When January 1, 2020, rolled around, I realized I had done something unprecedented. For the first time in my life, I had actually kept a New Year’s resolution. As you may recall, my resolution for 2019 was, per the Bee Gees, “Stayin’ Alive.”

It was a low bar, but hey.

Now I’m at another milestone for 2020 – my birthday. Today I turn 67 years old. Knowing what I know about my initial diagnosis and what a path it has been to get to 67, it is a miracle to me that today has arrived. I thank you, because I am quite sure that your prayers and support are responsible in large part. And for whatever reason, the good Lord is not done with me yet.

Today, the redheaded and I are also celebrating 36 wonderful years of marriage. Getting married on my birthday was a secret childhood dream of mine. When we were planning our wedding back in 1984, that date was open, and it occurred to me that it would also be efficient and humane. That is, he would have only one date to remember every year. He has done a bang-up job with it, too, over the years, but none better than today.

Today he arranged for us to renew our vows with our pastor, Rachel, of the Oak Lawn United Methodist Church – via FaceTime, of course, because she is quarantined and we are sheltering in place. But what a day it has been – tearful, joyful, and memorable all the way around.

Liza and Alan Farrow-Gillespie 2020-04-07

Chemo went fine yesterday, by the way. After a bit of a scare a couple of weeks ago with bad numbers and a blood transfusion, I am back on a regular schedule as of yesterday, with three weeks on, one week off. So I will be having the Topotecan for the next two Mondays in a row, followed by a week’s vacation. Even though my CA-125 cancer marker is in the three-digit zone, well north of normal, it is holding steady. Who knows – maybe it’s time to set another goal.

New book by the end of the month, maybe, or thereabouts? Working on it. We’ll see.

Stay safe.


Playing the cancer card

Good evening. Thanks for sticking with me. The general update is that I’m holding my own, but between you and me, some days it ain’t easy.

I have created a special deck of cards. One side of the cards is blank, and the other side says “Cancer.” So now, whenever I can’t get something done, or can’t show up somewhere, I deal one out. That is, I play the cancer card – literally!

I’m thinking everyone should have a deck. It could say things like “Chronic back pain – can you pick that up?” or “Arthritis,” “C.R.S.,” “I’m ridiculously overbooked,” “Going through a difficult breakup,” “Get off my lawn.”

This could be big.

Beelzebub is more or less living up to his name. He is a pain, but on most days a manageable one. I appreciate your thoughts and prayers standing between me and his worst. I am often able to work and play, and that’s a gift.

SKIP THIS PARAGRAPH – DEFINITELY TMI. One of the current side effects is mucositis. When the medical team mentioned that possibility, my first thought was: “Pft! What’s a little extra spit?” It turns out, however, that the name does not refer to mucous, but rather to the highly sensitive mucosa membranes in the mouth. My mouth and tongue are sprinkled with about a trillion ulcers. Oral lidocaine and soup are my new best friends – except that I have to eat the soup cold, because heat makes the sores worse. You should try cold coffee. It’s pretty good. Well, that’s not true, but it definitely beats no coffee at all.

Life is good, though. The thought of getting more of it makes Beelzebub seem like Bambi. The joy of my life right now – apart from having another day with the redhead – is seeing and hearing from so many people I love and admire. Thank you.

Next up: Chemo with a side of Beelzebub tomorrow afternoon. Happy Halloween! Our hearts go out to those affected by the tornadoes in Dallas. Much, much love . . . Liza


Proudly shallow

Generally speaking, I’m proudly shallow. Whenever I’m in danger of having a deep thought, I tend to pick up a People magazine or watch a British sitcom until it goes away. But something has emerged that I would like to share. WARNING: It concerns death and dying, so read further at your own risk, and preferably over a cocktail.

What a gift it is to have advance notice that one’s life is approaching its end.

I know we are all aware that none of us is getting out of this alive. And we try to live our lives in daily appreciation of that fact. But to be given an irrefutable heads-up that death is on the horizon? With months of time still (with luck) to live and love and say goodbyes? With basic health and energy to get stuff done? I’m telling you, it’s an out-and-out blessing. To say that I’m grateful for this time is to say that the taste of a dark chocolate truffle paired with a Barossa Valley Shiraz is merely mediocre.

