We Miss You Kia!

              ~Hard to believe a year has passed but we know you are still with us everyday~
                                                   Hope you enjoyed the bells :)

   Church Bells Ringing for Kia

   Church Bells Ringing for Kia (continued)

   Church Bells and A Tiny Moment of Silence

   

Happy Birthday, Kia!

From Coast-to-Coast and across all dimensions: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KIA!  Thank you for continuing to bring us all together, surrounded by light and love. Hope you enjoyed the shows  ;)

Happy Birthday Success!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2XXL62LFRs

Happy Birthday "Fire":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoKOaBH-xiE

Services and Gatherings

To ALL who loved Kia....

A gathering to celebrate Kia's life will be held this Saturday, February 4 at 10:00 a.m. at the Lamp Liter Inn in Visalia, CA.  The Inn is located at 3300 West Mineral King Avenue in Visalia and can be reached via telephone at (559) 732-4511.

On the east coast, we will be holding a service at Second Congregational Church in Greenfield, MA on Saturday, February 11 at 2:00 p.m. with details of a gathering afterward to follow. Second Congregational Church is located on the Greenfield Common (Court Square).

Kia's Farewell

Dear family and friends,

We are sad to report that Kia passed away yesterday afternoon. She was surrounded by friends and family, warmth and love, songs and psalms, and an incredible staff of nurses and doctors who worked to keep Kia (and all of us) comfortable in her final days. I hope many of you find comfort in knowing that we read every email, post, and comment to Kia and we know she heard you all.

I share with you Kia's message to us all (by clicking the link here):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GedEOBlAJL0

We promised to ourselves and the world that, no matter what the outcome, ours would not be a tragic story. While we are filled with sadness, we find comfort knowing that our story is so full of love, comedy, and blessings and that Kia is with us all... always. On that note, I share a silly video of the two of us singing here....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMVG_bnZhS4

Choose Life! It is what Kia wants us all to do....

Thank you for all of your kindness, thoughts, and prayers.

In solidarity,
Annie

Information regarding services will be posted here as soon as possible. We are planning to hold services on each coast.

To all of Kia's family, friends and fans

Last Sunday, Annie and Kia were happily watching the Patriots punch their ticket to the Super Bowl (or the Ravens punch the Patriots' ticket to the Super Bowl).

Before the game ended, Kia started having trouble finishing sentences and her fever shot up to 103.1. Annie and the rest of the family made the decision to take Kia back to Stanford. Tests revealed a widespread return of Kia's lymphoma with possible infections.

At this point, Kia's brain has been affected. She's been in and out of sleep and, here and there, family and friends get to see short but very sweet bursts of the Kia everyone knows and loves. Kia has been surrounded by a constant stream of very close friends and family. Visitations are very limited at this point but if you have a message for Kia, please leave it below in the comment section or email Annie (annielclarke@gmail.com) by clicking here.

The family is keeping Kia comfortable and honoring her wishes through these hard times as best as they possibly can. At this point, they expect Kia might not make it through this particular battle. They're thankful for your prayers, thoughts and well wishes and they'll do their best to keep everyone updated from this point forward.

Back to Life, Back to Reality

Outside my window, yellow leaves are swirling down from the trees into the garden below. Through the opposite windows of the courtyard, I can see hospital staffers coming and going like ants in a child's plastic ant farm. In my room, I'm surrounded by medical equipment and more disinfecting products than I ever thought I'd see in one day.
The stem cells come in in five more days. I've been here for four days already, and it's just starting to sink in today how very long I'm going to stuck here.

Turkey Nuts

I'm definitely experiencing a bit of a comedown after all the exhilaration of my pre-hospital adventures. Driving up into the mountains and down the coast, re-visiting Esalen and receiving some healing touch, pulling out the old Razzle Dazzle for a Karaoke night with some of my best peeps, sharing Thanksgiving with my little family, and welcoming my parents-in-law to California and some of my favorite places....all those things sure were fun, footloose and seemingly cancer-free. 
Now I lay here and receive my treatment, which today includes one kind of chemo and some fancy Rabbit Serum that's supposed to lower my immune system. Yes, it's safe to say that I officially feel at the height of my Cancer-Patient status. Knowing I'll be in this room for about a month, knowing I have to wear the HEPA mask every time I step outside, missing life as I've known it forever. I know it does no good to dwell on the past—how much I miss my old life in Northampton, my friends, my job, my dog, my family there—but neither does it do me any good to dwell in the future - i.e. "when will I get out of here? Will my cancer come back? What if it does? etc etc."
I can only be in this moment, in this bed, in this place, with this view, one day at a time.

