How Did You Find Out You Had Cancer?

I get this question a lot. Here's the answer.

Picture me at home, peacefully working at my desk.

Phone: Ring Ring.

Me: Hello!

Voice: Hi, this is McKay Dee Hospital. We're calling to schedule your surgery for next week.

Me: ....

Voice: Hello?

Me: Surgery for WHAT?

Voice: Ummm ... err ..... ummm .... Hasn't your doctor called you yet?

Me (voice escalating): What would my doctor call me about???????

Voice: Well, er.... your mammogram results.

Me (working up to a combo yell/shriek): MY MAMMOGRAM RESULTS!?!?!?!? WHAT ABOUT THEM?!?!?!?!? WHY DO I NEED SURGERY?!?!?! WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!?!

(This would be my first, but not my last, encounter with icy-cold fear running rampant through my veins - the kind that dumps in when you intuitively know that the news is not good.)

Voice: Er ... we need you to call your doctor and then call us back. Click.

That's how I found out I had cancer. Pretty 1950's eh? I felt bad for the voice because that must have been awkward to say the least. I called my doctor at the speed of light. I was told, "She is in a meeting and is not to be disturbed."

I said, "DISTURB HER. NOW."

They wouldn't. I was told to call back in 2 hours. I waited. Called back in 2 hours.

"She's still in a meeting, call back tomorrow." Compassion is not dead, it's just completely absent in Utah. Trust me, this is true.

Then I said some choice items that are not repeatable here. Later that day, the doctor found some spare time to call me and to confirm that I did indeed have cancer.

Some days are worse than others. That was a bad one.

Loves to all - Jen

One of My Heroes

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My Friend Henry Writes About His Son's Passing, September 13, 2008 (UPDATED)

Henry writes:

Dear Friends & Family:

The hospice nurse was here this morning to examine Cameron. He is showing clear signs that he is at the end of his earthly life, and heading off on his next adventure.

He is in no distress or pain, and looks so beautiful. The nurse described him as regal. Take comfort that this process will be gentle and pain-free. We have days or hours left, and are now in vigil mode.

I am sad, of course, and yet strangely relieved. I do not intend to despair or fall into a dark depression. How can I? My son's life was not a tragedy. It is a triumph! This is a passing that he is worthy of. If it were me instead of him (and I wish it were), this is how I would want to go. With such grace. Such grace.

As the full moon approaches (Monday), imagine Cameron rocketing through space on the back of a comet, his laughter ringing through the universe. Free. Free of cancer. Goal met!

Please light a candle in Cameron's honor, and read the following passage to your children and grandchildren. A friend sent it last week, and it brought me much comfort. It warrants repeating here.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: 'There, she is gone!''

Gone where?' Gone from my sight. That is all.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: 'There, she is gone!' there are other eyes watching her coming, and the other voices ready to take up the glad shout 'Here she comes!' And that is dying.

~Henry Van Dyke

Peace out, my son.

Henry

Cameron's Place

UPDATE: Cameron passed on the next day, Sunday. Here is an incredible poem one of Cameron's friends wrote:

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2008 11:32 AM, CDT

That Joy Thing

I stopped by the creek.

It was flush and triumphant again,

from the rains.

The waters were singing your laugh,

crashing over rocks in a crazy dance—

you know—

with that joy thing you splash everywhere.

Tonight the moon is

cradling her swollen belly.

Her light is soft.

Not as bright though

as those stars we dusted off your shoulders

—while you lay in grace.

I felt the warmth of your breath yesterday

as I leaned in to gather more memories.

The flame from your warrior’s heart scorched mine

And I tucked it away, a treasure.

This earth can be cold.

For you,

for us, I will tend and share your fire.

I won’t hold you. (As if I could.)

Your trail is blazing across one landscape,

moving to the next.

Lay your body down, dear.

I see that it is too small now

to hold all of you.

It is hard work to wrap that much radiance—

But it was so lovely to bask in yours, as it spilled over

into this little moment we call life.

by Kerry Miller, in loving tribute to Cameron David Allen

Sunday, 04/16/95 - Sunday, 09/14/08

Nothing That a Little Art Won't Cure

Hey all, just to check in to let you know that I am healing exceptionally well and feeling fine. As it turns out, the lump below my incision (see the blog post below) was just a byproduct of the surgery. It hurts less each day and I am doing great.

In the meantime I am back to my full time shenanigans including a weekend trip to Denver with Liz to view some of her paintings in a First Friday showing in the Chac Gallery on Santa Fe in the Art District. We had an amazing time and she saw many of her old friends there. We also spent time hunting for an apartment for her because she will be moving back there shortly. Great fun!

Here's a couple of pictures from our trip:

Several highlights included having dinner with Liz's good friend Sophie (above) at Watercourse (an amazing vegetarian restaurant) and lots of reminiscing about Liz's old haunts.

Love you all - Jen B.