Of course, I’m doing everything in my power to stay alive as long as I can. And I will continue to share way too much information about the process. But if you see me laughing and wonder whether it’s denial, or possibly a break with reality – no. It’s just plain old happiness. Or maybe it’s that the redhead has said something ridiculous. But whatever.

As for moving forward with treatment, we have chosen Option #4. Chemo has begun and will happen about every two weeks. So saddle up, and thank you for being here. All is well.



Not that the ostomy bag hasn’t been loads of fun and all, but I’m really looking forward to getting rid of it. The next step towards that goal is getting a date on the surgeons’ calendars. They are apparently a popular bunch. Either that, or I’m just not second-date material.

No, just kidding. They said it’s them, not me. Wait . . ..

The ostomy reversal surgery, ominously called a “take down,” but apparently only distantly related to the WWE, will be more involved than I had thought. The medical team is saying three to five days in the hospital, plus two weeks of recovery. Sheesh. I’m just now getting my rhythm going again, and I have to let the drums take a random solo. But I guess it makes sense that reconnecting my entire digestive system would be somewhat involved. While they’re in there, they intend to rummage around and see what those “nodularities” are that the CT scan reported last month.

These past few weeks have flown by. I’ve been easing back into work a few hours per day, a few days per week, and oh the joy! Who knew that merely being able to work is such a privilege? Also, I started torture – um, I mean physical therapy and Pilates – to train various muscle groups that have been on the dole since early November. The side effects of chemo are subsiding, and – woo hoo! – people are actually reading my book. All is well. In fact, all is blessedly wonderful.

I apologize for having been AWOL. Thank you for sticking with me. It’s a beautiful spring day in Dallas, and I’m heading out for a nice walk with the redhead.

Just because I can.

Much love to all.



All is well and on track. Apart from chemo fatigue, I have no complaints. Well, I do feel that Glenn Close was robbed at the Oscars, but no complaints other than that.

Back in September, after the first six weeks of dense-dose chemo, my immune system pretty much packed it in. Since then, a germ so innocuous that a healthy person might not even notice it could send me to the hospital for a few sun-soaked days of intravenous antibiotics. Not to be a drama queen about it, but there it is.

So for five months – on doctors’ orders and because sepsis scares the heck out of me – I have been in “boy in the bubble” mode. Only on a handful of occasions have I gone rogue and seen anyone other than my medical team and the redhead. Living on a sailboat for six years prepared me nicely for this degree of isolation, but . . .

Without the virtual contact I have enjoyed with all of you here, I would certainly have lost my mind a long time ago. So in addition to everything else, thank you for saving my sanity, which, of course, my family and oldest friends would argue has been unsalvageable for decades. But be that as it may, I owe you big-time.

Tomorrow morning is double-dose chemo, along with the next lab test for the CA-125 cancer marker. Still aiming for lucky #7! Have a great week.


Cancer fashion and more chemo

All is well, with an asterisk. The last couple of chemo sessions were serious smackdowns, and also I have had a mild virus. So I have spent much of the last two weeks hanging out in bed. Luckily, I have the wardrobe for it. My stylist (that would be me) has put together multiple sets of very cool pajamas with matching beanie caps, socks, and other accessories. No kidding – I’m a fashion legend in my own room.

In good news, tomorrow’s chemotherapy is single-dose, so I’m looking forward to a happier week. However, the medical team has conferred and believes that I can handle and would benefit significantly by three to six more weeks of chemo. Given that the CA-125 remission testing needs a minimum of four more weeks, it makes sense to me to sprint from here to the finish line. But fasten your seat belts; it may be a bumpy ride.

Sorry about the mixed metaphor.

Thanks very much for checking in. Have a wonderful week!


Lab results, glasses, and doughnuts

I realized the other day that I have been saving a fortune on hair care. So I sprang for some snazzy new glasses.

The medical team moved me to Mondays for chemo, and yesterday was a double dose, which is generally a 5-day buzz-kill. However, the lab result contained such good news that I have bounded out of bed at the crack of noon today to share it.