Submissions for the Ultimate Stem Cell Mix

We just got in to Palo Alto after a long and gorgeous drive up Hwy 1. Tomorrow I get up at 7 am to get my Hickman Catheter implanted and then get admitted to the Hospital for my stem-cell transplant (and 30+ day stay) in the afternoon. 

The big event today though is that Annie and I recently decided there should be a "mix tape" that I listen to every day while my new stem cells are roosting and taking care of business. Here are a few songs we know are going on the mix:

1. In the Hall of the Mountain King by Edvard Grieg

2. Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin

3. Feelin' Groovy by Simon and Garfunkel

4. All That Jazz & When You're Good to Mama from Chicago

5. Bamboleo by the Gypsy Kings

6. Shakedown Street by the Greatful Dead

7. Damn it Feels to Be a Gangsta by Ghetto Boys

8. Dreadlock Holiday by 10CC

9. Everybody's Free by Quindon Tarver

10. Love and Happiness by Al Green

That's just the beginning. But we also realized this could get so much better if we opened it up to everyone else. What songs would you put on a mix tape to make my stem cells twinkle their toes, rock it out, and build me the best immune system there can be?

Let us know, and we will post the Ultimate Stem Cell Mix here, at a later date.

Love!

K + A

I've Been a Bad Blogger

But I am OK! These past few weeks have included hospitalizations in Visalia in between hospitalizations at Stanford, but the complications were routine, expected, and relatively easy to endure.

Having missed so much time here at Californicancercation, there are anecdotes I'll have to spare, which is a shame. Still, there's a lot coming up in the next few weeks I want my peeps to know about:

Highway 1

• I survived my last (9th!) chemo before the upcoming transplant. My blood cells and platelets are restoring their numbers, and I'm feeling much physically better.
• I had two tests with good results: A PET CT scan on Oct 27 and a regular CT scan this past week, both of which confirm that the cancer is continuing to be diminished by the treatment. Thank you everyone for your prayers and good wishes! So anxious was I heading into that PET scan in late October that I memorized the 23rd Psalm in the waiting room so I could recite it during my 40-minutes in the machine. In stories such as mine there is usually a moment where the protagonist breaks down and prays, to whoever they think might be listening. This was my moment. I find the 23rd Psalm to be a very comforting, reassuring prayer, though I prefer to say "I shall dwell in the hills of the Lord forever," rather than house of the Lord. It just seems more appropriate for me.
• My brother-in-law Samuel H. Clarke is arriving for a visit today, Nov 18. He, Annie and our friend Kelly Brannam will be driving to her cabin on Bass Lake for the weekend. Time for another Fun Cancer Roadtrip! These have become more rare occasions of late. So looking forward to some time spent amongst the trees.
• Monday Annie and I are dropping Sam off at the airport, then heading over to The Esalen Institute, where we will each receive a fan-fucking-tastic massage, at the glorious Esalen Hot Springs, on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Pacific. 
• Monday night we will drive to Morro Bay, to visit with my dear friend Abigail Riley and her family.
• Thursday we will have a home-cooked Thanksgiving, courtesy of my wonderful mother Barbara E Bowman.
• Friday, November 25, Annie's parents arrive! They will spend a day and night taking in the sights of Visalia (whatever that means) and the next day we will cruise back over to the Central Coast and take them along our favorite drive, the famous Highway 1. They will stay with us as I am admitted to the hospital at Stanford for transplant.

It is important to have all these good times to look forward to, as Monday, Nov 28 I begin preparations for my Haplo-Identical Stem-Cell transplant. My mama, the aforementioned Barbara E., was found to be the most appropriate donor in this still-experimental treatment, and has already gone through the process of having her cells harvested.

I'll get very heavy chemo all that first week, and my new New Birthday, where they administer my mother's stem cells will be December 6. There I shall remain for 30 to 40 days, until mama's cells take root and begin producing the bodily essences I'll need for survival (blood cells, platelets, immune system, etc.) 

I imagine I'll be pretty distracted these next few weeks as I run around California and enjoy my last days of pre-hospital freedom. But I promise to continue the dispatches from the transplant, and beyond. 

Please keep me in your prayers! I am full of hope and optimism about the transplant, but need all the good luck I can get.

In the meantime, enjoy the WEDDING PHOTOS by our official and completely awesome wedding photographer, Sara Acton.

A Glass Case of Emotion (!)

I believe Ron Burgundy says it best:

I AM IN A GLASS CASE OF EMOTION!!

Although I'm a person who writes, for me, being depressed doesn't come with many words. It is just an overwhelming feeling inside that manifests in long bouts of sobbing and spontaneous weeping at any given moment. It's not specifically related to sad thoughts, either. More just like a way of being. Like Ron says.

