Rules to Live By

We all know we are going to die. Shakespeare said, that we are dying from the moment we take are first breath, and yet it is the one topic that few people feel comfortable talking about.
When someone you know is diagnosed with cancer, the first thing that enters the mind is "Am I going to die?"
Death is not meant to be a frighting thing, it's just moving from one realm into another. But it is the thought of leaving our loved ones behind that bothers us the most. Guilt is another thing that seems to weigh heavily on our minds when one considers death, "have I been a good parent, a good person? etc;" When I was diagnosed with cancer I made a list of rules to live my life by so that I would never have any regrets. Here are the following rules, maybe, just maybe they will inspire and help someone you know going through difficult times.

Rules to Live By

1) If you're afraid to fight, then you'll never win.
2) In times of tragedy and turmoil you'll learn who your true friends are. Treasure them for they are         few and far between.
3) Know your enemies and never become your own worst one.
4) Be grateful for those enemies. They will keep you honest and ever striving to better yourself.
5) Listen to all good advice, but never substitute someone else's judgement for your own.
6) All men and all women lie. But never lie to yourself.
7) Many will flatter you. Befriend the ones who don't, for they will remind you that you are human and infallible.
8) Never fear the truth, It's the lies that will destroy you.
9) Your worst decisions will always be those made out of fear. Think all matters through with a clear      head.
10) Your mistakes won't define you, but your memories good and bad, will.
11) Be grateful for your mistakes as they will tell you who you and what you're not.  
12) Don't be afraid to examine the past, it's how you learn what you don't want to do again.
13) There's a lot to be said for not knowing better.
14) All men die. Not everyone dies.
15) On your death bed, your greatest regrets will be what you didn't do.
16) Don't be afraid to love. Yes, it's a weakness that can be used against you, but it is also a source of       the greatest strength you will ever know.
17) The past is history written in stone that can't be altered. the future is transitory and never                     guaranteed. Today is the only day you can change for certain. Have the courage to do so and               make the most of it because it could be all you'll ever have.
18) You could be in a crowd, surrounded by people and still be lonely.
19) Love all, regardless of what they do. Trust only those you have to. Harm none until they harm you.
20) Never be afraid to kill or destroy your enemies. They won't hesitate to kill or destroy you.

Choose to Be or Choose Not to Be!

Why do we as human's feel that we must weigh in on other people's choice to live or die?

I'm not talking about abortion here, I'm talking about death with dignity. So here is my question, if you knew you had a terminal disease and that you were going to leave this world in a painful and degrading manner would you choose to end your life early?
Brittney Maynard made world wide news when she advocated to end her life with dignity. Many people were upset over Brittney's personal choice to end her life, while others supported and encouraged her.
This is clearly a decision that took a lot of thought and soul searching for Brittney, to end her life early, knowing what she would be facing with terminal cancer. I personally could never choose to end my life early, but that is just me. I don't feel that this is a choice to be made lightly nor is it a decision that other's should weigh in on. Maybe Brittney said it best in a letter she left behind before she ended her life, "It is people who pause to appreciate life and give thanks who are happiest. If we change our thoughts, we change our world! Love and peace to you all."

Turning Back the Clock

Have you ever wished you could have a do-over?

I have a friend that was diagnosed with breast cancer a month after I was. The type of cancer she had was estrogen progesterone. Deb’s tumor was so large that she was advised to undergo radiation first in order to shrink the tumor. She then had chemo and a radical mastectomy followed by reconstruction. It has been an uphill battle for her, but she has maintained her positive attitude. Deb’s doctor’s recommended that she have a hysterectomy after her treatments because of the type of cancer that she had. Deb’s husband disagreed and felt that they needed to pay off the medial bills that they already had before acquiring more debt.

