Last Friday, I went out for a little walk down the street, and on my way I noticed a woman about to cross the street in front of me. She looked at me, started across the street, then clearly changed her mind and beelined her way straight to me. Little lady, about 60 years old.

And she started right in aggressively asking what was wrong with me. No matter how I dodged her questions, she wouldn’t let up. So finally I told her straight up – “I’ve got stage IV cancer and treatment for it has paralyzed my right leg.” Oh! The hoopla that ensued. She’d also had cancer a few years before, and now felt entitled to tell me how to treat mine. And by the way, I needed to walk better and work harder than I was doing. I finally said straight to her, “Ma’am, don’t judge me. I’ve been fighting this for over three years, you have no idea of the toll its taken on me, and I’m doing everything in my power to stay strong and alive.” Dear me – she certainly didn’t mean to come across as judgemental! She was horrified that I was taking it that way. But if I just put my foot down and fought a little harder, then I was sure to beat this, and I was NOT going to die from it. I just needed to get some miso and green juice.

Aggravating, to say the least. Why do some people feel this license to get in others’ business and tell them what they should do to be well? Does she think I don’t spend every single day fighting this?

The very next morning, we went to the farmers market, and I noticed a woman walking around with a single forearm crutch. She wound up at the same booth at the same time as us, and we let her cut ahead since we were having a hard time making up our minds. She was joking around, and said something about my snazzy orange wheelchair, then asked if I was able to get out and be very active in it. I said I hadn’t done much yet, but I’m hoping to walk a half-marathon in July.

And she just smiled, and said that’s terrific. She told me that she’d been able to participate in some triathlons with friends, and it makes such a difference to get out and feel strong and empowered. Then she started sharing some of her story with me. She’s about 50 now, but she’d been attacked on the job when she was 26, and became a paraplegic. Doctors told her she’d never walk again. She spent five or six years in a wheelchair, and then things started to come back. With her husband’s help, she’s been on just the one forearm crutch for the last five years. It took over twenty years, but she learned to walk again.

And she shone with this inner joy and peace as she talked about it. I can only imagine the dark times she experienced, when every movement was a struggle, and her life seemed taken away from her in the blink of an eye. And yet now she exudes this warmth and encouragement. She even offered to let me borrow a spare pair of forearm crutches just so I can try them out.

I yearn for that. Not the aggressive “I’ve been through hell and now I’m going to tell you how to survive it as well.” But the peaceful “everyone has their own journey, but let me bring a little encouragement to you.” I want to exude that, too. That beautiful, hard-won joy and contentment. Light-bringers such as her are precious and rare.

Chris and I realized over the weekend (as we were out getting our Christmas tree), that this is the first time in four years that we’ve been able to really enjoy Christmas. 2008 I was starting chemo, 2009 I was ending chemo, 2010 I got my hip replaced . . . which brings us to this year. It helps that we kicked the season off with a little trip to Italy. Can’t really go wrong there.

We’ve seen friends, bought and put up a tree, watched Christmas movies, baked cookies, listened to Christmas music, gone Christmas shopping . . . all those things that you wait all year to do, and are so lovely and nostalgic. And since I’ve quit work, I’ve had the energy to do and enjoy these things. This has just been the best holiday so far. (As I write this, I’m looking at our tree all twinkly and glowing in the corner.) I forgot how much I loved this time of year.

I’m also doing pretty good on the weight front. You know all those little tips in the beauty magazines about how to eat healthy over the holidays and control your weight? I’m taking them, and turning them on their heads. Opt FOR the eggnog latte; take an extra cookie (or two); ruin my dinner with that little chocolate truffle; sure, I’ll take an extra glass of wine. I’m going to get some junk back in my trunk.

Anyone who would like to meet up and help me in my quest, let me know!! I’d love to see YOU, too!!