As you know, my prognosis depends on the CA-125 ovarian cancer marker, which is determined by a blood test. To recap: Normal range is zero to 35. The marker is calculated every three weeks. Back in late July, I started with a 608.1 – essentially, near death. Three weeks ago, I got a 22.3 – normal.

Well, friends, yesterday I got a 15.1 – normal again. If I get two more normals in a row over the next six weeks, I will officially be in remission!

Better still, the trend appears to be headed downward. I continue to aim for Lucky Number 7. Thank you for your support on the road to get there.

Just FYI — no matter how messy it is, a celebratory doughnut tastes even better when eaten with the fingers than with a fork.

Enjoy your week!


The bliss of comfort

I woke up this morning to the bliss of being comfortable. Warm and cozy. Good night’s sleep. No pain anywhere. I lay there for a while and just soaked it up. Total bliss.

I should report that another blood clot happened. This time it was in my arm and not serious. Well, it was just serious enough for the redhead to hustle me down to the ER, where we spent most of the night “under observation,” until after looking at the ultrasound, he agreed I could sneak out the back door. The people-watching there is fantastic. One guy walked in with a butcher knife halfway buried through his track pants and into his thigh. I couldn’t decide whether it was an assault or an unfortunate mise-en-place incident.

Book Update: Thank you very much for reading my book. I’m amazed and joyful on a daily basis that you are laughing at and thinking about words I have written. In particularly astounding news, “A Voyage of Heart and Song” is being ranked from time to time in Amazon’s top 100 adventure travel books. This is SO MUCH FUN. What a hoot. I feel awkward asking this, and I deeply apologize if it’s an intrusion, but if you have read and enjoyed the book, would you consider posting a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or Barnes & Noble? Thank you to everyone who has done so already.

I’m off to chemo in a few minutes. Single-dose, piece o’ cake.

Have a great weekend! And Happy Super Bowl, assuming you are not supporting the Patriots.


I miss wine

I miss wine. It does not play well with chemo.

Last week was a double dose, so I have been hunkered down. I spent the weekend in slug mode with pajamas, the couch, televised football, and the BBC.

Have I mentioned that I miss wine?

In great news, I received the results of a recent blood test for the CA-125 ovarian cancer marker. The normal, non-cancerous range is zero to 35. I started this adventure back in early August with an astronomical readout of 608. After bouncing around quite a bit, my marker is now at – drum roll, please – 22.3. Normal range! If I can get it all the way down to a single digit, though, statistics say that my chances go up dramatically that it will stay there, indicating remission, and for a longer time. I’m aiming for a 7. Please be thinking Lucky #7!

To increase my chances of getting to Lucky #7, the medical team has tacked on more chemo sessions, through February. Fine with me. Welcome, in fact. Bring it on.

And finally, to the tune of the chorus of “My Boyfriend’s Back,” by the Angels circa 1963 (please refer to the chemo side-effect referenced in a prior post):

“Yeah, the BUMMER’s back, it’s gonna need some medication
(Hey-lah-day-lah, the BUMMER’s back!)
I really need to take a tropical vacation
(Hey-lah-day-lah, the BUMMER’s back!)”

Have I mentioned that I miss wine?

I want to thank everyone who has ordered my book. The response has truly lifted me up.

Thank you! – and happy MLK Day. Have a wonderful week.


Genetic testing results

In wonderful news for my extended family, the genetics department at UTSW has determined that I do not carry any of the genes that are currently known to be associated with ovarian cancer or with breast cancer. On behalf of all my female relatives, I am so relieved.

We had some drama recently trying to get my blood thinner rebalanced post-surgically, but all is now well. The medical team ended up cutting my dosage in half, which has allowed me to take a good five seconds off my personal best injection time.

