. We were both dragging. I had said I’d vacuum; we both took naps when we got home, instead. And every time I got up, I felt like a cement mixer.

I did manage to vacuum one room, after I took a Compazine. And then I lay back down again.

I thought I’d feel human on my days off. I don’t have a fever, and I’m not sleeping all day. But there is absolutely nothing fun about this. I got all weepy this morning, for no reason I could put my finger on. I just needed to cry. Thinking about it, I want to again.

I want off the cancer bus. I feel like I’d be healthy without the interferon. But I don’t know that’s true—and it’s way too big a risk to even consider. So then: one week down, 51 to go.

Nausea: yes. Weepiness: yes. Bathroom irregularities: yes (as in, either explosions or nothing). Fatigue: yes. On my infusion days, I’m bored stiff in the chair for two and a half hours, and come home and sleep all afternoon. I don’t feel depressed, so much as frustrated, tired, and sad.

Protect your skin, all of you. I never meant to go here.

You know what I really want?

A prayer shawl. I know that sounds odd; it’s high summer. But it gets really cold in the infusion room, when they pump cold fluid into you for 2 ½ hours. They give you a lap blanket, and a pillow, but nothing for your shoulders (although they probably would if I asked.)

I could make my own, as part of Carol’s charge to pray for myself. I have my stash, in the back of the car. But part of the whole prayer-shawl culture is to make them for others. I thought I’d ask the universe, and see what happens.

Thanks! I got the idea, when friends of a friend made one for her. It hadn’t occurred to me before then.

Oh, and a nausea/misery update: Ativan is my friend. I still get the fever, chills, and aches—but the queasiness is almost gone. Yay!

The needle and the healing done

Urp. Moan. Ugh.

But the worst of the side effects only seem to have lasted four hours. They hit, hard, within half an hour of getting home. I'm only a little bit queasy now, and the chills have subsided. We knew I was going to be better, when I asked for a popsicle. I’m in bed now, with an icepack on the back of my neck. A’s out getting me chicken soup and Ativan.

I feel sort of human again. Nowhere near the hideousness I was, even half an hour ago. Fever, chills, aches, and nausea seem to be my lottery results. But they don’t last as long as they were rumored to.

I may not respond in the comments much—I don’t have a lot of energy, and right now I should be sleeping. But I really appreciate knowing that people are watching out for me. Thank you.

One down, 18 or 19 to go (depending on what we do about July 4). My doctor said that the self-injections will be half of what I'm getting right now.

Love to everyone. And we both really appreciate your sympathy and prayers over Monte, also.

Preparing

I don’t feel like writing. I’m tired right now. But I need to give some sort of an update.

I’ve been busy the past few days, helping my best friend’s oldest cat through his dying process. He died this evening. She was napping on the couch, and I’d just finished dinner; I’d come back into her bedroom to hang out with him. He’d gotten out of his nest (in her laundry basket) and was lying on the floor. I knew, as soon as I saw him. I felt for breathing, though I didn’t need to. His fur was already cool.

I woke A. up, and we sat with him awhile. We read the applicable parts of the burial service for him. And we sent his body to its next place.

I’ve been part of her life, and his, for the past three years. I was there, two years or so ago, when this cat found God. He’d been absolutely unpettable, by anybody but her (and that, on his own terms). A switch flipped, and he was all about affection. All he wanted was for either of us to hold him. He stayed that way, for the rest of his life.

We don’t know how old he was, but he was old; he’d been on thyroid meds since I can’t really remember. He came to her as a stray, and a terror to the neighborhood. She tamed him. He was an absolute sweetheart for the last two years of his life. And, an absolute brat.

I know he’s being impossible to God right now. And I’ll miss him.
***

A. came with me to my consultation yesterday with an oncology nurse here. The first thing the nurse said was, “I don’t know much about interferon.” A. and I looked at each other, and our eyes nearly rolled out of both our heads. She redeemed herself quickly, though. She had a great sense of humor, and she listened. What she knew (germ prevention, and normal chemo guidelines), she knew well. And she had lots of alternatives for chasing (and catching) my unsociable veins.