The trip was magical. It really was. We lucked out with the weather (sunny and 50s all week except for one sprinkly day), and we even all traveled pretty well together!! We spent most of our time in Tuscany, since that was where we were based. My most favoritest thing may have been our cooking lesson. We made (get ready for it) tuna crostini, sweet and sour cippolini (onions), pasta al fume (smoky pasta), pork loin and tiramisu. That day it was the only meal I ate.

Admiring the Siena Duomo with Liz Hart

Cortona rooftops - town where we stayedThe campanile in Siena's main piazza

Short Version (see below for Long Version):
We got bumped from two different flights and instead of flying direct from Paris to Seattle, wound up spending the night in New York. All AirFrance’s fault.

Long Version (see above for Short Version):
It started on the ground in Florence.

We boarded the plane just fine, then sat on the tarmac for an hour because Paris was foggy. This was a problem because we only had an hour and a half layover in Paris, but the flight attendants seemed pretty positive we would still make our next flight.

Left on our own, we probably would have made our connection in Paris. But the French got in the way. In particular, Monsieur Blockhead wheelchair assistant. The French and Italian airports are NOT equipped to handle disabled passengers, and they make the biggest and most inefficient fuss over how to deal with us. In CDG, they brought a special little elevator-cart lift thing, which they then took FOREVER to operate. Monsieur Blockhead told us on the lift that “ce n’est pas possible” to make our connecting flight, and he would take us straight to a ticket agent to get onto a flight two hours later. We argued argued argued, insisting that we go to our gate instead, because we still had 20 minutes, and many of the flights were delayed because of the fog.

I could tell that Chris has had a lot of practice arguing in French, because his vocabularly suddenly expanded while all my French absolutely disappeared under stress.

We got off the lift-thing, and Monsieur Blockhead led us on a tangled route through the back hallways of CDG. We saw the signs for Terminal E, but Monsieur B cried out, “No, no! Follow me! Everything will be all right!” I should have run him over with my wheelchair.

Instead of taking us to our gate, we went through a door and found ourselves outside security in a line to re-book a flight. Where Monsieur Blockhead abandoned us. NO!

We got out of the line and ran through security to our gate, but of course, had just missed the flight. Merde!!!

Next we went to see an AirFrance ticket agent, who told us that our options were a direct flight to Seattle the next day, or the “in two hours” option which would take us through JFK and get us home at 10:30pm (instead of our originally-planned 1pm). We chose door number two.

Of course, they weren’t done with us yet. Normally, wheelchair passengers get to board first because it takes us a little longer to get settled on the plane. Chris and I have our routine down. We head down the ramp, leave the wheelchair at the gate while I use crutches to get to my seat, they gate-check the wheelchair, and voila!

Back to the European inability to deal with disabled people. They made us wait for another wheelchair assistant to take me down the ramp, because I could not be trusted to do it myself. Apparently this is a highly-skilled position, because only one person could do it, and he wasn’t there yet (oh, the French and their metiers). We begged one guy who had taken another passenger down if he could take me, since he was finished. But “ce n’est pas possible!” And then ten minutes later, this same fellow who couldn’t possibly help me down the ramp because he wasn’t the right person, came back and took me down the ramp.

And then we sat on the tarmac for an hour and a half, while they brought in and installed a “spare part.” So our comfortable 3-hour layover in JFK was immediately whittled down to an hour and a half.

We lost more time in the air, and then it took 20 minutes just to taxi in. We asked the flight attendent in the air if there was anything she could do to help us get off the plane and through customs quickly, because we were now (again) worried about making our connection. She seemed pretty positive we would make it. I’ve learned that they always say this because they don’t want to deal with passengers’ wrath.

And we probably still could have made the connection, but AirFrance had one last little trick up their sleeve. Re-checking the bags after customs. Whenever I’ve done this in the past, I’ve always just shoved my bag in some corner, and it meets me at my destination. AirFrance, however, had one agent who was checking everyone’s bag individually. There were some 30 people ahead of us in line, and we were down to 15 minutes before take-off.

Didn’t make it. So we spent the night in New York. Flew Delta the next morning and had no problems. And were home by noon. Our 16-hour trip home had turned into 40 hours.