I am also happy to report that on a few occasions this past week I have felt well enough to be able to kinda sorta see a light at the end of the tunnel. Since about September, I have been too wobbly to drive and too immuno-suppressed to leave home for any purpose deemed not strictly necessary. But on Monday afternoon, I felt so good and the weather was so perfect (70 degrees and sunny) that I said to heck with it. I fired up my little convertible and went for a drive with the top down. It felt like a jailbreak. It was absolutely glorious, except for the part where I sunburned the top of my head. #baldproblems #meandtheRock

Tomorrow is single-dose chemo. Monday is a doc appointment to determine whether I need three more weeks of chemo, or six. Either way, I’m good with it.

Have a great weekend!



Happy new year! I am feeling great about 2019, but I can’t deny that my appearance has changed. My own phone doesn’t recognize me. Every time I pass a mirror, I wonder what Sinead O’Connor is doing in my house.

Chemo day will be on Friday for a while, and I’m still limping around from a double dose. I had to invoke a wheelchair for the first time last week – very tough on my pride, which although it wenteth before a fall, is plotting a full comeback.

This past year has been, to put it mildly, a challenge. But I have so much gratitude for its blessings as well, particularly for —

  1. The redhead
  2. My mom, still going strong at 85
  3. The wealth of love and support from you, my wonderful friends

My official theme song for 2019 is “Staying Alive.” Cue the Bee Gees, and let’s get this party started.


Happy holidays!

All is well. I hope you are loving your holiday preparations, and that nobody is stressing at all – hah! I am happy to report that I have been given a week off from chemo, which will resume Friday the 28th.

Also, I now have an official release date for my book: A Voyage of Heart and Song. It will be available January 14th.

For anyone who is so inclined, the book is available for pre-order now online at Amazon (…/…/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_2…) and at Barnes & Noble (…).

Here is the back cover blurb:
“Take time in the middle of life for your dreams. That is the message of this lighthearted true story of a Dallas couple who, in mid-career, sold their house and cars, bought a boat, and sailed around the world. Author Liza Farrow-Gillespie tells of pirates, storms, sharks, cannibals, and – scariest of all – 24/7 exposure to her husband’s sense of humor. She also relates the joy and personal growth that can come from a zig and a zag along the path of life.”

I wish each and every one of you a joyous Christmas and a wonderful New Year!


Like a cat

I am feeling a lot like a cat. I’m not supposed to bend over, post-surgically, so whenever I knock something off onto the floor, I just kind of look down at it for a second and walk away. Whenever I pass a cozy spot, all I can think is “ooooh, time for a nap.” If I start feeling an urge to jump up on the Christmas tree and knock it over, I promise I’ll seek therapy.

Part III on the road to remission is in full swing. The current schedule calls for nine more weeks of weekly chemo, the same as before, including three double-dose sessions. It’s going to be over before I know it, and I’m still way behind on my thank-you notes.

I have some good news, though. When I was first diagnosed, one of the many thoughts and emotions that slammed into me was fear that I would not be given time to finish the book I was writing. The redhead and I spent six years (1998-2004) living on a sailboat and sailing around the world, and the book is about that experience. Well, there’s nothing like having a deadline! I have been working on the book every day that I have been reasonably able, and last night I uploaded the completed manuscript to Amazon for self-publication. It will be a month or so before it comes out, but my part is done, wrapped up, completed, concluded, finalized, finito, and in the can. I rested easier last night than I have in many months. No matter what happens, the redhead will have something to read and remember.

Hope your holiday plans are coming along nicely. Thank you so much for being here. Have a wonderful week!


Slow learner

Rough week. For a while, it looked as if I would get slapped back into the hospital to treat an infection. Even worse, I have had to admit an awful truth: I am a slow learner.

The pendulum has swung something like this . . .

Day 1 – Wow! I feel great! I can jump up and Get Stuff Done.

Day 2 – Ack. I feel terrible. I barely have the energy to lie on the couch all day without moving.

Day 3 – Wow! That rest day did the trick. I feel great! I can jump up and Get Stuff Done.

Day 4 – Ack. I feel terrible. I barely have the energy to lie on the couch all day without moving.

Day 5 – Wow! That rest day did the trick. I feel great! I can jump up and Get Stuff Done.

Day 6 – (well, you get the picture).

Today’s plan is entitled “Moderation.” We’ll see.

Chemo is scheduled to resume on Tuesday. And with regard to today’s Big 12 championship, I will say a hearty “hook ‘em.”

