My "Flea" moment

Recently, I was reminded of the Ten Boom sisters' story where one sister suggests that they be grateful for everything, even the fleas. Corrie found this concept hard to swallow but much later they discovered that the guards never interrupted their clandestine Sunday religious services in the barracks because they were afraid of the fleas. Sometimes, it takes hindsight to get the full picture.

My "flea" moment came in the form of blood in my urine. After a course of antibiotics failed to solve the problem and some alarm was raised that my kidneys were again struggling, they decided to hospitalize me again at the end of the first week in January. Great way to start the New Year! 


Back in the Huntsman, the familiar routine began all over again: IV transfusion of fluids, daily medications, lots of checking on my vitals and visits from doctors. Each morning, the blood was drawn and I would wait in anticipation for the doctors to tell me how my kidneys were doing. For 9 straight days they would come with sober faces to tell me that things were getting worse. I was referred to the "Kidney doctors" to figure things out. One expert, Dr, Abraham was the one who stroked my face and told me that as my cancer was reduced that my kidneys would recover. Dr. Atanackovic agreed and insisted that I continued my chemotherapy treatment. I loved his firmness on this one!

I had outpatient appointments that were now handled on an inpatient level. I can remember being super excited about an upcoming appointment with the radiation department where there was hope given that they could shrink my lesions to reduce my back pain. I was dutifully wheeled down there by an orderly. I am not sure that a patient is allowed to get this excited about a suggested back operaton before radiation treatment would begin. I was to be assessed to see if I was a good candidate for a kyphoplasty, a mini operation that would stabilize my spine. I was literally back in my hospital room, holding my breath in the hopes that I was an excellent candidate.

A young doctor appeared in my room to do the assessment. He was a little overwhelmed by how enthusiastically I greeted him and he for sure didn't notice my crossed fingers. I wanted this operation so badly. The surgeon himself, Dr, Brogan appeared later in my room to deliver the verdict. I could have hugged him when he agreed to do the operation the very next day. Because I was an inpatient, he could slip me into his schedule. As an outpatient, I would have had a longer wait.

I had to fast prior to the operation and late morning turned into later afternoon and early evening. It was probably one of my hardest days since my diagnosis as my back pain came with a vengeance and the minutes ticked slowly by. Classical music became my saving grace as I tried to go into another dimension, away from the pain. Finally, the orderly came for me and by 6 pm I was in the operating room.

That night in my hospital room, I was nervous. Had the operation worked? They had said that if it was going to be a success I would know immediately. I gingerly got out of my bed to go to the bathroom, not even calling for a nurse to help me. I wanted to test it out. Oh the sheer bliss when I realized that the excruciating part of my back pain was gone!  In its place the sensation of a lump of concrete in my lower back but no pain! I had received my miracle and there was more to come.

As an inpatient, I was wheeled on a daily basis down to the radiation department where they added to my miracle. They began by giving me these 5 permanent tattooed dots on my stomach to guide their radiation treatments and then each day I lay very still as these laser beams performed the rest of the miracle. What is it about the statement to "hold very still" that has your mind working overtime to leap off the table and do a little Irish jig? Of course, I shoved that desire right down because I wanted this radiation to work.

Although I couldn't finish all my radiation treatments as an inpatient I was able to learn the ropes. I was finally discharged from the hospital after 11 days as my kidneys decided it was time to behave again. There was widespread relief that the worst (potential kidney failure) had been averted. I returned to finish the final 4 radiation treatments. Over these past weeks, my back pain has slowly begun to disappear from my day to day life, so much so that I am no longer on pain meds every day.

The miracle around my back pain was clearly the most dramatic but while I was in that hospital, lots of smaller miracles also happened. Conversations with other cancer patients that enlightened me; massages from the inpatient team;  practicing my physiotherapy exercises under the watchful eye of a specialist; starting a new chemotherapy regime that was kinder on my kidneys; and having my husband stay with me in the hospital most nights. 11 days felt like an eternity but with 20/20 hindsight I was given the opportunity to learn and understand more of what is facing me in my future in an intense way that could not have happened as an outpatient. Because of my kidney issues, I have been referred for follow up with this wonderful new doctor, Dr. Westenfelder, (another German). More on him later but needless to say, I am in great hands.

20/20 Hindsight is a wonderful thing! I am so grateful for my "fleas".