Deb got a phone call a few weeks ago from her doctor. The cancer is back. It is now in five different areas of her bones. She is frustrated and angry. She underwent a hysterectomy a few days ago, but she wishes she would have done it sooner. While this is impossible to do, I know that we all have things in our past that we could do over again. Some of these things are still possible. If I could have a do over, I would have not been a sun worshipper. I would not have gone to the tanning salons and fried my skin. Even though I knew there was always a chance of getting skin cancer, the idea of actually getting cancer didn’t seem real. Now as I go about my daily skin care routine, I find myself taking extra care with sun screen and making sure my children know the dangers of skin cancer, as well as giving themselves a routine physical for lumps, moles and anything out of the ordinary. I know this might sound like a strange thing to some of you, and even though it is only a small thing I wish I could go back and change, I have to remember that what we do today will always impact our lives tomorrow

Knowing or Not Knowing?

A friend of mine passed away from lung cancer four months before I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember my sister posing a question to me a year before I was diagnosed that struck me as rather odd. The question she asked was if I had a choice, would I want to know if I was going to die or not know if I was given a choice.
Now, remember, neither of us knew at that time that I had breast cancer. We were focused instead on her mother-in-law who was told she had less than a year to live.
As I think about that question, I can honestly say I don't remember what answer I gave. I do know that as I have watched loved ones pass from this life, I have had very mixed feelings on the subject. On one hand, knowing that you have limited time on this earth allows you to make up for wrongs that you have made. It allows you to say goodbye and make peace with yourself. On the other hand, when you know that your time is limited,  you loose hope and become depressed. I saw this happen often and so I can say with all honesty, I think it is best sometimes not knowing when your time is up. As long as you have hope, you can keep moving forward with a positive attitude.

Everyone has scars

Everyone has scars. Some scars can easily be seen, while other scars are so deepthat the human mind erects a shield to protect the damaged spirit from the trauma it hasendured. Perhaps it’s because both visual and unseen scars come from different forms oftrauma that makes us retain the memories of how we acquired them. I see scars notmerely as damaged skin and tissue marring the body and soul, but as a detailed mapoutlining actual events of my past leaving a detailed history of my life.Each scar that marks my flesh holds a story all of its own. Some of my scars areso small and insignificant that no one would notice them, yet it is these scars that haveleft me with vivid memories of my childhood. Without them, I would have easilyforgotten the precious if not painful memories that have shaped me into the woman I amtoday.

If I start with the beaded line tracking its way across my lower right abdomen, Ican hear (in my then eight year old drug induced state as I awoke from anesthetic) theconcern in my father’s voice. I’d just had an appendectomy, and he was worried that mylips were dry. He’d asked the nurse if they could get some Vaseline for my lips. Asstrange as that may sound, I remember the concern my father had for me every time I seethat scar. Perhaps I remember it so well because it is one of the few times I can recall mydad being worried about me.The smallest scar I have is on my left wrist. I received it from a burn when I wasten years old. I got that scar on my aunt’s wood burning stove when I stayed the night tobabysit for her. To this day, whenever I breathe in the brisk autumn air and smell smokecoming from a chimney, I think about my aunt’s large wood burning stove.Two lower lines, now nearly faded and running parallel to one another is from anemergency C-section performed for the birth of my first child. The second was for mythird child. (I won’t bore you with all the details concerning stretch marks and thesagging areas between my girls and down to my southern parts. Suffice it to say, God hasa strange sense of humor that one day He and I are going to have a long chat about!)I’m pretty sure the scars from having my gallbladder removed have taken on thelook of Orion, while the Big Dipper, adequately describes the scars I have from myhysterectomy. Now if I ever get really bored I could draw a perfectly straight line fromthe tip of the Big Dipper up to my left arm pit. This particular scar doesn’t look anythinglike the North Star, but it does show a gnarly scar where five lymph nodes were removedfrom my arm pit due to breast cancer.My girls, (Thelma & Louise) have also had multiple surgeries. While Thelma,(my left breast) looks like a Barbie doll on steroids, (thanks in part to radiation and apermanent implant,) she looks like she is happily winking over at Louise’s saggingimplanted breast. Both of my girls have scars running along the top of them where myheadlights were permanently removed. (Yes, my Ta-ta’s somewhat resemble LightningMcQueen’s flashing headlights from the Disney movie, “Cars.” In other words, myheadlights aren’t real . . . Cha-Ching.) I guess whenever I get around to having the