Love to all, and have a great weekend.


Post-surgical wrap-up

We got home from the hospital yesterday evening after a week’s stay. I’m as weak as a kitten, but it was glorious to wake up in my own bed this morning.
As Debra updated earlier, surgery was wildly successful. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the wave of prayers and support that has helped me get through this part.
First of all, I am going to have the most awesome scar in Dallas. The incision is 14 inches long and closed with 38 giant staples. My torso looks like a Mad Max costume.
The goal of last week’s surgery, as you may recall, was to “de-bulk” or trim down as much of each cancer tumor as possible while leaving my vital organs as intact as possible. My surgeon, Dr. Jayanthi Lea (better known by her hip-hop name of J-Lea), exceeded all expectations by removing 100% of all of the tumors. It took her a full eight hours of surgery, but in a result I did not even dare to hope for, all of the little buggers are 100% gone.
Of course, there are still about a million microscopic cancer cells down there that could wake up and become tumor factories at any time. Hence, we still talk about remission rather than cure. And hence also, we will be starting follow-up chemo in a week or two to discourage that sort of behavior. Until follow-up chemo is complete, we won’t know whether remission has been achieved, or for how long.
As for my innards, J-Lea and her team were able to avoid damage to lungs, liver, spleen, pancreas, and just about everything else I need – all except my intestines. My poor intestines had to be carved up and then put back together like Legos. Until they heal, I will be wearing the latest in fashionable ileostomy bags. That is, a portion of my intestine (called the “stoma”) has been pulled through my side and now reports to an exterior bag rather than to the rest of my digestive tract. The ileostomy is temporary, and given the overall result of the surgery, dealing with it for a few months is – though definitely gross – okay by me. I have named the stoma “Bilbo”; and the bag, of course, is “Baggins.” Sometimes I call the whole thing “Little Buddy.” It gurgles a bit, but no more than the redhead does after fried food.
Speaking of the redhead, and on a serious note, he spent virtually every minute of the past week at the hospital with me. I am more blessed than I have the words to say. Yesterday he kneeled down in front of me, and I was reminded of the day he proposed 35 years ago. But this time, he was kneeling to help me empty my ileostomy bag.
No words.
Please have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, and know that my love and gratitude will be right there with you.

Weekend Update

Update from Alan: Liza made incredible progress over the weekend.  Walked the length of the hallway, eating solid food, and hopefully discharged fairly soon. Wonderful news!!!!


Day after surgery

Morning update from Alan: Liza is awake, smiling, and doing well. Vitals all stable. Will try walking later today. (8:55 am)

Update from Liza and Alan on the results of the surgery: Best possible outcome in terms of removing the visible tumors!! Now, this doesn’t mean that she is “cured,” but the chances of meaningful remission are now greatly enhanced. She’ll have more chemo to try to make sure those nasty cancer cells don’t make more tumors, but this is about the best news we could have gotten. Liza and Alan both wanted us to pass on thanks for all the prayers, good vibes, support, and caring. (12:03 pm)


Cleared for surgery on Tuesday

Well, my hair hung in there for a good long while, but it has now said goodbye. Why is chemo so selective, though? It appears I would still have to bikini-wax and chin-pluck. This does not seem fair.