In and out of the fire

My first month was filled with firsts. It is what brings that "fire hose" feeling as I anxiously experienced new medical procedures that seemed an every day occurrence to those around me.

After having left the hospital for home, an appointment was made for a full-body PET scan. Why the anxiety? Not only had I never experienced one of these scans but I was informed this would tell them whether I had cancerous cells or tumors in other parts of my body. Nothing to worry about, right?

On arrival for my scan, they pumped some kind of contrasting liquid into me so that I would glow like some kind of radioactive creature. I was placed into this "quiet room" on this gigantic, very uncomfortable chair. I felt like Alice in Wonderland after I had been shrunk from taking the magic potion.  

"Only 45minutes" they promised as they shut the door and darkness enveloped me. At that point I remembered that it was time for my pain meds which were starting to wear off but it was too late. I would have to wait until this was all over.

"Can I have a book to read?" I had asked, hopefully.

"Oh, no, that would stimulate the brain and we can't have that."

I tried very hard not to focus on the pain in my back and breathed a sigh of relief when they came to get me, limping, for the next phase. I was faced with this intimidating machine as the staff nonchalantly had me lie down on what I can only describe as a metal half-bucket.

PET scan

"You will be in this machine for another 45 minutes. Just remain still."

I looked at them incredulously because I knew the consequences of lying directly on my back on a hard surface for that long. However, I was obedient. Well, what else could I be?

By the time the machine stopped whirring it's way around my body for the next 45 minutes, the medical staff were ready to move on to the next patient, little realizing that they had a problem on their hands. I was literally paralyzed as I tried to crawl off that machine onto my feet. The staff member proffered me her hand to lean on but it was totally inadequate. Little did I realize at the time but the cancer had resulted in one of my lower vertebrae actually breaking, the cause of most of my pain as well as my paralysis at times. 

As they literally discharged me to the foyer outside the radiation area, I panicked. Alan had not been allowed to be with me for this procedure and had gone for a walk. I frantically texted him to come and save me because I couldn't move. He rushed to my side but we still needed to figure out how to get me back to Provo. He remembered a single sofa in the main foyer on the other side of the building and I rested as best I could until he got the car. We did make it home safely but it was certainly an agonizing trip.

MRI scan

The results of the PET scan turned out to be less scary than the procedure itself and I breathed a sigh of relief when they told me that they had discovered 100 lesions between my thighs and my breasts but no other cancer cells. (For lesions, read little holes in my bones i.e. swiss cheese as in my previous blog).

I learned a great deal from that experience. I learned that by sheer will power that I could overcome pain and remain very still if it was important. I also learned to think ahead and make sure I had taken my pain medications BEFORE I did the tests. I was given many more firsts: An MRI, a CAT scan, radiation treatment. I didn't know that there were so many machines that all looked so alike and have that same metal half bucket that became a familiar sight. Each told a different story and added to the information they were looking for in my treatment.  I kept telling myself that it was all going to be worth it. 

CAT scan (CT scan)

Out of the windows of the hospital I spied intrepid hikers taking to tracks all around the building and I began to mourn my loss, that I was one of those hikers only weeks earlier. How life can change on a dime! 

My first days with cancer: FIRE HOSE

I am back in the hospital outpatients, this time watching the drip drip of a blood transfusion as it is added to my own, in the hope that my kidneys will get the message that it is time to start producing their own red blood cells.

My first days facing this new disease were nothing short of a FIRE HOSE experience. It started from the outset on the day after Christmas. We had been warned there was a possibility that I might be admitted after tests were done and Dr. Atanackovic was quick to want to start treatment immediately, even before getting the final results from my bone marrow biopsy. He was already convinced of the diagnosis and wanted me to be hospitalized to get my kidney function under control. 

We were somewhat prepared with a packed bag but I laugh at my thought patterns that morning: "Are my underwear whole? Mum would want me to be decent for the doctors." Immediately upon arrival in my hospital room that seemed bigger than Texas they started me in a kind of routine that made me realize this was not going to be a picnic. An IV was inserted into my arm into which a constant flow of liquid was being pumped: I put on 14 pounds of fluid in just 2 days and felt like a blow up balloon. Every four hours either a nurse or nurses' aid came and took my vital signs: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature and oxygen saturation.

