I live in Arizona, a hot desert of a state that borders Mexico.  There has been a lot of hysteria in the media lately about illegal immigrants making their way across the border and making a living (barely) doing day labor jobs in the united states.  They pick fruit, they clean toilets, they landscape yards and paint houses for a few dollars a day so that they can save money and help their family have a better life.  They are a humble and community oriented people.  They are also very religious and heart felt. 

I have never seen a homeless Mexican begging for money on the street.  The Mexican people work, and work hard.  I think that a lot of people are afraid of the illegal aliens in our country because most illegals don’t speak English and we can’t figure out what they seem to be so happy about.  It’s a fear born out of ignorance.

Now, I know the other side of the argument, that there are drug dealers and gang members.  There are a lot of American drug dealers and gang members too.  The few that are depicted in the 10:00 evening news are not an accurate sample of the migrant workers who want to stay below the radar and just pick our fruit for us.

I know my readers are wondering why I am taking the time to say all of this.  It is because everyday I walk my dogs and see a group of non-English speaking landscapers when I pass through the park.  Each day I wave to them, and each day they smile and wave back at me. 

This morning one of them approached me.  In Spanish, he told me his name is Antonio.  Antonio is probably in his forties.  He had on a t-shirt with the landscaping company’s logo on it, but other than that his clothing was very tattered.  A few of his teeth were missing but he smiled widely at me and tried to communicate with me.  Between the small bit of English he knew and the even smaller bit of Spanish I knew, Antonio managed to tell me that he has seen me walk my dogs every day.  He noticed recently that I lost my hair and must be sick.  He told me he loved me and that he and the other landscapers pray for me every day.

Then, Antonio squeezed my hand and went back to work.  This kindness, I will never forget.

I want to thank you for taking the time to read my seemingly never-ending story.  I also wanted to put this update here to let you all know that I am still here and still fighting.  I’m going to finish my blog once and for all, I promise!  (In fact if there are any literary agents out there looking for something fresh and new to publish, Email me!)

So, please bookmark my page and keep checking back for the continuation of my Fight with Breast Cancer. 

Cheers!

Karen

My parents are buying their first home in over 25 years.  Since they are a little out of practice I am going to use my expertise in the field of lending money and dealing with purchase contracts so that I can shamelessly promote myself in my blog.  And, make sure that they are getting the best possible deal on their mortgage (naturally).

Michael and I own a branch of Arizona Wholesale Mortgage.  We have been with AZ Wholesale Mortgage since about 2002.  We are a very reputable company–we never bait and switch our clients–and we donate $200 to Breast Cancer Charities for every loan we close.  We are also proud members of The Better Business Bureau with a clean history of zero complaints.  If you are planning on buying or refinancing a home in AZ, be it through FHA, VA or conventional, please call me for a quote!  877-551-8188 x 1

The home itself is modest, but very cozy.  The seller, Marilyn, is moving to Florida and she was leaving the house furnished, so my parents won’t have to spend too much money to move in.  The master bedroom has a walk in closet and there are plantation shutters in the windows.  It even has a screened in patio in back. 

Personally, I fell right in love with the place.  Michael did, too.  It has very high ceilings that make the home seem larger and more grand than it really is.  I know that my parents will make improvements but I can already envision them living here.  I can tell my mother is thinking the same thing. 

My mom just looked around the place as if she were thinking how perfect it is.  It’s small enough for her to maintain and it’s also close enough to my house so that she can zip over to see me any time she wants.  Or, I can zip over to see her for that matter.  Oh, yeah.  I can tell she wants it.

Marilyn, the seller, was there as we were viewing the home.  She said that she had an investor from California who was interested in buying the home, but she indicated that she would rather sell it to us. 

This evening, my parents made an offer and it was accepted.  The close of escrow is in one month!

I knew that they had been thinking of buying a second home.  They had been looking at houses in the Carolina’s and Florida but hadn’t found anything in their price range.  When I suggested Arizona, my mother immediately said that she knew that she would not like the desert climate and that everything is “too brown”.  I knew she was wrong and I knew that Arizona would be perfect for them, but at that time, my mother said that she would never fly again and that the drive from Michigan was too long. 

