a third of a year

snoopy dancingWe found out at the oncologist today that the Gemzar and Avastin are still working. The nodules are still slowly shrinking. So, we’ll continue to have the same chemo treatment every other week. And I’ll see Dr. Campbell in two months to see how I”m doing and I’ll have a CAT scan in 4 months to see how the meds are working.

While trying to wipe the smiles from our faces, Mark remarked that four months is “a third of a year.” Yep, a third of a year to relax and not worry quite so much about cancer. Couldn’t really ask for more.

And for those of you who continue to petition God on our behalf. Thank you. So much.

times change

My friend Heather is the life of any party. Outgoing and hilarious, Heather’s stories at our our lunch and coffee dates often result in me resting my forehead on the table for a while or spitting out my coffee I am laughing so hard.

We met in college where Heather would go the coffee shop for all of ten minutes during chapel break on Fridays and emerge with a detailed list of exactly where and when we would be going that weekend. Before cellphones, Facebook, heck, before the internet, Heather was and remains the ultimate social networking device.

Now Heather lives 45 minutes away in the summer. In the Michigan winters, the same distance can stretch to 2 hours away. But she works here. SO, last night, with forecasters predicting blizzard conditions, she took me up on the standing offer of guest room and morning latte.

yawnOne would think that a sleepover with Heather would mean a night out. Back in the day, we would have been raiding one another’s closets and hippy-fying our hair at 9:30 p.m. planning to meet friends at Cottage Bar or going to a movie at UICA. But last night, when 9:30 rolled around, Heather called her husband to say good night and to gloat over the good night of sleep she was anticipating while he was home with their two kids and I gleefully popped pain-killers for the cold I’ve been fighting (when I cough I feel like I’ve swallowed glass) and kicked back a shot of cough syrup. We then, sigh, went to bed.

This morning Heather was up with the birds as usual and halfway out the door before I even got a warm latte into her hand, but we had enough time to crow over how well we slept while Mark compared my medicine mixing skills to that of Jimi Hendrix (it will be the first and last time in my life that Jimi and my skills have ever been compared). It was about then that Heather and I looked at one another in mutual wonder–this is what it’s like to be 37? No weeknights out? Not even a movie? Just a good night’s sleep and we’re euphoric?

I know what Heather would say to that–her Blackberry in constant motion and her virtual Rolodex busting at the rings–”Hey, even the life of the party needs to sleep sometime.”

True. But at 9:30?

Apparently.