Going to the bathroom was a new experience. The toilet had these little hat things in the bowl (no pictures sorry) that measured everything that left my body. I was not allowed to flush my own toilet as they took a 24 hour urine sample (think about that!) for my first full day in hospital. They also measured whatever went into my body: fluids and food all meticulously monitored. And then there were all the medications. A massive dose of steroids made me feel all jangled inside but the blessing that came with it was having my appetite return, even if just temporarily. Finally, they started injecting me with a chemotherapy drug called Velcade. There were sodium tablets, aspirin for blood clots, acyclovir to prevent viral infections and tablets for nausea. I went from not taking any medication for all of my life to have a virtual pharmacy of meds morning and night. The pain medications were welcome but they were opiods and I was immediately frightened of becoming addicted to them.

Alan went home that night with Aaron and I spent my first night in the hospital on my own. I kept telling myself that I am a big girl and I focused on fitting into the routine. The four hourly check ups happened night and day and the IV fluids of course continued relentlessly. Sleep was clearly going to be a challenge. Meds came at 8pm, pain meds between 11pm and midnight and then four hourly. At 5am there was a double whammy: Check vital signs AND getting my first experience at drawing more blood to check my kidney function.

My back pain had become progressively worse over time and I definitely needed help to get to the bathroom in the night. Even rolling over in my bed was virtually impossible without unbearable pain, let alone making those steps to the little bathroom. I tried not to be embarrassed to use the call button to get help. The nurse aids or nurses came quickly but I think they underestimated just how paralyzed I was as I virtually collapsed to the floor each time, forcing them to catch me, tubes and all. 

During the day, there was an endless stream of medical personnel who visited with me to share their respective areas of expertise. Alan brought Aaron back to the hospital to stay with me during the day and the three of us faced the barrage of information that kept coming at us: A physiotherapist, an occupational therapist, a pharmacist, the physician's assistant each morning and the regular doctors from the ward on their rounds, a nutritionist, the finance woman (yes, there is such a thing), room cleaners and always ever present nurses and nurses aids. There is actually a white board in each room where they constantly change the names of the personnel looking after you as shifts change. Hallelujah for a touch of old fashioned technology to help me keep up.

There is room service at the Huntsman and every time I ordered breakfast or lunch or dinner I would have to reel off my name and date of birth. This latter piece of information is like a code to get you whatever you need or to access whatever medical staff you needed, that and the constant scanning of my wrist band as I recited my name and date of birth. It was wonderful to have my son join in this fire hose experience and see first hand how things flowed. Both he and Alan asked the medical personnel umpteen questions as I just succumbed to the flow.

I was in the hospital for a total of 2 days that first visit but it felt like an eternity and finally I was discharged, of course following a visit with another medical visitor to make sure that my home was a safe place to go. But then the frantic nature of this treatment did not stop there. Appointments were made for a full body Pet Scan, I was contacted about radiation treatment for my back in the weeks to come and there was discussion about a chart of visits when I would come and get the regular chemotherapy injections and be given a regular regimen of highly specialized drugs.

The steroids were to come weekly (oh joy!!!) and then a tablet something akin to gold in its expensive nature called Revlimid was to be administered once our new health insurance kicked in on 1 January. Not to worry, only $17,000 for one cycle of tablets (14 of them). The finance woman had managed to get our insurance approval for this specialized drug but suggested a way to reduce the cost further by sitting on the phone at 7am MST on January 2nd the minute the office opened to ask to be included in the Revlimid trial directly with the drug company. We were successful in being enrolled for the drug at $25 co-pay for each cycle of drug that very day. Miracle achieved!

Of course, who could forget the twice weekly injections of Velcade, directly into my belly fat. Yes, I really meant to say belly fat. Apparently the fat ensures a better distribution of the drug. Who knew?

This was a whole new world and I was caught up in it. The coordinator of my chart, Lori (Yes, they have one of these too and thank goodness!) and all the other staff warned me that the first month I would just put one foot in front of the other and turn up when I was supposed to in almost a mindless fashion before my life would come back to me. What did Dr. Atanackovic say? "You will lead a normal life again!" 

Timing is Everything

Come with me on this voyage through Cancer. To do that there are some perspectives that I need to explain. As most of you know, I am a religious person. I am a member of of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, baptized at the age of 20 as a student in Dunedin, New Zealand. Everything I have done since then has been seen through that lens.