finished product completed; I’ll need to be careful not to poke somebody’s eyes out. Fornow, my breasts are silently winking at people, and nobody is the wiser.I have a pretty good sense of humor concerning most of my scars, and yet thescars I’ve received from breast cancer are very personal on many levels. While I can finda lot of humor in them, sometimes these same scars can be physically, emotionally andmentally painful. They are not so much a reminder of what I have physically lost, butwhat I could have lost. I can visually see my oldest son, thirteen at the time, curling intohimself. His arms wrapped around his middle, silent tears running down his face as Ibroke the news to him that I had breast cancer. When I look at the scars from myhysterectomy, I can hear the fear in my eleven year old sons’ voice, asking me if I have tohave another surgery because he’s afraid the cancer is back. I think the internal scarring on my emotions and soul has come from what myfamily went through as they watched me go through breast cancer. That has been thehardest thing to heal from. I guess like any scar tissue damage or internal and emotionalscaring, there will always be some type of mark left on the soul that marks the passage oftime and trauma. I just pray my spirit is strong enough to always survive whatever lifethrows at me. I am willing to take the bad as long as the good comes with it, so when Ilook at the scar marks from childbirth and my C-sections, and start to feel ugly, I remindmyself of the three beautiful miracles of life God gave me, and I no longer see them asmarring my body, but as badges of motherhood.In short, the scars that line my body are vast in number and size. I could probablymap all the constellations in the sky and still manage to give a dang good horoscopereading from just the scars on my chest and abdomen alone. Although I have many scars,I do not see them as battle wounds, ugly marks, or mangled deformities. To me, my scarsare simply a part of who I am. They do not define me, and though they may show theworld what I have endured on the outside, they are not a reflection of what I have lost orwho I am on the inside. Instead, I choose to see them as a reflection of blessings,miracles, love, and the gift of life God has granted and blessed me with.

Missing You

“Remember when you tinted your hair that God awful red?” I laugh. “I think it took me three hours to get it back to your original shade of color.”

                She says nothing, but then I don’t expect her to as I twist another piece of hair around the curling iron. “I promised, you are going to look perfect today,” I continue in a soft voice, and with a keen eye I inspect her from head to toe. The chic cut I’ve given her accentuates the angle of her chin. A half smile plays about her rosy lips. It is only then that I notice three small hairs lining her upper lip.

Perfect. She has to be perfect!

Putting the curling iron down, I reach for my tweezers. Plucking the offensive intrusions I find two more. My fingers slide over the waxy surface of skin and I efficiently remove imperfections before resuming styling her hair.  “Absolute Perfection,” I say as I coax another stray curl to do my bidding. It is only when her hair passes my professional inspection that I meticulously dab a small amount of concealer over the scar upon her crown before brushing soft wisps of curls over her brow. The pearl shimmer nail polish applied with painstaking precision complements the baby pink roses in her hands.  A kerchief is draped in front of the flowers hiding her clenched fists, but the makeup is flawless, the hair color stunning, the dress exquisite.

Altering pleats so they rest smoothly against her body, I check for any flawlessness, then check again to be certain I haven’t missed something. Heartache clenches inside my chest as I meticulously arrange her dress.

Hands shaking, it is only then that I allow myself to breath in the perfection that rests before me. Tears slip down my face, and I quickly step back so I don’t mar the beauty of her creation.

She is ready.

She looks peaceful. Beautiful. Absolutely perfect.

My talents as a makeup artist and stylist have allowed me to give her this last earthly gift of perfection in death if not in life. It is strange, but not disturbing that I can feel her spirit next to me. I also sense she is satisfied with my ministrations. Perhaps that is because when her family comes to see her in a few hours they will not see her mangled scar body tarnished by life’s mishaps and difficulties, for they will see perfection.  

