A Television Fanatic

Alderaan and his chair

Caption: Photo courtesy Mat Perras.


It turns out that there’s a side to Alderaan that we didn’t know existed. While enjoying his extended stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s, he’s taken up TV-watching.

He likes nature programs—especially if they feature birds. Reportedly, Aldie was watching one such show, and ran up to the TV to swat a bird. He lived on a farm before he was rescued and adopted…guess he still has the instincts of a hunter/survivalist….


aldie waking up

Caption: Photo Courtesy of Mat Perras

Then, later this past week, Alderaan discovered a program on the evolution of cats. There was no swatting the television this time. Instead, he just watched the show, super interested, as the screen showed domestic cats his size and, then, his much larger brethren (lions, tigers, panthers).

There are days when I feel as though I have missed so much—too much—of Aldie’s development from the equivalent of a teenaged cat to a middle-aged feline. But, then, I hear anecdotes about his interest in TV and it makes me smile.

I can’t wait to have our little pal back <3.


Please, Dear Readers, continue to send light and love.


With Love,



Springing Ahead


With the time change this past weekend, I began to think about the future. Usually, when I think about it, my mind becomes fear-filled. I’m not quite sure what happened, but this time, I started day-dreaming about the possibility of happier times. I thought I’d share some of the day-dreams that made me smile:

  • For those of you who don’t know, we’ve been house-hunting! Eventually, we will find the perfect house to turn into our own home. So, step one, find and get the house. Step two, hit day 365 post-transplant, obtain Boston’s approval, and bring Alderaan to his new home. Step three, once Aldie has adjusted to the change, we will adopt a (rather large, cuddly) canine that is feline-friendly.
  • Get Boston’s approval to play in the dirt because, although I do not have a green thumb (it’s more like the thumb-of-impending-plant-doom-and-death), I would like to garden. I want to plant giant sunflowers and hollyhocks. I want to raise string beans and snow peas. I am curious about growing Hops.
  • I am excited for the dietary changes that September will bring. I can’t wait to add honey to my tea! I miss honey—just like I miss Goat and Feta Cheeses. Some caramel popcorn would be nice, too.

I am well-aware that you cannot live in the future. We must live in the present. And, yet, in this present moment, I am tired of living in fear of another relapse and/or developing some secondary cancer. This isn’t my first rodeo with cancer, so I know that these fears will never entirely go away. I can, however, choose to ignore these dismal thoughts (unless it becomes apparent that there actually is something wrong with me). Instead, I can summon courage and stubbornness, boldly filling my mind with springtime sunshine, daisies, and the chirp of robins.

We were supposed to go to Boston this coming Wednesday for a check-up, but as many of you probably already know, we’ll be getting a Nor’easter instead. So, we’ll be playing it safe and staying home. I know I don’t really get a say in this, but I refuse to die in a car crash on my way to a cancer/transplant appointment. I mean, how ironic would that be?  So, no. No Boston this week, but I will call later today and reschedule the appointment. Please send light and love.


With Love,


I Think This is What the Bards Might Have Called a ‘Quest’

in memory 2.0


I am going to be honest with you—this past week sucked.

Monday: Spent living in fear that Wallace was going to die.

Tuesday Morning: Finding out that Wallace was not responding to the medications; his red blood cell counts were still dropping.

Tuesday Afternoon: Giving the “okay” to euthanize him. I watched Wallace pass out of this world. He was exhausted, just melting into the exam table. Leaving him behind in that room was by far one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

Saturday: Picking up Wallace’s cremated remains from the veterinarian’s office.

This week has felt like someone was performing a bone marrow biopsy on my heart. That is, to say, it has hurt beyond description.

Losing my Wally has made me question a bunch of things in my life—this blog for instance. Am I doing a disservice to my fellow cancer and transplant survivors by constantly writing about gratitude and having a positive attitude? I was born a pessimist; a positive attitude is not my natural state of mind. Positive thinking, however, is far healthier than fear and/or worrying. I will admit to using this space as a means of forcing myself to change my perspective. I fear that by doing this, though, I have diminished my struggle as well as the struggle of my fellow survivors. The horror of cancer treatment doesn’t end with the last bag of chemo or the last radiation appointment. The torture doesn’t end…but I don’t write about it because a) I want to shield you from it, and b) if I dwell on it, I’ll be sucked into the fear of relapsing again. I’ve been using this blog like a life jacket–and although I’m treading as best as I can–keeping my head above the water has been difficult.