I can’t have most raw foods for the next year, apparently. I’ll be more susceptible to salmonella. I can have peeled fruits and veggies. No raw leaves; you can’t peel them. We went out for sushi last night; it was the last cherry blossom roll I can have for awhile.

We’d both been cranky and edgy, from worrying about me and from watching her cat die. We went out for ice cream afterward; both feeling better. We know more of what I’ll be dealing with. There are workarounds, for some of it.

I shouldn’t be really sick right away; it takes about a week for interferon to build up in your system, even at these doses. I’m supposed to drink six bottles’ worth of water a day. I can do that. I can do everything I feel good enough to do; mild to moderate exercise should be possible, and is good for me. Apparently the last side effect to leave is fatigue. That makes sense, considering I’ll have just assaulted my body for a year. The tiredness can hang on for another six months. Not what I need, when looking for (and doing) real-world work. But there we are. I really don’t know what I’ll experience, until it happens.

I’m already craving old sci-fi movies.
***

I drove to Livermore this morning, because I felt like driving (yeah, I know) and because I really wanted to go to St. Bart’s. A. had taken me there last November, and I’d loved it—and never made it back. I was so glad I went, and I felt so much better on the way home.

The community is wonderful—it’s like a small, laid-back St. Aidan’s. Everyone was so warm to me. Carol (rector) remembered me from before. We hugged, and she asked how I was. I told her, “The short answer is, fine. The real answer is, it’s been a rocky spring.”

She asked about school. I told her school was great, and briefly about the diagnosis. She gave me a sympathetic look, and went on with getting the morning going.

They do a hymn-sing before services. People call out what they want, and we sing them. The third hymn became the opening. Someone called out a number; it turned out to be “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus.” I was trying not to crack up; I hadn’t sung that since I was probably 20, with a bunch of fundie friends in college. I hadn’t even heard it, since. It’s militaristic and trippy and struck me as hilarious—until one line caught me:

“Let courage rise with danger, and strength to strength oppose.”

I wasn’t thinking about Christian soldiers. I was singing for survival.

I told someone sitting directly behind me, that she had a good voice to sing next to. She told me later that she felt I’d been there for “eight thousand years.” The community is incredibly warm—not pushy, just open. I love them. People I’d never met hugged me at the Peace, and asked if I lived there. “No, actually; I’m a student at CDSP in Berkeley but I’m based in Stockton for the summer… and I’m starting chemotherapy tomorrow.” It didn’t freak them out. They said they’d pray for me, and I knew they meant it.

The liturgy was much like what I’m used to: pieces from New Zealand, Common Worship, other sources around the (God help us) Communion. Carol asked me, like she had in November, if I’d carry a chalice. I leapt at it. The whole experience felt like home.

She told me to hang around, afterward; she wanted to hear more about what was up with me. So I chatted with people who were totally friendly, whom I didn’t even know, until she’d finished greeting everyone. She took me outside, to a bench under a big tree, and we talked.

I showed her my ear, and my scar, and told her what was next for me. She asked how I was praying. I told her I really wasn’t; my community prayed for me.

“Because all I’d pray for is—“
“Heal me.”
“Exactly.”
“So why don’t you?”

I told her why I didn’t: because lots of people pray for that, and don’t get it. She said she didn’t really agree. And she told me something that I would not have been ready to hear, before now:

“God will either heal you, or change your heart so you don’t need it anymore.”

She was the right person, at the right time. I could take that in. And I thought, in the car on the way home, “That’s at least as good as the odds I have now.”

It is. Better, really. And I think that what she said is true. I need to be open to God in this. I still need to be held in others’ prayers—but it’s time now that I join them. I think I can. I’m awake enough; I’m strong enough; I’m still healthy, and I’m here.

I start the meds tomorrow. I don’t know how they’ll affect me. I know I’ll feel something, and I want to. You can’t mess with my T cells without me knowing. I’ll know it’s working if I’m feeling ill, if that makes sense. But I need and want to live my life.
***

I have a friend who graduated from CDSP two years ago. He’s been living with HIV/AIDS for half his life. I saw him at this year’s graduation, and we talked briefly. He really got how scared I was, and am.