RIP Lisa

Lisa Bonchek Adams lost her fight against metastatic cancer on March 7, 2015.
I didn't know Lisa personally, but I loved her sense of humor and the courage and encouragement that she conveyed through her posts, blogs and tweeter.
Lisa spoke out and got peoples attention about mets. She was ridiculed by her outspokenness, and yet she was strong and did not flinch from the ugly truth that was destroying her body. A while back a cancer-shaming op-ed was posted about Lisa in the New York Times, this event got a lot of people talking and even angered many, but because of Lisa's charisma and charm she was able to educate many about this ugly disease.

Metastatic cancer takes everything, and now it has take a wonderful women from this world.
My heart goes out to her and her family. She is and was a courageous and inspiring woman who will be missed. Anyone who got to know Lisa from her posts as well as in person, is better for having known her.

RIP Lisa, you will be remembered and missed.

Cancer is a Roller-coaster

Everyone reacts differently to hearing the words "you have cancer", but for most people it is a crazy mix of emotions. These emotions seem to happen in waves, at other times the emotions seem to come all at once, but one thought seems to always stick with you, "Am I going to die?" This thought is the one that rushes to the fore-front of your brain. The worst possible scenarios crash through your mind, followed by horror stories of people who have had cancer or died from cancer. Fear and loneliness seem to take you to a spiraling drop towards the unknown. 
A second thought, is the constant worry . . . not so much worrying about yourself, but for your family.
The unknown terrifies all of us. The cure for this is knowledge. Knowledge is power, it also brings a crest of ease, but sometimes it brings fear.
In order to find true peace, one must come to the fact that all of us will die at some point. Nobody knows when, or how they are going to leave this world.
The best way to cope with the emotional roller-coaster ride is to make goals, and then take each day, minute by minute, hour by hour. 

And on that Note

I thought I would let anyone know who is reading my blog, that as strange as it may seem, Leslie Jensen (from my previous post) has a brother that has thyroid cancer. It has spread to his lungs and other parts of his body, and yet he pushes forward in life every day with a positive attitude. In fact, he recently married and is continuing his education at USU. He knows he will not live a long life, because the cancer has metastasized beyond medical help, but he is thankful to be alive. I bring this subject up again, because I am continually in awe at the positive outlook most cancer patients have. Here is a family that has been knocked down by cancer twice, once by the very real disease and another by fraudulent actions.

Leslie went to court on Tuesday, and was sentenced for her crimes. I hope and pray that she will get the help that she needs, and sees the error of her ways.

A few people have asked me how I feel about Leslie’s sentencing and if I am angry that she did not get a severe sentencing.

My answer is no.

I know there have been a lot of mean things posted about Leslie since this has all come to light. I don’t read the comments, because trashing somebody good or bad is wrong. I do hope people will one day understand that this young lady needs mental help, and not judge her as harshly as she is currently judging herself. If you really consider it, she has now lost everything.

So why am I not angry? Well, for starters I think when you experience something like cancer, it allows you to be less judgmental of those around you. That doesn’t make what Leslie did was right, but I hope that she will finally be able to get the help that she needs. Everyone has problems, but what we do and how we act to solve those problems is what defines us. I can only hope that anyone who might be doing a fraudulent act or might be considering doing something this dishonorable in the future, will be caught and brought to justice, but if not, karma will catchup to them in the end.  

Faking Cancer

Can you imagine someone faking cancer? Well it happens all the time.

In fact right here in Logan Utah, Leslie Jensen began a GoFundMe fundraiser page, in November claiming that she was suffering from an aggressive brain cancer and was unable to provide for her 6-year-old daughter due to radiation treatments. 

The cancer Jensen said she had was the same stage 4 glioblastoma brain cancer as national right-to-die activist Brittany Maynard had. 