When my Mum got a brain tumor in her late 50s she expressed amazement that I was the only calm one in the family as I visited her in hospital each day. I told her that the spirit whispered to me that she was going to be just fine. She is 89yrs old today. By contrast, as I hugged my Dad goodbye after his 80th birthday party, the spirit told me forcefully that I would never see my Dad alive on this earth again. I cried for ages on that journey back to Whangarei with my children. He died the following year while on holiday in the Netherlands before I could see him. Sometimes the spirit tells me hard things but it has always told me the truth. It is my greatest joy to have that same spirit accompany me on what lies ahead for me as I battle this illness.


There is this modern scripture that says, "Thou shalt thank the Lord Thy God in all Things." (Doctrine and Covenants, 59:7). Can I thank the Lord for my cancer? I sure can but perhaps I need to chop that gratitude down into smaller bite size pieces.

It would have been easy to think, "all the tumors on my back I now have mean I can't walk very far" but if I approach it with a feeling of gratitude then I can definitely say that my bad back saved my life. It is a common presentation for this cancer but it could have been much further down the track if I hadn't had our wonderful new doctor dig harder to find out the real problem. For that I am grateful.

The last half of 2019, my business as a nonprofit consultant was finally taking off. I worked on lucrative and ongoing contracts that took me as far as Washington DC and all over Utah. I was looking forward to growing that business even further in 2020 which had promised to be a bumper year. It would be very easy to become bitter that just as I am starting to financially pick up that I am crippled by this cancer. But I spot miracles in this. Because of those lucrative contracts toward the end of the year, Alan and I have reserves in the bank to carry us financially right through these hardest initial months without having to worry about money. It really does feel as if the Lord has timed this perfectly and we are under His care.

On that same note, many of you, especially Americans, understand that the cost of health care in this country is outrageous. (One of my pet peeves by the way.). I have one injection per week and I take mega numbers of medication each day. I have had every scan, test, stay in the hospital and consultation under the sun that I have never experienced before and they all cost the earth. To get some perspective, one injection cost almost $2,000.

Initially, this did cause some panic because we had started to structure our health insurance differently for the beginning of 2020 because of my anticipated earnings. Given my actual diagnosis not arriving until just after Christmas I was initially in trouble as the new health insurer did not recognize a pre-existing condition and we found ourselves facing being bankrupted by the medical costs. Our wonderful doctor became the cavalry referring us to a wizard of a health insurance agent. 24 hours later, he had found us an insurance plan starting 1 January 2020 that had a maximum out of pocket expense for me of $1,600 a year. Gratitude overflowing. I have no fears about chasing the best medical treatment there is out there because I used that $1,600 on the first day of treatment in the New Year and I am now living free. Now that is what I call being cared for by a loving Heavenly Father! We are more than grateful.

The greatest blessings of this journey have been in the connections. It was super hard telling my kids in New Zealand the news over Skype calls but I have a strength from them that I can't even begin to fathom. I cried a lot with Joshua, Tineke and Rebekah but I also had the blessing of Aaron, my eldest, sitting right next to me as I struggled with each video call. I had the blessing of having Aaron attend every single doctor's visit, to stay one of the nights with me in the hospital to give Alan a break, to be there when the formal diagnosis was made and each appointment until he left for New Zealand again.  Part of me felt guilty about ruining his Christmas visit but then I changed my perspective and I saw that our relationship deepened even further because he was here during such a crucial time in my life.

My regular Skype calls to my children and grandchildren have become even more meaningful to me and I feel a deepening connection with each of them. We are planning to have them each come out and see me in Utah in due time, hopefully after treatment is more or less done so that I can enjoy their company in person but for right now I am grateful for technology and the ability to see them as I share with them what is happening.

I was very worried about how I was going to tell my mother. How was I going to tell her that I not only have cancer but that I can't travel and am not sure if I ever will be able to travel that distance again? To add to the complication, she is a little deaf and talking to her on the phone can be a struggle. So I phoned my eldest sister, Tineke for her advice. That turned out to be a wonderful and strengthening experience for me. When you live on the other side of the world, some connections can get lost easily. That phone call to my sister not only re-connected me deeply with my sister but with her daughters, Emily and Lisa. I have felt their support and love in very real ways and it has been a real treasure to me.

My sister was able to intervene for me and soften the way with my mother. It still isn't very easy and this particular aspect I need to work harder to find the golden nugget but it will be there somewhere.