Someone with that diagnosis knows if, but not when. I don’t know either. I have no idea whether I’m clean, or whether something is growing inside me. I’m at the point now where my head realizes: the only sane choice is to say, “Fuck it, I’ll live.”

My heart isn’t there yet. But it will be.

Pray with me: for manageable side effects, and for healing.

“Let courage rise with danger, and strength to strength oppose.”

Tired celebration

Three classes done—actually, two forgiven—and another to finish by the first of August (unless I need another extension).

And a video to do when I get back—but I'm not even thinking about that, yet.

My teachers gave me so much grace. I'm thankful.

I ended up not going to Alameda tonight, and I'm okay with that—if only because I have to drive to Oakland next week for a head/neck surgery follow-up. Gas is expensive; money is an issue.

Sweet dreams.

A good resource

"You've entered a vibrant playground for kind warriors who believe it's HIP to get healthy, SEXY to be spiritual, and NOBLE to protect hot mama Earth."

Caminante suggested, when I was first diagnosed, that I check out the community at My Crazy Sexy Life. I finally went there, last night. I found their page through a Facebook group where a friend had posted, and it felt like time.

It was. I’m ready. I didn’t, and still don’t, want a support group full of people who are as scared and rattled and new at this as I am. I’ve been in too deep of a funk, for way too long. I needed to be bounced out of it.

I don't know that they did, but they'll be helpful when I'm struggling. There’s an “electronic altar” on the sidebar, where you can post prayers for yourself or anyone. I did that, and I read some of the threads. They are so positive. I went looking for groups, just to see if I’d match anywhere. I found a Bay Area group, and a melanoma group, and one called “Crazy Sexy… what the hell are we doing?” It’s all about how to eat really healthy, I think, and have fun while you’re doing it.

The friend I’d followed from Facebook is already there. Other people answered my prayer posting, almost immediately, assuring me that I would find joy again. Another melanoma survivor friended me; I don’t know him, but it felt warm, not creepy. He said something like, “Hey, I’ve been there, you can do this.” What my real-life survivor friends have been telling me for weeks—but he and I have the same diagnosis.

It isn’t what I was afraid that a cancer survivors’ community would be. The group is incredibly positive, loving, and resourceful. There’s also a group for friends of survivors.

Most of my traffic are friends of mine, who aren’t in health crises themselves. If you are, and you’ve never been this scared in your whole entire life, check them out.

Answers

Yay. Infusion just called me back. I’m to go in on Saturday at 2, for a consultation. I’ll know more about this whole process then, than I know now.

I show up on Monday at 9:30, for what’s scheduled as a three-hour appointment. They’ll hydrate me via IV for two hours, and give me the meds for 20 minutes. So each appointment really lasts 2 ½.

I asked if I’d have trouble driving home (in case I need to); she didn’t know. There’s a set list of side effects, but reactions are individual.

My appointments the rest of next week all start at either 9:30 or 10; I didn’t write down which was when. We didn’t schedule further than that; they want to see how I do.

I don’t want to get morbid about it—but knowing that I have five more days of “normal,” before my body feels radically different for a year, feels very odd. I don’t even want to do anything extraordinarily physical; I haven’t had any emotional energy for weeks. (If I lay still even now, I could sleep.) I have some reading and writing that I have to do. I still want to go to Alameda on Friday—and if I have some time when my papers are done, I might leave a bit early and spend some time in Berkeley. Might take a walk later today, when it cools off, just to feel my muscles move.

I don’t feel like cramming a lot of activity in, though. I’ve been staring at this for so long, I just want to get started.

When I was newer in this neighborhood, and had first heard of the trial I thought I’d be taking, I was fine with the idea of the harsher segment—so I would get sickness and health really wired into my body, and so I would never forget the gifts that the diagnosis gave me. I miss that innocence now. The harsher wing, of that false understanding, was the standard treatment; and it’s what I ended up choosing. It has nothing to do with remembering to be thankful for life—and everything to do with loving this life (on a level deeper than emotional) and wanting dearly to preserve it. I’ve been rewired in ways I’d give back if I could; I breathe fear now, and am never without it. What will it take, to reconnect me with joy?