I am extremely happy to report that after several rounds of testing and consultations, I have been cleared for surgery on Tuesday. In even better news, the surgeon canceled my last two chemo sessions, because she says I am where I need to be at this point. The goal now is to be as strong as possible for surgery.
So here ends Part I of the proceedings (dense-dose chemotherapy) and begins Part II (surgery and recovery), which will be followed by Part III (follow-up chemo). As I may have mentioned, it’s a marathon.
If you are the least bit squeamish, STOP READING NOW and skip to the last paragraph. The surgery set for Tuesday is called a “de-bulking” procedure. The chemo has prevented the cancer from spreading further, and it has reduced the size of the tumors. Now the surgeon will go in (1) to do a hysterectomy, of course; and also (2) to remove or reduce as much additional tumor as she can. With Stage 4 ovarian, the cancer will have spread well beyond the girl parts. There are many, many additional tumors – like hundreds of the little buggers. It’s a tumor convention in there. Some of them are attached to, or wrapped around, various vital organs and whatnot that I would prefer to keep – such as lungs, liver, intestines, and so forth.
Remission depends entirely on how much tumor the surgeon is able to remove. My quality of life during remission depends entirely on how much of the rest of me she can avoid removing in the process. It’s a complicated deal. I did ask the surgeon whether she could go ahead and do a little liposuction while she’s in there. She was not amused.
I have been told that I will spend a post-surgical day or two in the ICU, probably on a ventilator while fluid in my lungs dissipates; and then I will be in the hospital for about another week. Until I’m up and around, my law partners Julie and Debra are in charge of posting updates. The redhead wanted to do it, but he’s going to have his hands full. Also, he is still a little fuzzy on how Facebook actually works.
Your prayers and friendship have been and continue to be a comfort and inspiration to the redhead and me both. We have not for a single day felt alone in this. Thank you.


All is well. Monday was single-dose chemotherapy with Taxol. Next week is the last double-dose with Taxol and Carboplatin. Homestretch on the road to remission! There’s a country song in there somewhere.

“Got my weekly dose of taxol
Headin’ down to the local dancehall
Double dose of carboplatin
Barkeep, make mine a Manhattan
‘Cause I’m on the road to remission tonight

Gonna dance like a barbarian
Gonna beat this dang ovarian
‘Cause I’m on the road to remission tonight”

Hmm, needs work.

As you might imagine, I have been doing a lot of thinking and reading about living one day at a time. The bottom line for me is this: Nobody is promised a tomorrow. What I have is today, to live the best and most useful, joyful, loving day I can possibly live. What will I do with this gift?

Apparently, write bad country songs. But I’ll try to up my game this afternoon.

Happy Halloween, and please be safe.


May no new thing arise

I said a fond goodbye today to my oldest, dearest, go-to sweatpants, a Target purchase circa 2005. They have been called into service even more often than usual these past weeks, and today they came out of the dryer basically in shreds. As I stood over the waste basket to commune with them one last time, I stuck my fingers through holes until I ran out of fingers. The redhead said a few words – specifically, “You’re not throwing those away, are you? They’re still good! – to which I made a mental note to monitor his leisure wardrobe more carefully.

We had some drama this past week though. I woke up Monday morning with signs and symptoms of an infection, which for a chemo patient is a medical emergency. I duly presented myself to my doctor, who within the hour had slapped me into the hospital and hooked me up to two broad-spectrum intravenous antibiotics. Turns out, my implanted mediport – yes, the same mediport of blood clot fame – had developed a bacterial infection, as 26% of them do over time. Luckily, we caught it and avoided sepsis. The docs removed the port, and I may have fired off an obscenity in its general direction as they carried it from the room.

While in the hospital, I received a variety of tests and treatments, including a blood transfusion. Getting a blood transfusion is an odd feeling. As it began running, I wondered aloud who the blood might have belonged to; and my wonderful redhead reassured me that it probably came from some meth addict. He (the redhead, not the meth addict) spent every night on the couch in my hospital room and worked during the day; and by the time they sent us home Thursday night, he looked worse than I did.

The Spanish have a saying: “Que no haya novedad.” May no new thing arise. It is now my mantra.

In the unlikely event you did not get the memo, October is breast cancer awareness month. Girlfriends, please get your mammogram no matter what your age, even if you have to pay for it out of pocket; and while you’re at it, swing by your gynecology specialist – and if you don’t have one, get one – for a quick cervical cancer test and a discussion of any risk factors you may have for ovarian cancer. Please.