Leslie was arrested in December and booked on fraud. Much to the shock of family and friends, Leslie had been lying about her cancer.

It is still somewhat of a shock that this sweet loving young mother could do this. 

I am a friend of Leslie. I have watched her with her daughter and her family and she has always been a very loving and compassionate young woman. To learn of her deception has been very disturbing to all of her family and friends. 

As a former cancer patient, one might think that I would be furious that she manipulated people’s emotions in order to get money. Ironically, I’m not mad at Leslie, I pity her. 

I feel bad that because of her actions she might cause future harm to real cancer patients that will need help from the public, and know one will reach out to them. 

With that being said, I am not going to get on the band wagon to crucify Leslie or others like her. I believe that what goes around comes around. Because of her actions, Leslie will suffer the stigma of her deception for the rest of her life. She has lost her parental privileges and cannot have contact with her daughter, I think that in itself is a crime far worse than cancer. When you have cancer or know someone who has cancer, you go through a loss and a healing process. Leslie and others like her will never have that healing redemption that is found in a true cancer victim, and that is what I call karma.

Helpful Blog Sites

There has been a lot of progress in cancer detection and treatments over the years. One of the most important things you can do is find reputable sources to help you understand all you can about cancer. Another way to cope is to connect with others who've been there.
I thought I would share some of the top blog sites that bring information, laughter and help when going through any type of cancer. Because cancer is more than a physical diagnosis, it's a emotional one too. Without the right support, it can become overwhelming. Addressing both the physical and emotional sides of the disease is very important.
Here are blog's sites that might help someone you know going through cancer.

-The Cancer Treatment Centers of America (CTCA) provides practical information about diet and lifestyle, tips for caregivers, quality of life issues, and much, much more. (CTCA Blog)

-Cure Magazine Blog

-Stand up 2 cancer

-Blog for a cure

-I had Cancer

- Cancer in Context

- But doctor I hate Pink

Let me know if I can help is really no help at all!

If you come upon a person who is drowning, would you ask if they need help-or would it be better o just jump in and help them? Many people mean well by saying "let me know if I can help," but in reality that isn't helping.

I know when I was going through chemo, I would be dog tired to the point I couldn't even make dinner for my family. A dear friend of mine who had gone through chemo and radiation a few years before, understood what I was experiencing. She didn't ask what she could do for me, she would find out what day I had chemo, then when I got home from my treatments, a hot meal would be waiting that she had prepared.
It is the people who have experienced cancer and are now living life after cancer, that are most often the one's who become a safe harbor for those going through the journey of cancer.
So here's my advice on helping someone going through a tough time. If you want to help, but you're unsure how to help, here is a solution. Call that person up and give them three options: maybe, you'll do their laundry, make a meal or you will come clean their home. By giving them choices they can pick from you are not only helping them, but you are making it easier on you on how to help. If they still say no, tell them to pick one of the three choices or you will pick one for them. Chances are your friend will appreciate you picking a choice for him/her.

Sometimes helping someone else is as simple as offering a prayer. Don't say, "I'll keep you in my prayer's" and then don't do it. That is as bad as saying what can I do to help you and expect them to tell you!

Prayer helps!

The individual you are praying for WILL feel your prayer's! I can attest to that!
Not only did I know people were praying for me, but I felt their prayers!
So if you feel like you are being intrusive by just showing up and doing your friends laundry, or you think they will feel uncomfortable with that idea, then just pray for your friend.
Every prayer helps.

Dancing With Death

Dancing With Death

Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death. It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.

 Hell’s hallway is elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a fickle S.O.B.

Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had thought to bring my bottled water.      

Fingering the delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it tightly about my waist.

With my footsteps whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a 3-D puzzle laying on a table.

Someone new must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and move back towards the couch. Either that or they think they can bore me to death.

Glancing back at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep, not only would it bore me to death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the individual who defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in hundred degree temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being forced to listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you, and not being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another, the idea of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be the epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of it.