The timing of this cancer has been perfect. The doctor who is treating me just came back from an extended time overseas and so had not yet filled his caseload with patients. I was literally able to become the patient of one of the top experts in this cancer in the country on the same day as my doctor referred me. Together with Doctor Atanackovic, who is someone I trust implicitly in my care, comes this incredible team of medical staff, both inpatient and outpatient.

Every single medical person that I have met on this journey at the Huntsman hospital has been nothing but caring, loving and expert in what they do. Yes, even Dr Halawi who told me to get out of my bed and move around more. He was simply lovely. I have to mention Dr Abraham from the kidney team who came and stroked my face ever so gently as she told me that with my chemo treatment that my kidneys would recover. She was right. Then there was Dr. Seth Youkstetter who went over and above what can be expected to find me solutions every day he visited me during my stay and to make me feel like the most important person who ever existed. There were the miracle workers like Dr Brogan, the Irish surgeon, who I affectionately refer to as the man who pumped what I colloquially call a piece of concrete into a broken vertebrae so that I can now roll over in bed, get myself to the bathroom and walk somewhat without pain! Now that was a miracle!

There were so many faces and names of people who have cared for me. We have developed a new friend, Jeremie Gaillard who was my physiotherapist while in the hospital. Both Alan and I felt a special connection with him as we shared common interests and stories as he treated my physiotherapy needs. How can I not be grateful for both old and new connections renewed?

I am not alone in this journey. Not physically, not spiritually. I have a wonderful husband who has proven over and over again his total devotion to my care and well-being. I have the spirit showing me these miracles all around me that has deepened my faith and helped me understand that this is a spiritual journey that I am on. Does the spirit whisper to me how this will all end? So far, I believe that I am on a marathon and it is not going to be easy. The worst is yet to come in the treatments but when I look at all the miracles, how can I fear?

The Big "C".

An old Yiddish saying says,  “Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht” ("Man makes plans....and God laughs.") I had not intended to blog about this subject but so much has happened that has changed my mind, if a little reluctantly.

Let me explain. I had been pushing healthy habits very hard this year. With my trusty Fitbit egging me on, I was extending myself to walk up to 20,000 steps a day and working on climbing the beautiful mountains that surround Provo, Utah, my home since 2016. My weight was in a healthy range and I was feeling good except for one small detail: My back began to hurt me. My thoughts initially went to, "I guess I am a Van der Voorn after all" as back problems seem to plague my family of origin. 

I am not sure what logic I was following but I figured that if I just kept walking it through then my back would get the message to get in line and behave. And then came one day when I headed off to a regular bi-monthly lunch in South Jordan with a fabulous group of women. As I stepped out of the car in the car park I literally collapsed to the ground, unable to walk. I told myself this was ridiculous and I took one painful step at a time and entered the restaurant. The pain was excruciating but no way was I going to give in to it. 


After lunch I almost crawled back to the car and decided to be even more brave. I would go shopping at the mall a little further north for those comfortable shoes I wanted. Bad idea! I crawled into the mall and then crawled back out immediately realizing this was more serious than I was crediting. Alan was in Brazil for another week and here was I, outside a mall in Murray, unsure how to get both vehicle and myself back home. With a very fervent prayer I got into the driver's seat and willed myself to drive. Our Volkswagen is a stick shift and with each gear change as I travelled down the I-15 came this panic that I couldn't do this. 

Somehow, I made it home 45 minutes later and collapsed in a heap on my bed, this time very aware I was going nowhere. I burst into tears just as the phone rang and Alan was checking in with me. Immediately he sprung to action and organized our son-in-law to take me to the urgent care. Even then, I was still telling myself that I have a back problem and it just needed some help.

Once Alan returned, we began looking for someone to help with this new problem and we found a doctor/osteopath who fit our every need.  I became excited that all this would be resolved and I could get back to my walks.

I was so confident that we planned this trip with our son, Aaron who was coming over for Christmas with us. "Let's pick him up in Los Angeles and go travelling together to see the Grand Canyon, Zions National Park and everything in between." Great idea, right? We booked a car, accommodation, budgeting our momentous trip. 

I was very excited but also getting nervous because the pain in my back had not subsided that much. Simultaneously in December, I went for my annual physical including blood work and our new doctor ordered some X-rays to see what was going on. My blood work showed some not so good results for the first time in my life: I was apparently anemic, high protein levels, low sodium levels and something called my creatinine levels were high, all telling me a message that I didn't understand.