You’ll say time, and you’re right. And I know that I may have cancer inside me; I equally well may not—and if I do, it’s certainly not immediately fatal. I just never, ever, ever want to be back here.

It’s the uncertainty that gets you. Every damned time. That’s why I’ve been so stressed, when these health professionals’ answers change. I have enough unknowns in my own body. I need my doctors to give me consistent information.

It really can’t be that hard. Can it?

Jesus on a pogo stick.

Grrr. Grrr. Grrr.

I called Kaiser about an hour ago. I’m due to start interferon on Monday; my friend was about to leave on a business trip, and we wanted to make sure she could adjust her schedule when she gets back, to go to my first appointment with me.

As I understand it, that appointment involves both an oncology nurse, and the first infusion. But what do I know, now.

Oncology transferred me to Infusion. That was fine; I should have called the number on the card I forgot I had. Infusion put me on hold forever, to find out what the order was. But the pharmacy had the damned order wrong. She came back, unsure why I was calling to make an appointment to inject my own self at home.

Okay. No. Four weeks of IV, 5 days/week. Then 3x/week self-injections (my Oakland doc confirmed the last piece). She said it was written really confusing.

I’m spitting nails.

They’re supposedly calling me back, this afternoon. Why we couldn’t have made this appointment on our way out of the consultation, two days ago, is beyond me. I’m just glad I called, instead of doing as I was told and waiting for them.

And I’m as frustrated as I’ve ever been in my life. The sooner this starts, the sooner the worst is over. Just start me and let’s get it over with.

Grrr.

Something to psych myself well for

Out of pure curiosity, I asked the Ranch how summer was shaping up. One of my best summers ever was last year, up there. I got a note back, asking me to do first aid during BREAD camp again.

It’s the third and fourth weeks of July. I’ll be fresh off the IV, and starting self-injections. I don’t know if I’m up for this. But I really want to do it. The kids are creative, crazy, and fun; the staff are deeply good people, and the place is beautiful.

I told them I can’t commit yet. But if I’m able, at all, I will.

Stress-busters?

Here’s the problem: I’m eating a lot, and sleeping a lot (and tired, when I’m awake), and it’s almost 2 and I haven’t taken a shower yet. I don’t feel depressed—and trust me, I know that road. I’m just out of sorts. Consistently. I can feel my body racing, even when I’m sitting still.

I just found my Rescue Remedy, and I’m taking some (in a glass of water) right now. I don’t even remember clearly why I bought it; I think I was up in Olympia, two springs ago, grieving and stressed for more transient reasons. I packed it here because I thought it might help with symptoms; I’m glad to have it, now.

In Berkeley, I’d take walks. Around Holy Hill, or down to Elephant… there are hills, and temperate weather, and places to walk to. Here, it’s unremittingly flat, and hot, and there’s no place really to go. I’m in the middle of a giant suburban subdivision.

Driving with loud music is completely impractical, obviously—though I am going to Alameda on Friday. And I’m not one who therapy-cleans.

Therapy itself? She’s in Berkeley. Gas is expensive.

I have my bicycle here, and can ride it, for the next week while I’m well. I think my tire pump is still under one of the car seats. But cars in this town don’t know what to do with a bike. Last time I rode anywhere, I almost got run over—twice.

I have an exercise mat that a friend gave me. I forgot to look for my yoga-posture cheat sheet, when I packed out of the dorm. I remember a few.

I might be able to find a class, once or twice—but money will be an issue.

Yard work? Love it. But there’s not that much to do right now. Later in the summer, there will be.

Going outside and standing barefoot on the ground, would be something.

I need exercise, and deep breathing, and reconnecting with my body again. So. What do you do, to heal yourself? Visualizations, breathing techniques, yoga postures (describe them please), any of your favorite tricks and tools. Thanks!

How it went

Argh. I met the oncologist in Stockton today. She’s Burmese, and there’s something of a language barrier—which grew quickly into a patience barrier, seemingly for both of us.

My friend was there to take notes, and to record. Dr. O.Y. objected to the recording; she said that Kaiser didn’t allow it. I would think that they’d support people getting (and retaining) good information, but oh well. We didn’t argue.