Today, Hell was the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that luxury, because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our daily dance.

Death’s assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant almost bashful.

“You okay,” he asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small boom box.

Averting my gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.

“I’ve got something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly embarrassing.

Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.    

Hopping I don’t look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.            

His angular face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but is it okay if I have someone watch today?”

Taking the small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.  

Clearing his throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.

“I’d hoped you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.

“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,” I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself blinking back tears.

Carefully reading the words HOPE etched along the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way, you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”

He gives me a blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.

Whenever I come into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.

“—and now you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty deed,” I tease. 

His ears flush a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,” he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal hands on training process.”   

For the first time, the room feels awkwardly silent.                          

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is instantly broken.           

Pocketing my new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles together and I am tethered to the table.

My focus soon turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.     

It is time.        

The door closes with a whoosh.         

I am alone.     

The soothing lull of the radio hums in the background as the machine clicks to life with a soft hiss. I must not move, for to do so will be extremely detrimental. Instead, I stare up at the lighted mural above me and contemplate the artist’s thoughts with a new perspective on life and ignore the deadly rays of radiation entering my body.

As I scrutinize the picture, I like to think that the majestic mountains carved in granite reflect the beauty of God’s almighty hand. They are a testament to the jagged lines and deep slopes of life’s tolls and trials. My eyes squint to take in the rugged beauty of the changing colors etched throughout the landscape, for I have come to believe these vibrant shades represent the synopsis of my life. Each season is but a small granule of time that is ever constant and changing, and yet, it is here that I find hope, peace and life.

I know it will not last. It never does, for death has found a way to mock me.

Like the charm in my pocket, the fragile hope we all grasp on to and call mortality is just that . . . hope, and much like Death, it can be a fickle bitch. I know this for a fact because reflected behind the lighted mural is the glaring reality of death mirrored in the lifeless corpse of a trapped fly.

“You will die. Everyone dies.”

The voice is silent, but all the same, it is there, accompanied by Death’s mocking laughter. It taunts me, trying to make me feel used, cheap and worthless as I lay helpless to his ministering attentions.

I repress a shudder and feel Deaths arms sweep around to encircle my back. His killer eyes scan my exposed flesh, the metallic stench of his antiseptic breath whispering across my face.

One, two, three.

Breathe in.

Four, five, six.

Breathe out.

He sighs dramatically before drawing back two steps, turns, than pivots back once more to face me. In this deadly dance I recognize him for the master that he is, for his movements are gracefully poetic as he circles, spins and twirls.

“Embrace me,” he softly whispers, “for you are mine.”

My fingers curl into fists around the metal rod. His words causing a fresh wave of terror to smother me like a blanket. My pulse hammers, the fear suffocating as it nearly overtakes me. Damn it, my life isn’t supposed to be like this!         

With each round I face off with Death, he seems to take a piece of me until I hardly recognize myself.

I hate him!

My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. He swings back to face me, and I won’t look him in the eye. The bastard has taunted me repeatedly with fears of the cancer. It wasn’t enough that he took my breasts, my uterus, my hair, my confidence? No! It still isn’t enough for him. The worst part is that I know he won’t be satisfied with me just feeling ugly and worthless. Knowing Death as well as I do, I know he won’t be content until he has all of me.

A growing doubt begins to swamp me with the fear that I’m not sure I can beat him in this deadly dance. Even as the words flash into my consciousness, my mind is racing with the statistics and the odds of winning the battle against the cancerous demon inside of me. Suddenly I want to howl and scream, because I don’t want to be another number or data figure added to Deaths growing list of conquests.

Please God, I can’t die. I can’t die, I silently chant. Praying if I recite the words enough times, I can make them my reality. I only stop when I hear Death chuckling at my feeble efforts. Self-doubt crawls along my spine and I realize that he sees my words for what they are . . . useless.