I’ve also been questioning my role in this life. Why the hell am I still alive? What am I here for? There has to be a reason why I keep outliving my various expiration dates (July 2010, February 2017). People are going to start thinking that I’m some sort of android if I keep surviving all of this s*&t.

Maybe this is just my overwhelming grief for Wallace talking, but for the longest time I thought my purpose was to be a writer. Nabbing a literary agent, however, has proven to be a thankless and utterly depressing task. So, I have to stop myself and ask, am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path? And if not this, then what?

Dear Readers, I have no doubt that my good MRI results on Thursday/Friday are your thoughts and prayers working. Last year, on this very day, I was diagnosed with relapsed Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. I told you that I did not have the strength to fight cancer again. It was the truth. I didn’t have the strength. But YOU carried me through. Now I’m asking you to lend me some advice (in addition to continuing to send light and love).

How did you know what to do with your life?

How did you find your purpose?

When you’re grieving, how do you find peace?

As always, thank you for your support. Your comments and encouragement have meant the world to me.


With Love,



butterfly necklace

I remember, vaguely, that in our third-grade class we had several butterfly cocoons in an old, otherwise empty, aquarium. We studied each cocoon/chrysalis, waiting for a butterfly to emerge. I can’t remember if any of the cocoons actually produced a Monarch butterfly…and, if it did, I have no recollection of what we did with it…but I still get excited thinking about a creature of pure beauty busting out of its protective covering.

I feel that my own cocoon is slowly breaking open.

Now, let’s set the record straight here: I am not suggesting that I am, like a butterfly, a “creature of pure beauty”. I have dark moods and acne just like everybody else. I am, after all, a human being.

Yet, like a butterfly, I have been developing–growing–inside the safety of a cocoon.

My cocoon, however, is not made of protein or silk. It consists of medications and a survival-mode mentality. It is insulated with procedure masks and latex gloves.

More importantly, though, there have been days wherein I can see the light at the end of this life stage.

I’ll be in Burlington, VT at the end of February for some “just-in-case” MRI’s of my head and lumbar spine. My next appointment in Boston is six weeks away (the longest gap in appointments that I’ve had to date)! I am slowly being weaned off of my anti-rejection drug. I am warily turning my eyes to the future and how I might live, happily, in it.

Please, Dear Readers, keep the love, light and prayers coming. My wings haven’t fully developed yet—and there is still over half a year to go before I can venture outside without a mask—but it’s coming. And, with your help and good thoughts, I’ll be ready for it.


With Love,


Mile Marker 44.8

visitor badge

I have forgotten names, events, the order of things. I don’t believe, however, that I will ever forget this number: 44.8.

It started on Sunday morning, around 10:30am, when Seth woke up. He admitted to having left-sided chest pain. He admitted to having had it for three days. I’m not sure how I did it (because as much as I love him, he is a stubborn, stubborn man), but I made him go the Emergency Room to be checked out. He didn’t want me to go with him, because of my lack of an immune system, so I called his best friend. Thankfully, he was able to accompany Seth to the hospital.

Seth returned home by three. The ER doctors had checked his heart and he appeared to be okay. They gave him their blessing to drive me to Boston for a transplant check-up. The appointment was scheduled for Monday afternoon, but we had booked a hotel in case the weather proved to be cruddy.

We made it to the rest stop in Williston, Vermont. Seth was tired and wanted to take a quick 10-minute nap. He fell asleep immediately.

We crossed the state line into New Hampshire, and stopped once again at a rest stop. This time, Seth needed to walk around.

I noticed that he kept checking his pulse.

We pulled out of the rest stop. Within minutes, Seth began to panic. He pulled the car over, gasping, and saying that he couldn’t breathe, that he felt like he was going to pass out. He told me to call 9-1-1. So, I did.

The dispatcher was calm and reassuring. He asked me where we were; I told him we were parked next to mile marker 44.8 on US-89 South.

The fire department and the EMTs that came to rescue us were wonderful. They took Seth in an ambulance to Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center (DHMC). Due to my seizure history, I am not allowed to drive. One of the EMTs was kind enough to drive me, in our car, to the hospital.

“It’s the hospital in the woods,” he said, turning down one of Dartmouth-Hitchcock’s tree-lined driveways.

