eYuppie

I'll be the first to say that I don't have the answers in helping my kids to cope with what lies ahead for me. We've discussed faith, and hope, and grace, that life for me will continue in a wonderful and eternal form, and that life for them goes on until we are united once again. I've discussed with them this wonderful writing by William Penn (1644-1718): "We seem to give them back to Thee, O God, who gavest them to us. Yet, as thou didst not lose them in giving, so do we not lose them by their return. Not as the world giveth, givest Thou, O Lover of Souls. Life is eternal and love is immortal, and death is only an horizon, and an horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight. Lift us up, strong Son of God, that we may see further; cleanse our eyes that we may know ourselves to be nearer to our loved ones who art with Thee. And while Thou dost prepare a place for us, prepare us also for that happy place, that where Thou art we may be also for evermore." As far as the funeral goes, I want it clear that I was not a saint -- that I had warts -- but that I loved deeply, with all of my flaws, the people in the room. In lieu of a final hymn, I want them to sing "Happy Trails to You Until We Meet Again". eYuppie

Carole, I loved the 1 week cruise in the Inside Passage in Alaska. I went in August 2007, on a date that I deliberately set AFTER the 4-month estimate that the oncologist had predicted as my expiration date. I went on this ship http://www.majesticamericaline.com/, a smaller ship that has around 300 passengers, and that can get much closer to the glaciers than the larger boats. It's a bit more expensive than the larger cruiseliners, but we go there once and there is a wonderful peace to be found up there. A cruise is a great way to go, because if fatigue sets in, you can take a nap. I've read many of your posts, and I want you to know that you are awesome, and a great inspiration. Brad

Sandra, I’ve taken a few moments to reflect on your beautiful and true post above, and you are right. These are the thoughts that have come to me as I’ve reflected as to why it is that bonds are felt on this message board. Bonds between survivors, family members, are caregivers are so very strong. I experienced it first in the chemotherapy room at the oncologist’s office. There was a quiet, humble, and hopeful depth in the eyes of the patients there. Faith was visible (and it still is). Gratitude for love that surrounded us was genuine (and it still is). A Spirit burned to say that there are still good things to see, and meaningful things still yet to do (and it still does). Successes were celebrated (and they still are), because they give hope, they are life affirming, and they confirm the existence of miracles. Bad news is felt deep in the hearts of those who bond, as we know that we are really in a common fight and in a common walk, all of us. Because we are all dependent upon the same blessings, we share in them. We now live in that awareness. What I experienced in the chemo room, I’ve experienced here. When I was still in the hospital recovering from brain surgery, a friend gave to me a prayer that he had held in his prayer book for many years. “My Father, I thank you for adversity, for rocking my little boat, for the winds that seem too strong, and for the waves that threaten to capsize me. For all of these things drive me into Your loving arms.” Survivors, family members and caregivers form such strong bonds for each other, I think, because we know by faith and by hope that we are all being held together in those loving arms. Because of this, we can be there for each other, we can keep our spirits high, and we can trust together in what we cannot see. We can encourage each other to find the grit that we need to see us through for as long as our circumstances permit us to do so. We learn together that we can’t really get our old life back when cancer strikes, but rather that we have a new life now. That new life includes a deep appreciation and understanding of what other survivors, family members and caregivers have gone through and what we face ahead. That new life together is not what we would have chosen, but it is okay -- because the new life is as people who have discovered a deeper and more meaningful life in the fight. I ramble. I’ll stop now, before I get “soft in the eye.” Thanks for moderating an awesome discussion board.

In my opinion, survivorship BEGINS at the moment we decide to fight the cancer. Over time, survivorship BECOMES a state of heart, a state of mind, and a reflection of hope and of faith. Ultimately, I think, survivorship is renewed each day. It is about living as fully and as meaningfully as we can as our individual circumstances permit, recognizing that every day of life is a gift, that the world is a wonderful place, there are still many good things to see and experience, and that blessings -- great blessings -- can be experienced all along the way. I am determined that my cancer will not go to waste. It has changed my world, but in many ways for the better. With the second chance that I've been given, I want to do some good with the things that I have learned. I haven't figured out exactly how to do that yet, but I am convinced survivorship at its best is to transform the disease of cancer into things that are life giving and life affirming with the time that we are given. Brad

Johnny, Ive fought Stage IV non small cell lung cancer (adenocarcinoma), and a golf ball sized metastasis in the brain. I was diagnosed April 2, 2007 during brain surgery. When I left the hospital, the oncologist opined that I probably had about 4 months --- to which I replied, "That's not good enough!" We fought back with 45 rounds of radiation (25 lung, 20 brain), and chemo that lasted until late November 2007. My oncologist now says that all bets are off. Not that the oncologist's forecast matters, good or bad. What matters is your mother's attitude and hope. My attitude has been positive the whole time, and I am convinced that I have many years ahead. Your mother has every reason to be positive -- she has you by her side. The statistics are meaningless. Your hope, your attitude, your faith mean everything. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and all that you can do is to walk toward it one step at a time. There are gifts and blessings that come from the experience with cancer. We discover that the world was spinning all by itself long before we were born on this planet, and it will spin just fine after we're gone. That's an enoromous gift, because it frees us up to live more simply than we lived before -- we are free to live in gratitude, with warmth, in laughter, to live openly and with love, to appreciate sunrises in addition to the sunsets. My relationships have grown stronger and I've never once felt that I was battling this disease in a tunnel alone. My prayer is that there is good life ahead for you and for your mother. Despite what you read, Stage IV is not a sentence. Good luck to both of you in all that you face. Brad

Lilly, CONGRATULATIONS! That is a huge milestone, and the accumulation of 730 days of miracles. I hope there are many more milestones, and that you will live in the sense that the tunnel is behind you, and that you are living in the light. Brad

I associated going back to work with getting my old life back. So, I was eager to go back to work full tilt before my oncologist thought was wise. Before I knew it, I was working long hours again, and coming straight home after work for a quick dinner and early bedtime. The truth of the matter is that we don't get our old life back. As survivors, we live in a new awareness of how precious each day happens to be. Almost immediately upon diagnosis, I realized how much clutter there was in my life. I got rid of as much of it as I could, said no to things I should have said no to long ago, and focused on living a life that is meaningful, holy, warm, loving, funny, and interesting. I was happiest while I was still living fully in the awareness of these things, but I still wanted to get the old life back, at least to the extent that work was concerned. I also needed to go back to work. As a divorced father of two boys -- one in private school, the other in college -- I could not fully provide for them on a 60 percent disability check. I also couldn't afford for the paid health insurance coverage and benefits at the office to run out. I met people during chemotherapy that lost their jobs during treatment, and I didn't know how confident to be in my ability to choose the time of my return. I'm back to the long hours, unfortunately, and I feel like the company (under the guise of hiring me some help) is really asking me to train my replacement. I won't have much choice, as I'm not sure that 55 year old Stage IV nsclc survivors (with metastatic brain surgery) are easily hireable elsewhere. So, I'm learning the hard way to keep the job in perspective -- as a means for providing for the family, and maintaining health insurance for me. I have more heart for the company than it has for me. I find myself repeating to myself over and over again -- work to live, but don't live to work. When my wheels do fall off, I won't be wishing that I put in more time at the office.