10 Word Review – Hector and the Search for Happiness

MV5BNTAzNTIyNDYzNV5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwNDg1NjYyMjE@._V1_SX214_AL_Warm. Endearing. Cast. Happiness. Adventure. Sketchbook. Optimistic. Sweet. Fantastical. Yes.

The Science of Happiness

I get feeds.  You know, tidbits of info from various sources bringing in all type and manner of information.  I subscribe to some.  One, Upworthy, comes across on my Facebook news feed.  I like this one in particular because the stuff is usually interesting, informative, and many times it’s positive.  There’s loads of negative emotion, news, “stuff” out there these days and my opinion is that anything positive and uplifting is a very good thing.  The whole good-things-out-into-the-universe-is-important perspective.  Positive vibrations and all that.  It’s not solely that, but much of the time it is that.

Without going into it too much, I particularly loved this one.  It made me tear up, which if you know me doesn’t take much sometimes, but seriously… this is good.  Plus the group who made it is called Soul Pancake.  C’mon… that rocks.

Watch this, and get happy….

 

Go Live a Normal Life

I’m crying.  I can’t seem to stop.  I dry up for awhile, and then there they are again, tears falling down my face uncontrollably.  I’m not sad… no, not at all.  These are tears of joy.  Tears from days, and weeks, sometimes hours, and two years and four months.

Wow.  What should I do now.  It hasn’t sunk in yet.  I think the sinking in will take some time.

I had blood work yesterday, it was great, then an appointment with my oncologist this morning.  The appointment was fast.  He looked at my blood work, said it was fantastic, listened to me breathe a bit, answered our questions, and then said to me go live a normal life. A normal life. Normal.  Life.

I’m overwhelmed.  Two years and four months, to the day, since diagnosis.  15 pushes of hard core chemo, three bone marrow biopsies, more blood work than I can count, pic line, pic line removal, tests on my heart, x-rays on my lungs, more pills of ATRA than I can count, trips to the urgent care, somewhere around 45 days in the hospital all together, 1065 pills of 6MP, 102 shots, and all the other thousand and one things that’ve gone on over the last two years and four months. Every week, for two years, every week… every Wednesday at 10:00 am.

Now?

Well now I guess I go live a normal life…  and here come the tears again.  They are welcome, and so is the joy the accompanies them. Live a normal life.  Normal.  Life.  That sounds really good to me.

Letting Out A Breath

I’ve been holding my breath for what seems like a lifetime.  Moments of being so very afraid, but not letting myself think about it.  So scared sometimes.  When something like this happens to you you fight that all the time.  I am, as all who know me would probably attest to, a positive person.  I think positively, I act positively, I smile all the damn time.  It’s who I am.  I have been that person through this process so far and will continue to be I would imagine.  But there have been times… thinking what might happen, what could happen.  Dark moments.  I didn’t let them get the best of me and always managed to push them back and away… but there has been a sort of hum inside.  A holding of my breath.

With each treatment round I’ve kept the attitude, this is killing it, this is curing me.  I kept thinking that, even in the beginning when I was most sick… and subsequently, every time after another round of chemo when I didn’t feel good or couldn’t go anywhere because I was neutropenic.  I kept saying… this sucks now, but it’s killing it, it’s taking care of me.

And you know what?  Today I got the best news of my life…. right up there with when my Mom got past her bought with breast cancer and when Karen told me she loved me for the first and all the times after, and when we sat on that beach in Hawaii making a commitment to each other, and when Mary told us she was pregnant, and when I presided over Mary and Martin’s wedding.  Those, some of the very best moments of my life, were joined by the news today that the molecular scan of the bone marrow biopsy I had two weeks ago, results just back, showed no abnormality.  None.  There was no sign of leukemia in my marrow, in my chromosomes, in me.  It was totally clear.

I just spent the last half an hour crying on and off, and will probably be the rest of the day.  I called Karen immediately (she’s traveling for work) and cried with her on the phone.  She thought, initially, something was wrong because I was crying so hard I could barely speak.  I called my Mom and I called my brother… same thing… crying so hard.  Crying out of happiness.  Crying, and finally… letting out a little breath.