His mocking laughter causes a stab of pain to spike through me, but utter panic gives me strength. Thinking of my children, I conjure up their beautiful faces. I relive some of the scenes of their lives that I have shared as their mother from walking and talking to learning how to ride a bike. Suddenly I cannot picture me not being with them. The music on the boom box shifts to a different tune, and I close my eyes as the sound builds in crescendo. Within me, I feel the beat of the music and hear Death chanting, “Give up. Quit the fight.” His words echo in my thoughts as my hands tighten around the pole. Tears prick my eyes, and I find the cool metal I am holding on to grounds me with both a promise and a desire.  Give up? Quit fighting for my life? It is then that fear shifts to anger as I take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm. Gathering my will, I give a mental push at Death’s mocking awareness. Not only is it just wrong of him to try and make me feel cheap and worthless, but it is despicable! Never, I answer myself, my elbows tingling with pain, my fingers growing numb.  

I will live! I will beat you and the cancer, I silently scream at him.

It is then I feel the slightest brush of his confusion as he retreats, or maybe it’s just my imagination as the deadly machine finishes with its latest round and final rotation of radiation.

With pained determination I release my hold on the metal rod. Shifting my shoulders I take a breath, but I am aware that Death has suddenly grown strangely silent as our daily dance comes to an end.

Another round over and done with.

Another day to spend with those that I love.

Another day to live, hope, breathe and be thankful that I am alive!

Yes I am alive, and with that thought in mind a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. I think of the HOPE charm in my pocket, and I am at peace for the first time in a long while as I wait for Death’s assistant to come release me from his ties of bondage.

Yes, one day I will surely die, but not today! Today it is I who am the victor in our deadly dance. Taking a breath, I relax my muscles, extend my middle finger and salute Death.

Fist Part of my Dancing with Death Experience:

Dancing With Death

Once again, it was time to come face-to-face with Death. It was with a new feeling of vulnerability that I pushed open the large wooden door. My jaw clenched. “Show time,” I muttered, determined to put on a happy smile despite the fact that I was exhausted.

 Hell’s hallway is elegantly tiled, and I can feel the guard dog’s eyes on me as I click and clack my way to be received into Deaths den. Our courtship is becoming more of a love/hate relationship. I would love to tell him to shove it up his ass, while he hates that I am adamantly denying him my mortality, but then Death is a fickle S.O.B.

Wondering what type of mood Death will be in today, I slip into the inner most sanctum of his receiving room to find a multi-colored robe laid out for me. My mouth feels suddenly parched, and I wish that I had thought to bring my bottled water.      

Fingering the delicate material laid before me, I frown when I realize the robe is three sizes too large. Knowing the circus size gown will come well pasts my ankles, I consider donning a sheet in the Greek style fashion, but seeing no other material around, I shrug out of my clothes and begin to dress. The fabric is surprisingly soft against my skin as I slip it on, one arm at a time, tying it tightly about my waist.

With my footsteps whispering across the carpeted floor, I trek a small path past the overstuffed couch and head towards the mini-fridge tucked in the corner. Withdrawing a bottle of ice-cold water, I find that I’m suddenly extremely thirsty. Cracking the seal on the sweating bottle, I down half of it in one gulp and then spy a 3-D puzzle laying on a table.

Someone new must be in charge of Hell’s entertainment, I think as I pass the puzzle and move back towards the couch. Either that or they think they can bore me to death.

Glancing back at the puzzle I give a humorless chuckle. Yep, not only would it bore me to death, but it would certainly be my idea of hell. Then again, Hell has many connotations, each one as unique as the individual who defines it. To some it might be the idea of being stuck in hundred degree temperatures during rush hour traffic, while at the same time being forced to listen to Hank Williams music blaring from the car radio next to you, and not being able to ram that person’s bumper for their rudeness. To another, the idea of being trapped in an elevator with someone with bad breath might be the epitome of horror. In other words, Hell is whatever you choose to make of it.

Today, Hell was the uncertainty of death, that haunting terror that most people never want to talk about and think they are immune to. Unfortunately, I do not have that luxury, because death is just a few feet away. . . The time has come for our daily dance.