Of course that all changed when her baby was diagnosed with cancer.

This morning I called one of the real estate agents that I work with and asked him to email me some properties for my parents to look at.  Now that my mother has seen Arizona she has expressed how much she likes it here.  The agent emailed me a list of homes and I showed them to my parents. 

My dad widdled the list down to 10 properties.  I made an appointment for my dad to go looking with the agent.  My mother chose to stay behind and have my dad do all the leg work.

A few hours later he returned with a grin on his face.  “I think I found something that you should take a look at,” he told my mother.

I couldn’t believe it!  My dad actually looked excited!  My mom was a little skeptical, but she agreed to take a look at the property the following evening.  I looked at the description of the house that my dad was interested in.  It looked so cute!  It was a 2 bedroom/2 bath home with 1.5 car garage.  The perfect size for a car and golf cart.  It was in a gated retirement community on a golf course about 6 miles from my house.  It was perfect. 

I’m pretty excited for my parents, but a bid has already been placed on the house.  The seller has not accepted it yet.  She said that she would wait to see if my parents wish to bid on it before she makes her decision. 

I take that back.  Once when I was 22 I was driving home at 3:30 am from my job as a bartender.  It had been the busiest weekend of the year for bars and restaurants (Thanksgiving Weekend) and I had worked three double shifts in a row.  I hadn’t slept more than 4 hours per night the last three nights.  I was exhausted.

Anyway, while driving home I kept hallucinating out of the corner of my left eye that Ghandi was running along side my truck.  His white robes were flowing behind him and he was barefoot.  As I cruised along at 45 mph, the only thing that I could think was, “Damn!  Ghandi can run!”  I shook my head and looked over and he was gone.  It then dawned on me that Ghandi was not a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet-superhero guiding me home.  In fact, he was quite dead.  And, for those skeptics out there:  No I was not drinking and I’ve never done drugs.  It just so happens that when I’m extremely tired, my mind hallucinates great historic figures of peace with super-human abilities.

That is until I started chemo.   With chemo I feel like I’m taking a trip in one of Hunter S. Thompson’s novels.  Sometimes I’ll think I’m seeing bugs crawling in my peripheral vision.  Sometimes I’ll see some sort of movement from an object that hasn’t moved.  It’s so strange. 

It has really effected my memory, as well.  I just finished the book “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby and I honestly can’t tell you anything about it.  I know that it’s about a guy who owns a record store in London, but I’ve completely forgotten the main plot and characters.  This is dreadful.

I just hope that these mind tricks subside once I’m done with chemo.

Dr. N made an appointment for me with one of the social workers at Mayo.  I went to the appointment with my mother, which I usually don’t like to do because talking about my cancer makes her upset and cry.  She came in anyway, and sat quietly with a Kleenex in her hand while I spoke with a woman I’ll call Diane.

Diane first gave me some information on nutrition and took a basic financial statement to see if I would be eligible for some sort of financial aid.  She asked me if I needed any information on support groups; I told her I didn’t.  I felt strong and positive that I was going to beat the cancer. 

She looked at me a little sideways.  She asked, “Do you know what your diagnoses is?” 

I said, “Yes.  I’ve discussed it all with Dr. N.”

Diane:  “What did Dr. N tell you?”

Me:  “He said that I have Stage IV Breast Cancer and that I have a three in a thousand chance to be cured.”

Diane:  “And, what if you are not one of the three?”

Me:  “Huh?”

Diane:  “What if you are not cured?  Are you emotionally prepared for this?”

I was genuinely confused when she asked me this.  The thought of not being cured had never occured to me.  I have been from the very beginning completely sold on the idea that I am going to beat cancer.  I don’t know when it’s going to happen, I don’t know how it’s going to happen.  I just know it.  I think it’s very dangerous for her to try to plant a seed in my mind to the contrary. 

I know what she’s trying to do.  She’s trying to prepare me for what, statistically, is my probable outcome.  But, she doesn’t know me.  I AM NOT A STATISTIC!!  I have blocked all of that negative shit out of my mind. 

My mother sobbed.  This made me mad.

