Today is Wednesday.   Today is chemo treatment number 52.   Every Wednesday adds another increment to the Chemo Log.   At the beginning, the thought of doing chemo was almost too much to swallow.   It was certainly "the unknown" with the exception of the stories you hear.   The stories people tell you.   There are success stories.   They are just far and few.   At the beginning, most people felt the need to share stories with me.   They did it out of caring and concern.   They did it because they needed to.   What they did not realize was that with almost every story they related to me, an unhappy ending was lingering nearby.   People told me stories with good intentions.   What their stories with unhappy endings meant to say was "this will not be the way it will be with you", but they couldn’t guarantee that.   They would tell their stories with their best purpose and intentions.   They would try to relay how I well I was doing.   How I’m beating the odds.  How they have a friend who . . .  and now they’re back in the hospital, or on hospice, or who succumbed to the disease.   It’s funny; it was other people’s best intentions that informed me of just how bad this could be.

I listened, I understood, and I told myself . . .  that’s just not going to happen to me.   That’s not going to be my story.

There were other wonderful stories.   First hand stories.   There is Sandy M in Vancouver, Sandra T in Wentzville, Cousin Seymour in Newark, and Cousin Sara in Coronado.   Each was a firsthand account.   Some have survived for over 30 years.   I’ll never forget the moment Cousin Sara asked me to be a part of her club.   She called it "The Survivor’s Club".   It was a heartfelt loving invitation.   I cried on the phone and I cried for 30 minutes after setting down the receiver.   And I’ll never forget the moment Sandy M touched me with her knowing hands.   We both closed our eyes. She asked a few questions and pronounced that I would beat this.   I believed her then and I know it to be true today.

I thought I might need to be better informed, after all, Charlie was almost as informed as the doctors who treated me.   He read "Pub Med", "The Cure", and all related articles.   He possibly read more than he should have at the time . . .  but he was informed so I picked up a copy of "The Cure".   After reading it from cover to cover, I had read all the articles of the other people’s battles.   How they won their victories.   How they’re once again dealing with their new battles.   I decided then that I didn’t want "other people’s"victories or defeats to influence me.   I didn’t want the cries of inspirational speakers to influence my attitude.   My attitude didn’t come from "inspirational speakers", "inspirational writers" or "inspirational groups".   My attitude is a combination of the inspiration I received from my family, partner, friends and teachers.   I knew at precisely what moment in the hospital I turned into my father just as I knew exactly when I put on my mother’s face.   My grandmother and grandfather’s otherworldly warmth blanketed me in the hospital along with my great aunts and great uncles.   There was the love of my aunts and uncles, cousins, siblings and partner as well.   I then came to the realization that at the moment I was born I was primed to fight this battle.   I was given this challenge because I could beat it. I was placed in this "family" of loved ones for a purpose.   I’ve always dealt with opposition, because opposition is what you recognize you’re confronted with when you’re 5 years old, sent off to school and know that you’re different in some way from all the other kids.   I learned how to hide some feelings.   I dealt with others.   I cried when it didn’t seem reasonable for the adults around me to see me crying.   Those were the moments when I could not hold it in any longer.   Those were the times when the stress and battle wounds would reveal themselves to the world.   I know I was dubbed "the cry baby".   My sister Liane is a cry baby too though.   I told Charlie that Liane had to make a promise to not to cry those first days in the hospital.   If she started, I would certainly lose my ability to hold back.   Of course 15 minutes after Liane sat down with me; a resident entered the room and gave us the "even worse news".   Every day had its daily doses of "even worse news".   I watched as my sister’s face turned scarlet, but she would not cry for my sake.   I loved her for that.   I get some of my strength from her.   My brother Jeff visited me as well. He gave me comfort and reason.   He gave me strength too.   This was the strength to use my abilities to apply logic to situation I was dealt.

My MRI’s came back last week.   The news is that the scar tissue is continuing to shrink and no new growths.   Of course this doesn’t surprise me. For one thing, I’m still undergoing chemo.   For the other, I don’t believe anything will ever come back.   It’s just not going to happen.   Sandy M said so.   Other people said so.   I said so.

We have scheduled August 1, 2007 as my last day of chemo.   I started chemo back in March of 2006 and I think I need a break after one and one half years.   My body is strong, but I need the break, physically and mentally.   We are now entering uncharted territory.   We need to figure out where we go from here.   I cannot tell you what we will be doing or when or where.   That hasn’t been decided yet.   What I do know is that whatever it is we decide, it will be like the other decisions . . .  the right decision.

All my love and appreciation,

Randy