I am off to bed, and will post more pleasant-to-read things tomorrow.

I am so thankful for my husband. I adore him, and he clearly adores me. Whatever we did right in our past lives, whatever stars aligned at our birth, I got really lucky. I don’t even think I’d trade him for Matt Damon (total crush).

I love my cat. She’s currently draped along the radiator, and is being ridiculously cute.

Family – there’s another one. I got lucky. I’ve got a good one.

And I’m thankful that I’m feeling good. I remember, before all this started, going for my runs in the morning and pumping my arms and legs, breathing hard, and thanking God that I was healthy and could be active because it felt so good. My thanks is different now. I’m still alive, and every step I take that doesn’t hurt, every time I lift my leg a little and it feels easier than the day before, every day I can get through without needing to lay down and take a nap . . . blessings. Believe me, I still have plenty of moments of shaking my fist at the heavens and feeling like life is too unfair for words. But overall  – it’s nice to be alive.

And friends. Thank you, each of you. You each have and do contribute so much to the world, and I’m lucky to know you. You bless my life, and I love you very much. Thanks.

I also got to meet my brand-new niece, Brooklyn Marie Bean, Sunday night. She’s beautiful. If it wasn’t such a pain to get photos off the camera, I’d post some up here.

We had such a good time. Thank you to everyone who participated and made it a very special weekend!

I had a scan last Tuesday, meeting with the doctor and infusion on Friday, then flew out on Sunday for a day of appointments at the Mayo Clinic on Monday. Back now, and ready to report the news.

It was all good!

The scan showed no changes since two months ago (which is when I went back on my full treatment regimen). It looks like the Avastin I’m receiving really makes a difference in tumor activity. In addition to that, the surgeons at Mayo pronounced my hip to be “beautiful.” There’s been no slippage of any of the parts, and they think the activity they see is all healing bone stuff. They’re even pleased that I’m still mostly on two crutches, and think I’m making good progress getting down to one.

We went for a drive after the appointments, and Chris took me out for a really nice dinner that night. If you ever find yourself in La Crosse, Wisconsin, I highly recommend The Waterfront Restaurant. One of the best meals I think I’ve ever had. Surprisingly good.

Last but not least – happy birthday to my dearest love and best friend. I’m so glad I married you before anyone else could, and every day with you is special.

I know most people in the world look forward to that day when they will no longer have to earn a living, and can live quietly in retirement, doing those things they always wanted to do. It is nice to not have to rush off to a job every morning – especially on those mornings when I’m not feeling well. But my days are long and slow, and it can actually get a little boring. If I could only walk and get out of the house easily! Of course, if I could walk and get out of the house easily, I probably wouldn’t now be unemployed. Catch-22.

I’m enjoying my meals, though. I’d almost forgotten how to do that. I used to always eat breakfast and lunch in rush, hunched over my computer, going through emails or to-do lists or tasks or what-have-you. Now, meals have become a big part of my day. I anticipate them. Stopping whatever I’m doing. Sitting down. Maybe reading or watching something online while I eat. A big pause.

The other thing I’m having to get used to is not multi-tasking. I’m very good at doing many things at once. But if I do that now, I run out of things to do by noon. So now I do one thing at a time, and I focus on it. Intently. Which can drive me crazy, but I’m learning to appreciate it.

I have another scan coming up next week. Two months since the last one, and we’ll try to gauge how things are progressing. The tumor marker from my latest labs was up again a little, which is very distressing. But it’s still within the normal range, so (as a friend frequently reminds me) no need to pick out the funeral flowers just yet.

And I think . . . I think . . . that walking is starting to get a little easier. I’m spending more time every day on one crutch, and it’s not hurting. I am starting to feel optimistic about this. Maybe I really will walk again one day.

I miss how easy it used to be to go out and do something. Just to head out the front door and take a walk. Left on my own, I barely ever make it down our front steps. I’m starting to feel like a hermit.

Being disabled is really, really hard.