Seth was admitted overnight so that his breathing and heart could be monitored. He told me to find a hotel, because, once again, someone with zero immunity should probably not spend the night in an ER waiting room. I found a hotel (that thankfully had a free shuttle service since I couldn’t find a taxi or an Uber). The shuttle took me to the hotel, where I was given the medical rate and a king-sized bed. I promptly piled the extra pillows on my right-hand side, where Seth would usually have slept.

I, a cancer survivor, have never been so scared in my life.

What if it really was his heart? What if he didn’t make it? These were the questions that haunted me. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, to be filling the chair beside the bed, instead of the bed itself. I am so accustomed to being the patient, the sick one, that I didn’t know what to do. I also realized that, as close as Seth and I are, I know very little about his family’s medical history or even his own. I also couldn’t name a single medication that he was on, other than Protonix. What kind of fiancée was I?

The next morning, the shuttle brought me back to the hospital. I found Seth in a small unit connected to the ER. To pass the time until his scheduled stress test, we watched television in his room. Seth was taken away for the stress test at 8:30am.

He aced it.

Seth’s heart, fortunately, is just fine. Neither of us could drive, though, so my father and brother came to pick us up. My brother drove us and our car home. We somehow managed to pass our father twice on the highway, even though he had left the hospital first. We flashed a notebook at him, with the word, “Ferry” scribbled in it. Our father doesn’t have a cellphone—and someone needed to drive my brother home after he delivered Seth and I to our front door—so this was the best mode of communication we had:


Our father received the message, boarding the ferry soon after us.

Although Seth’s heart is in working order, he is being treated for pneumonia. How does living with a sick person work when you’re immunosuppressed? You wear a mask and wash your hands like it’s your job. Lysol wipes and spray are useful, too. I am dying to hug Seth, but it’ll have to wait until he’s healthy again.

I am going to marry this man, after he provides me with a detailed med list.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your prayers. I hope you know that your kindness, love, and positive thoughts helped us through this harrowing experience.


With Love,


Just Some Quality ZZZ’s, Please


Confession: I’m 31 years old and I sleep next to a stuffed animal every night. More precisely, he’s a unicorn named Squishy. I’m not sure why, but I’ve been tremendously anxious lately. So, in an attempt to calm my nerves, I sprayed Squish (that’s his nickname) with lavender-scented perfume. It helped…a little…but I still didn’t make my big goal of sleeping in until 6am. I made it to 2:22am.

Like a lot of people out there, I don’t sleep well. I tend to be restless. When I do dream, I usually have outlandish nightmares (and not the good kind that can inspire writing projects).

Why am I sharing this? Because I am on the hunt for ideas to help me sleep.

When you, Dear Reader, have difficulty sleeping, what do you do? Do you listen to music? Do you have a glass of warm milk? What works for you? What doesn’t work? I am open to suggestions, so please send them my way!

We go back to Boston this week for another check-up. We will also be going to Burlington for a neurology appointment. It’s going to be a busy week; please keep the light, the prayers, and the love coming. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


With Love,


Happy Birthday to Meeeee

ferry tree

Last week I turned 31.

And, yes, like most women, I didn’t take kindly to the new, higher number.

I am not upset because I am getting older—aging doesn’t bother me. I am well aware that not everyone gets the opportunity to grow older. Neither am I bothered by the fact that increased age brings death closer. Truth be told, death and I have been flirting with each other since I was 23. I have lived 8 years beyond my original expiration date (July 2010).

No, 31 is a difficult number because, in my life before cancer, I had decided that 31 was the perfect age to start a family. I imagined I would have a stable, good-paying job. I thought that I would be in a healthy, happy relationship.

Check no, on the job.

Check yes, on the relationship—I have found my soulmate.

But, fast-forward to November 2016, when I was officially diagnosed with Premature Ovarian Failure. This is what cancer treatment can do. It can destroy cancer cells, but it also destroys anything that grows quickly—including eggs. Although still to be confirmed with additional blood tests, 2017’s 8-months of cancer treatment and then bone marrow transplant preparation (which included high dose chemotherapy and Total Body Irradiation) did nothing to help my ovaries.

Every hot flash tells me that any hope for a biological family is now gone.

I grieve for this dream.

2018, however, is not going to be the year that I give up. It’s the year that I am going to move forward. Maybe I can’t have a biological child (who would really want my genes anyways?), but Seth and I will spend time researching adoption. We will make plans. We will move toward that goal, together, and make whatever changes are necessary to be eligible to adopt.

