Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I have had occasion twice this week (and it's only Wednesday!) to try to tell someone new the whole story of my illness: from disastrous appendectomy to abscesses and multiple procedures to diagnosis and treatment and the present. 

Three years of surreal hardship and fragile, intermittent hope. Three years of crushing disappointment, yes, but also three years of being surprised; surprised by the kindness and generosity of family and friends (and, sadly, surprise at their lapses and my own), surprised by the talent and caring of amazing medical people, surprised by the resilience of my body and mind. This is a dangerous and seductive road for me to go down -- the route to hell is paved with "poor me" rather than good intentions -- so I'll stop. But three years. Damn. (And three years, of course, is nothing compared to how long many have been dealing with sarcoma. Double damn.)

The thing is, though, I'd take three more in heartbeat, with tearful gratitude and for almost any price.
And the reason I started this post: This blog turned a year old a week ago today. It began like this:
I am writing this from a warm place in a small town in a cold state. 

It is a little bit more than 16 months after I was diagnosed with a rare cancer that will more than likely kill me. It is also little bit less than two hours until I begin fasting to prepare for a PET scan that will take place about 14 hours from now.
Although my rate of posting is incredibly slow, enough material has accrued here that it can be hard for folks who joined midstream to get a handle on what this place is about. To try to help them out, I'm going to try to compile some links to my favorite entries. Thanks for reading. Let's hope for another year.

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