Death’s assistant is wearing black today, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. Moving slowly ahead of me as we make our way along the tiled floor he glance’s back, his smile hesitant almost bashful.

“You okay,” he asks, and I nod like a bobble headed doll as we enter Deaths lair. Today the chamber feels cool, the confined space almost suffocating in the dimly lit area. I find myself mentally tuning out the white washed walls and sparsely furnished decor so I can concentrate on the soothing music playing on a small boom box.

Averting my gaze from the table and metal pole where I will soon be strapped down, I slip free of my shoes and begin to unwind the gowns long cotton roped cord.

“I’ve got something for you,” the assistant mumbles, his voice soft and irritatingly embarrassing.

Why is he acting so awkward all of a sudden? It isn’t like he hasn’t seen me naked before. After all, he’s been meeting and prepping me like a sacrificial lamb every day for the last six weeks. Still, as he withdraws a small white box from his pocket and holds it out to me, I find myself unconsciously pulling the lapels of my robe closed.    

Hopping I don’t look as confused as I suddenly feel, I wrap my arms around my middle, mentally bracing myself. This break in our daily routine makes me feel uncomfortable, but Death is not here right now I silently reminded myself. Even as I think this I can feel his presence and morbid curiosity in my humanity.            

His angular face showing a bit of strain, the tension in the technician’s hands increases as he extends the gift to me. “Umm, I know this is going to sound bizarre, but is it okay if I have someone watch today?”

Taking the small jewelry box from his hand, I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to laugh at his obvious embarrassment. “The more the merrier,” I say giving him a wink, and trying to act like it’s no big deal. He seems instantly relieved at my words, and I can’t help wondering if it’s hard having Death as his master.  

Clearing his throat the technician jams his hands behind his back and I find myself smiling.

“I’d hoped you’d say that,” he responds. “Because, well . . . it’s not like I’d ask just anyone, but you have an easy manner that makes it both relaxing and comforting to be around you, especially under these circumstances. I also wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression,” he says.

“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship myself,” I joke as I slip the fragile piece of jewelry out of its box and find myself blinking back tears.

Carefully reading the words HOPE etched along the top of the gold charm, I hide the shame of my tears behind a cheeky toned voice. “You do realize what this means don’t you . . . in a weird sort of way, you’re kinda’ like my pimp.”

He gives me a blank stare of confusion until I explain that every day for the last six weeks we’ve been meeting in what some might perceive as a scandalous routine.

Whenever I come into this room he has me undress. I climb up on the exam table and place my hands above my head and hold onto a metal pole while he straps my feet together so I cannot move. He then proceeds to have his way with me by drawing on my exposed chest before starting the laser show of death-by-radiation.

“—and now you’re giving me jewelry and asking if someone can come watch me do the dirty deed,” I tease. 

His ears flush a slight shade of red. “I guess it does sound risqué when put in that context,” he laughs. “The thing is, we give all our cancer patient’s a HOPE charm, when they reach the halfway mark of their radiation treatments, and like I said, not all our patients are comfortable being exposed around new technicians who are, um . . . undergoing part of the personal hands on training process.”   

For the first time, the room feels awkwardly silent.                          

“Thank you,” I whisper, and I mean it. His posture relaxes, and the uncomfortable feeling is instantly broken.           

Pocketing my new charm, I disrobe. The room is freezing cold, and my breath comes quick and ragged. My skin becomes riddled with goose bumps as I climb upon the ice cold table and lay down. Placing my hands above my head, I reach for the pole. My nostrils flare as I take in the scent of the technician’s woodsy-spice aftershave, and I concentrate on the earthy smell as he straps my ankles together and I am tethered to the table.

My focus soon turns to the lighted mural on the ceiling as another radiation technician enters the room and proceeds to draw lines upon my raw blistered flesh. In just a few minutes these markings will be the guide lines for the rays of death.