She brought up the path reports online, and let me look at them—but I didn’t have a chance to really read, or ask questions. I’d never seen the actual documents. I want copies (and e-mailed my regular oncologist, to ask if I could have them).

She asked me the same questions several times, about the lump I no longer have (changes, bleeding, growth rate). I gave her the same answers. Then I had to tell her three times why I’m not doing the clinical trial. She wasn’t arguing with me—she didn’t seem to understand. She interrupted, answering a concern she’d apparently assumed I had. Repeatedly.

It was frustrating. If I were going to be out here long-term, I’d switch doctors. Her web page says that her primary language is English. It clearly isn’t. She wasn’t all that warm, either. She wasn’t trying to be cold; just official. I’m guessing there’s some cultural miscommunicating, too. My oncologist in Oakland really listened to me. He took time. (I put him in the past tense, because he’s retiring right when I move back.)

I had to sign a consent form, for treatment. The oncology nurse came in to witness. Her demeanor was much more comforting; I liked her. But the form said that I’d had all my questions answered. That wasn’t remotely true; I’ll have an appointment later in the week (or Monday) with the oncology nurse, specifically to go over the details. Why I signed this now, rather than later, is beyond me.

I have to wait for the nurse to call me, to set up that appointment. It looks like I’m starting treatments next Monday. Good, I say—get me as adjusted as possible, before I go back to school. I’ll be past the horrible first month, then, and into the self-injections.

I had understood that those self-injections were to be once weekly. Dr. O.Y. insisted it was three times. She got a book and showed me. So now I have to prepare to be sicker than I’d thought I’d be. Grrr.

If I could have the same set of answers from one event to the next… I’m really tired of things changing up on me.

Dr. O.Y. sent me to get a baseline blood test. She’ll want one every month; I’m to see her once a month as well, I believe. Fortunately, the test only took one stick.

We went out for ice cream on the way home.

I’m so spent and tired—and I’m not even on interferon yet. This whole process takes so much out of me.

I mean really—how weird is it, to miss the care team in Oakland who escorted me down the damn rabbit hole to begin with? But I know them; they know me, and I’m tired already of introducing myself and my history to new people. Just treat me and let’s get it over with.

Keep praying, please: for emotional wellness, as much as for physical. My blood pressure’s rising, also; it was 138 over something. The higher number is never above 110. I don’t know if my body is freaking out or trying to tell me something—and I don’t know how to calm it down again.

I feel subtly out of control, like that. And even with clean tests, the possibility of cancer cells inside me makes me feel intrinsically dirty. Hazardous. Potentially polluted. I want to trust my body, support it, hallow it—and I don’t know how to reclaim the relationship I had, when I was first learning to listen. I am so afraid right now.

You are still my prayer circle. Thank you.

Mopey and scared

I have another oncology appointment, this afternoon. I really, really wish I didn’t.

My friend’s coming with me, to take notes and to ask questions of her own. I need to charge the batteries in my voice recorder, before she gets here. I think everything is packed in the same box…

I’ve already heard all the statistics. I don’t need or want to go there again. I’d really rather keep this to discussing treatments: tell me the side effects; how will I know if one or another catastrophe happens; what do we do if it does, that sort of thing. Oakland oncologist and I already discussed what we’re doing. Give me one more week and let’s just start, please.

I need the week because I have two papers yet to finish, both due Friday. I also really want to go to friends’ ordinations in Alameda that night. It’s still so completely weird, to be healthy and strong and have to plan for when you’ll be incapable of motion.

I’m fairly incapable of motion in some ways, now. I keep saying that cancer has taught me some things I want to keep—but the fear that never really goes away, even after clean tests, is a steep price. It’s become a part of who I am. It takes me forever to do tasks I have to do, because I’m still staring cancer in the face. I can look away, briefly. But it never really leaves.

I wish I could just go back to being normal. But I can’t. And this, even with the most positive prognosis there could be. It’s the unknowing that gets you. It’s like walking on a high wire, everywhere I go.

Someday I’ll get used to it. Someday I might find myself back on the ground again. But for now, I’m up here, and the wind is still gusting.

Bah.