Halfway through Chemo

We are nearing the end of Week 6, and all is well – halfway done! My medical team tells me that my labs are holding up fine. They also warn me that chemo is cumulative, and that I should expect some additional challenges in the second half. My plan is to channel Aaron Rodgers.**
(**For non-Cheeseheads, Rodgers went out with a knee injury in the first half of the Green Bay/Chicago game last Sunday, and then gimped back in the fourth to throw three touchdown passes for the win. For extra credit, compare and contrast the Cowboys.)
On a serious note, I would like to thank the department of anesthesiology at Children’s Medical Center for their support, both emotional and logistical, of my sweet redheaded husband. The entire department has been there for him. I won’t name anyone, because there are too many to name everyone, but I’m particularly grateful to the leadership team, including the department chief and the Supreme Boardrunner Commander, as well as the awesome staff, for giving the redhead a schedule that allows him to be there for me. And his colleagues could not be kinder or more supportive towards him every single day. They are even taking his call. I am profoundly and a bit tearfully grateful to all of you.
And hey! – I still have hair. It’s sparse, but it’s hanging in there. With liberal applications of gel and half a can of hairspray, I can get it to cover my whole head. It’s a medical muhrkle*, and the talk of the chemo clinic.
(*Texan for “miracle.”)
Y’all have a good weekend.

Steroids, etc.

Prior to each chemo infusion, I receive an intravenous aperitif of high-dose steroids, followed by three days of steroid pills. The chemo nutritionist has told me to consume at least 100 grams of protein per day. The question is: Am I missing a major body-building opportunity here?  I feel like I should be pumping iron.

Be that as it may, the redhead has – in the kindest way possible and on a mellow Day 6 of the weekly chemo cycle – mentioned that my communication style may be a tad more aggressive than usual during this Day 1-4 steroid time period.  I scoffed.  He provided examples. I now have a policy on Day 1-4 of declining to respond to any Facebook post, email, or verbal statement that ticks me off. Instead of counting to ten, I count to Day 5.

Speaking of aggression, my medical team has tacked on an additional three weeks of presurgical chemo, and, beginning last week, has upped the intensity of each dose. I deduce from this turn of events that my body is tolerating the chemo well and that the medical team is taking no chances and no prisoners.  That makes me very happy.  Of course, Paranoid Liza is like ruh-ro . . . does this mean that the little tumor-buggers are not lining up to die as expeditiously as one might have hoped? But it’s still too early for that kind of assessment, so I have gently walked Paranoid Liza back into her she-shed and have given her various other conspiracy theories to play with.

Plus, there is preliminary good news!  I have observed some changes – and I refrain from going into detail in case you are in the middle of a meal – that give me a subjective, anecdotal, non-binding but reasonable belief that the abdominal tumors have begun to recede. Also, my vital signs have moved from marginally acceptable to squarely healthy, which carries all kinds of positive cancer-reduction connotations.

I continue to be moved by and profoundly grateful for your prayers, thoughts, support, and friendship.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.


Napping skills

As I sit here sipping a cocktail of Ensure on the rocks (with a sprig of mint), I am mindful that some of you are cancer survivors or currently in treatment, or are primary caregivers. If you feel comfortable sharing in the comments [on the Facebook page], I would love to hear about it – including any advice.

This week was a double-dose, take-it-easy kind of week. I had plenty of time to work on my napping skills, which are coming along nicely.

Have a safe and wonderful holiday weekend! All is well.



Status and Stomach Jabs

All is well. This was a single-dose week for chemo, so I feel like I’ve been on vacation. We used the time and energy to make our home more comfortable and well-equipped for the weeks ahead. I also played a little bridge and got my nails done! – and continued to wrap up a few last work items. I want to thank my firm again for stepping up and freeing me to concentrate on treatment and recovery.
The blood thinner stomach jabs are going just fine, by the way. I have it down to about 10 minutes. First, there is the mandatory 4-minute procrastination period. Then, there is about a 2-minute prep, followed by 10 seconds for the actual injection, followed by a little after-party and the clean-up. Easy peasy, and more fun with the right music. However, I have gained new respect for my friends who have lived with insulin and other self-injections their whole lives.

Chemo cut

In preparation for inevitable billiard-baldness, I decided to get my hair cut, so there won’t be long straggly strands of hair everywhere when it does start falling out.  Many thanks to Brannon at Matthew Tully Salon for working me in on short notice.  For some reason, getting a “chemo cut” (and it’s the shortest my hair has been since I was about 10) makes me feel strong and ready for action.

Thank you for your upload