The day before we were due to drive down to Los Angeles at the beginning of our adventure with Aaron, Alan had his turn with our new doctor. "Have you looked at Marianne's X-Rays yet?" Alan inquired. The doctor dutifully pulled them up and Alan described a serious look come over his face. My poor husband was then confronted with the next comment, "You have chosen the right doctor, I am really good with hospice care." Alan wanted the doctor to tell me what he saw on the X-rays and they agreed he would call me the following morning. That evening, Alan came to bed with me. I had difficulty in rolling toward him as the pain became excruciating even to move a centimeter. In my ear I heard this quiet sobbing and I was confused. Alan usually communicated everything with me, highs and lows but here he was silent.

I guess I already knew that driving all the way to Los Angeles given the pain was not going to work. The doctor called me and told me his medical opinion, "I believe that you have multiple myeloma, a cancer of the blood. I am 98% sure and I would like to refer you to an oncologist immediately to confirm the diagnosis. I don't advise that you leave for Los Angeles." As we visited further with our doctor that same day, he showed me my X-rays to reveal that my pelvis looked like Swiss cheese with little holes or lesions across the full breadth, hence the agonizing pain I was experiencing. 

Two ton truck! Just drove through my home!! How can this be? My first instinct was to google it. Not always the brightest idea. My first foray on the subject of this particular cancer had these words screaming at me, "Not curable", "Average life expectancy has increased to five years." However, there was a ray of hope in the middle of those words on google. If I could find a specialist in this particular cancer then I could potentially increase my life expectancy by 38%. Search some more. 

Initially, I went into a total panic. I am facing my mortality and I am going to die. Travelling is clearly out of the question, so what about my 4 children, my 5 grandchildren and my 89 year old mother all living in New Zealand. Would I never see them again? Like a chook with her head chopped off, I raced around trying to think about what I was leaving to my children, desperate about the idea of not seeing them again because according to Google, I was going to die. It was all very black and I fell into a deep hole. 

There are two experts in this cancer listed in Utah, both in the Huntsman Cancer Institute. "Please can you refer me to one of these two doctors?" My doctor listened to my pleas and next thing you know I have a referral to the Huntsman Cancer Hospital and I became a patient of Dr. Djordje Atanackovic, a veteran in this cancer. 

This was all happening so rapidly but right beside me, humoring my shifting moods, my panic, my pleas to do something was Alan. He has been a constant in all of this and I had this realization that I was not on my own. For the first time in my life in a real crisis, I was physically, emotionally and spiritually NOT on my own. 

We flew Aaron directly into Salt Lake City airport and I mustered the strength to be there to pick him up. I didn't tell him the news that night. He was exhausted after many hours on planes. The following morning, I plucked up the courage and told him that my GP had diagnosed this cancer. We wept on each other's shoulders and held on tight. It was a special but painful moment with my eldest son. The diagnosis was not yet confirmed but 98% were pretty high odds. We wept some more.

They wanted me to come into the hospital on Christmas Eve day but some things are sacred and I crazily believed that I could have Christmas. It did not go so well as I was ill all day and not in any position to enjoy it. Alan and Aaron took over from me as I sat around helpless for the first time in many Christmases. 

The very next day found me in an interview with Dr, Atanackovic and his PA, Jan. Dr A as he is affectionately known is German with this delightful soft German accent. I arrived in his office full of questions but still in my black hole. After explaining his agreement with my doctor on the diagnosis, he ordered the dreaded bone marrow biopsy. Americans have this deal where they are afraid of being sued and so they tell you EVERY little detail, even when you would rather not hear it. 

With this gentleness that I will always be grateful for, Dr, Atanackovic then said something that pulled me right out of that hole. Aaron and Alan were both there and we all smiled as he said, "You vill lead a normal life again!" He spoke of their treatment plans, their hopes and expectations. You mean I am not going to suddenly die? There were warnings that everyone was an individual and results varied but he went on to say, "You should have hope, because hope is very real in this cancer." I hung on his every word and I believed him. 

And so began my journey with the big C. The biopsy confirmed the diagnosis (and wasn't nearly as scary as they had described). That same day I was hospitalized to give my struggling kidneys a  chance to rebound. This blog ends here but I want to share this journey so there is more to come. My "pen" is at the ready.