“Look Diane.  I’m going to be one of the three and that’s it.  I think we’re ready to leave.”  I stood up and helped my mother to her feet.

“Karen, I have some information on meditation if you’d like….”

“I already know how to meditate and I do it every day.”  I snapped at her a little strongly, I know.  But I was pissed and I just wanted to get out of her office.

I helped my mom to the car.  She was trying not to cry but I could tell that this meeting had unnerved her.  We talked about it on the way home and we both ended up getting angry about the whole thing.  By the time we arrived home we had concluded that Diane had no idea what she was talking about and that I was going to go on as planned.  I was going to be one of the three in a thousand.  I was going to beat cancer.

She began shooting needles in me from the top of my head down to my feet.  Again, when she placed a needle in my lower abdomen she asked, “Do you feel this in your vagina?”  (What the hell is her weird obsession with my vagina?) “Yes, yes I feel it down there.” 

“In your vagina?”  She asked again.

“Yes!  I feel it in my vagina!”  What did I have to do, announce it to the world?

She finally finished sticking me with needles and left me in the room with quiet music.  At length, she came back in and removed the needles.  I felt very relaxed and yet felt more energized.  This stuff really works! 

On the way home, I called Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete.  Uncle Pete, a very respected surgeon, answered the phone.  I told him about my experience with Dr. C and her obsession with asking me about my vagina.  He laughed and said that there is a nerve in that area called the Pubic Nerve and she was probably making sure that she was hitting it with the needle.

Thank God, there was an explanation.  I was beginning to feel a little weirded out.

But, nothing can keep me from going to one of my favorite stores, Target.  I spend hours browsing through their novelty t-shirts, their scented candles, the endless supply of CD’s and DVD’s for sale….you know, all the worthless crap that you buy that ends up cluttering your home.  I’ll go to Target with the intention of buying one bottle of fabric softener, and one hour later leave $150 poorer while hauling 10 bags of where-am-I-going-to-hide-this-from-my-husband contraband.

Today, I went to Target to buy a greeting card and some dish soap.  As always, my first stop is at the “Dollar Store” section where everything is (you guessed it) a dollar.  Or, as I like to call it, Romper Room.  This is the only place in the whole store where mothers can drop off their kids and say, “Pick anything you want in these 2 aisles.”  The younger kids open their eyes in wonder and shop.  The older kids roll their eyes and pout.

I was browsing through the section, when I started to have the Mother of all Hot Flashes.  This one came on so quickly that it took my breath away.  I actually started panting.  The sweat was rolling down my face, so I took off my hat and started fanning myself.  It was then that I noticed a ten year old girl watching me.  She was locked in a stare that looked like it was full of wonder.  That is, until her jaw dropped as she watched me remove my hat.  She actually recoiled at how crazy I looked:  bald, no eyebrows, no eye lashes, catheter in my arm and sweating.  I tried to smile at her, but she bolted from the aisle and ran to her mother.

I felt bad that I made her feel uncomfortable, so I moved away and went to the book section of the store.  I thought I was safe until a five-year-old boy ran by, laughing.  He took one look at me, stopped and his face fell to the floor.  You would have thought that I had told him there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

I’m beginning to feel like I’m a ghost that no one can see except children.  The adults around me avert their eyes and pretend they don’t see me, while their kid’s eyes widen in horror at the crazy sweaty lady.

Not that I can blame anyone.  I haven’t been able to look at myself in the mirror in months.

For the first time, ever, I left Target without buying anything.

Upon hearing this, I dropped to my knees and wept.

Nobody is more surprised about this than I am.  Thankfully, there was nobody around to witness my breakdown.  It was embarrassing.  I actually sobbed.  I don’t really even know why!  I have not been following Lance Armstrong’s career or even this current Tour de France.  I wasn’t emotionally invested in all things Lance.  I knew about his story, of course.  His book, It’s Not About The Bike, is required reading if you are a cancer patient so I was all too familiar with his fight with cancer. 

But, to actually hear about a SURVIVOR overcoming UNBELIEVABLE odds and beating cancer THEN coming back and winning, not one but SEVEN Tours de France…  I think my heart broke with pride for a fellow cancer patient. 

And right at that moment, Lance Armstrong became my hero.