There are so many children in need of a safe and loving home; someday, we hope to provide just that. Until then, we’ll be crazy cat parents to these two majestic creatures:


As always, Dear Readers, thank you for your love and continued prayers. You are our strength and the light guiding us on this journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


With Love,


A New Year, Another Chance


2017 is now gone.

2018 has arrived.

I would like to think that this new year will be better than the last. I would like to think that it’s a fresh start. My gut, however, tells me that neither positive change nor happiness magically arrive when the calendar starts over.

Happiness requires perseverance.

Positive change requires work.

Both require deliberate action.

For instance, and I doubt this will be much of a surprise to anyone, but I want to be healthy in 2018. Most of that is beyond my control—since the cancer I keep developing is the result of faulty genetics. I’ve had a lot of chemotherapy and radiation over the past seven years. Neither of these treatments are consequence-free. Late side-effects continue to pop up.

There are, however, some things that I can do to encourage healing. Now that I am 100 days post-transplant, I can start eating fresh fruits and vegetables again. I can reduce the amount of processed foods that I eat as well as limit my sugar intake. I can attempt to better manage my stress levels through reflexology, a modified yoga practice, and writing. I can experiment with essential oils via the aromatherapy necklaces that my brother gave me for Christmas. I can establish a consistent sleep schedule. I can go to physical therapy and relearn how to walk correctly (bye-bye cane! It’s been real.).

aromatherapy necklace

Will any of these changes single-handedly make my 2018 a year of good health? The pessimist in me says, “no”. The realist in me says, “just try it. It can’t hurt”.

I wish for you, Dear Readers, a wonderful 2018. I hope you make your resolutions come true. Please keep the light and prayers coming this way (recovery from the transplant is a long, long road). As always, thank you for your support. You have been our strength.


With Love,


Christmas Day



Above: Wallace and Alderaan caught cuddling. 


Let me preface this by saying that I’m really not complaining; I love winter. I am currently wrapped up in two blankets—and contemplating dragging a third one onto my lap. Or, I might just warm up with a cup of hot cocoa (topped off with whipped cream, because, why not?).

It amazes me how quickly Christmas seemed to arrive and, then, pass by. I can’t help but wonder what happened to the beginning of December. Where did it go? What was I doing? I expect this week to be just as hectic as last week was. And, that’s why, Dear Readers, I am going to leave sticky notes around the apartment to remind myself to:




and hold happy memories close.

Even if you don’t celebrate Christmas, I hope you are able to enjoy the rest of December. I hope you’re able to frolic in the snow. I hope you’re able to stay warm.

We’re back in Boston late this week for another check-up. Please, Dear Readers, continue to send light and love. Your kind thoughts and prayers make a difference.


With Love,


For Meme

wreath 2017


I’m not writing this blog post to elicit sympathy. I’m writing about this because I think we all need a reminder, every once in a while, that our time here on this earth is precious and short.

Meme is the anglicization of the French word, “memere”. It means, simply, “grandmother”. I, my brother, and all of my cousins lost our grandmother last night (December 17, 2017).

I’m not very good at handling death…mostly because I haven’t had to deal with it often. Sure, I’ve lost beloved pets. I lost a great-uncle, who I absolutely adored, in 2016. I’ve lost cancer buddies. And, still, this loss hurts me all the way down to my soul.

The last time I saw my grandmother was in December of 2016. I visited her in the hospital, but not too long after that visit I was diagnosed with relapsed Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL). I started cancer treatment right away and my immune system became a roller coaster. I spent more of 2017 neutropenic (without a functioning immune system) than not, and I couldn’t visit my grandmother in the nursing home like that. Public places are dangerous places for those of us with deficient immune systems…but I still feel terrible that I didn’t see her more often.

I feel even worse that I won’t be able to attend her funeral services because my new immune system still isn’t strong enough to handle close or large gatherings.

I have spent this morning trying to summon good memories of my grandmother. I remember her taking us grandkids down to the river to go swimming on hot summer days. She used to let us brush her hair when she was babysitting us. I remember one sweltering summer afternoon, there was a handful of us grandkids sitting on the steps with her eating watermelon. Meme warned us not to swallow the seeds, because, if we did, watermelons would grow in our stomachs.

Goodness, I thought I would have more time to see her again. In a few months, maybe, after I reached day 100 post-transplant.

I waited too long.

The only comfort I have now—besides my memories—is knowing that she is no longer suffering. She is in a far better place.


With Love,