What helps, and what doesn't

I just came in from church. I went by myself; my friend went to her own, and I chose to go elsewhere in town. I like the community, and the priest; a woman.

I sat near the back. A friend of my friend came and hugged me. Another sat with me. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. She asked how I was, already knowing the basic story. We caught up, and I kept catching her smiling at me. The connection was warm, friendly, comfortable.

The priest knew me right away, which surprised me because we’d only met once, at the end of March. I don’t know a lot of people, but the community seems welcoming and warm. I may not be up for commutes (of ten miles, or eighty); this feels like a good place to encamp for the summer.

I snuck out during coffee hour, though. Here’s why:

I sat with my friend’s friend, W. She introduced me to C, sitting across from her. W mentioned someone else she knew who had cancer. We talked about that, and about how I was doing. I’m used to telling the story; I was fine.

C picked up on the cancer theme, but didn’t realize that W and I had been talking about me. She started in about how rates for this and that and the other kind of cancer were rising. She mentioned skin. My breath shortened, and my throat started to close. I said, “I can’t deal with this conversation anymore.”

W told C that I was dealing with cancer also. C got it, and apologized. All was well.

Then both of them told me how to deal with it! C said something about a positive attitude. W said that as a Christian, she would give it over to God.

I know she meant well. She gave me what wisdom she had. Thing was, I wasn’t asking for it. I really just wanted to talk about anything else.

I got up, saying I needed tea. They only had black tea, which I don't like (next time, I'll bring my own). But once freed from the conversation, I didn't want to go back to it. I snuck out the side door, instead.

I miss my community so much I can taste it. My teachers, and the friends whose company I sought, became ministers of presence. Some of my friends were just as baffled as I; they hadn’t had a friend go through this before. But they did the right thing: they listened, and they offered prayer. Those who had survived health crises of their own, helped me process. They helped me figure out what I needed and what I didn’t; and how to ask for the words that would help me. My teachers told me only to take care of myself: sleep when I needed to; take walks; breathe; focus on God’s love. They told me they understood my fear, and my edginess—they never told me what to do with them. (When I asked for coping tips, I was given them. Not before.)

I know that I was the resident pastoral-care lab rat, and that denizens of a seminary are a special breed. I’m not going to find that level of awareness everywhere I look, just because I’m accustomed to it. But maybe I can increase it, here.

If you have friends who are going through harrowing times, ask them what they need and want. One size doesn’t fit all. But here’s how to help me:

If you have time for a real answer, it’s okay to ask how I am. If not, skip the question. Tell me you love me; tell me you’re praying for me. Do NOT give me unsolicited advice.

Why not? First, because it irritates me, and stresses me all over again. “Give this fear to God.” Right, like that’s easy. And I’m not going to do the work to get there, if I don’t think it’s mine. I need to experience this; be transformed by it, learn from it. I still can barely pray for myself; my community bears God for me. I can’t conceive of trusting an entity separate from that love. And this fear keeps me processing; keeps me working, keeps me learning. Right now, it isn’t something I completely want to lose.

When you tell me to give my anxiety to God, you’re skipping to the back of a book I’m in the middle of. I need to do the work that’s in front of me. That kind of trust, if it comes, will come later.

[I know that I blog about cancer all the time. In real life, I think about it, but it’s not an unhealthy obsession. I sleep through the night now, and I’m calmer than I’ve been.]

Also: If you haven’t walked this road yourself, your words are hollow. You have no authority in this neighborhood, if you haven’t lived here. If you’ve been here, I want to hear you. If you haven’t, don’t try to talk. Just listen.

How to support me, in a nutshell:

• If you’re worried about me, tell me. Otherwise, accept me where I am.
• Tell me you love me; tell me you’re praying for me. Most other words are useless.
• Don’t minimize my need to protect myself from the sun. I’m not being paranoid if I wear a hat. I’m taking care of myself. My doctors have told me to do this.
• If you’re thinking of me, tell me. You don’t have to say anything more than, “Hi.”
• Don’t talk to me about your other friend with cancer. You may need a pastoral presence. Around this issue, I can’t be that, yet. Give me a year, or two, or five.

Thank you.