No matter how many words of kindness and encouragement I receive—and they are pouring over me from all sides, from people and places I'd never expected, in great waves of goodwill—there are just some days where I can't slap a smile on it. 

Recently, the only person who sees all sides of me (Annie) gently accused me of trying too hard to hold all the sadness in. She makes a good point. In the presence of almost everyone that is not her, I put forth what has turned out to be an impossible effort to seem unfazed by the cancer drama that is my life. That seems silly, you might say, and when I see it on the screen here in black-and-white, it is. But there it is—some instinct inside that urges me to act like everything is A-OK, even though my life is in jeopardy and has rapidly spun drastically out of control.

Another family member mentioned to me that here, on this blog, I "turn straw into gold for [others]." I suppose she must be referring to my choice to try to keep finding and shining the light on all the silver linings in this process. While I think is important to continue appreciating all those silver linings, for everyone's sake, I also recognize my decision to make myself appear as positive and good-natured as possible, for the sake of others. 

A Room With A View

No-Window Face

The rooms at Stanford are much bigger than the ones at Kaweah Delta, but they're doubles. When I first arrived this time, my roommate had the bed with the window. I got the bed by the door, and was surrounded by nothing but vile florescent light and hospital curtains. 

It turns out that a view of a pole is better than no view at all. 
Mercifully, below is the view from our new room. We were graced the opportunity to transfer into a better room today, and I can now testify to the Difference A Window Makes. How dare they ask anyone to stay on the Bad Side of the rooms? 
Still, this is Stanford, so there are plenty of improvements to be found outside the unit. The gardens here are lush and elegantly sculpted, a world away from the pigeon-poop covered patio at the hospital back home. They provide live music sessions in the Atrium at lunchtime twice a week, and a decent menu from which I can custom-order at my leisure three times a day. Annie gets her very own cot, and the TV has the Food Network. 

It nice to be somewhere busier with a bigger budget, although I have to say I have nothing but love for all the nurses that have been taking care of me at home. 

New View

It's been a hard week for everyone. I was hospitalized twice since my last chemo, once for a blood and platelet transfusion and again the next day when I started running a fever and developed a crushing headache behind my eyes. (It is normal for these things to happen, as these are signs that the methotrexate is doing its' job.) On the other hand, these episodes can be quite scary. 
I've never seen fear in a doctor's eyes like the ER doc's when I came in with the fever Sunday night. I assume he's used to treating more straightforward trauma—gunshot wounds and drug overdoses, knowing the Visalia crowd—so I when I showed up with six months' history of aggressive lymphoma and potentially dangerous chemo side effects, he looked like he wanted to panic, or maybe cry. He was about to order me a risky spinal tap and a painful catheter with which to take a urine sample when my Oncologist showed up. Like my own personal white knight, he immediately declared those measures unnecessary, and also made the important declaration that I was not, in fact, developing spinal meningitis. 
It was a significant moment when Annie and I realized a few hours later that if I had contracted spinal meningitis, it would have been curtains for me that night. I love and trust my Visalia Oncologist tremendously, but even he can't save me from random deadly infections. This knowledge, along with the feeling that there are certain developments I can't control no matter how hard I try, gives me the uneasy sensation that I could be whisked off the planet with a giant Vaudeville Hook at any given moment. I know it's not necessarily true, but right now I do sort of feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Every day is a gift, at this point.

Looking For My Perfect 10

I had two important conversations yesterday.  
We had a standing appointment with my Oncologist to get my blood levels tested and check in with my body after this last round of new chemo. Interestingly, most of the meeting turned into a conversation about life and death, and the style in which I'd prefer to bridge the gap.


Essentially, whether or not I'll choose to have the Bone Marrow/ Stem Cell Transplant has now come into question for me. After this talk with my doctor—who I know considers me like one of his children and gives me the same advice he would give them—I feel I'd only choose to go through with it if there are great odds of me surviving (the transplant itself). For those odds to be good, I need to meet two criteria:
I need a "full match" Donor, and I need to be in complete remission. We won't know how this chemo has affected the cancer until after I get another dose (next week) and then wait the standard four-week clearance period. I'll then get re-scanned and we'll see how far into remission the cancer has or hasn't progressed.


The second conversation—which took place immediately after the first, as we were dazedly walking through the parking lot of the Cancer Center—was with the Bone Marrow Transplant Specialist.
She called to tell us that out of the entire national Bone Marrow Registry, there are currently no full matches that would work for me. (They match people on a 10 point scale. I need a 10-point match. There are some 8 pointers out there, but those won't cut it).


So this is it. My call to arms. The time has come. Please consider joining the national registry, in hopes that you might be the match for me! And please help me spread the word. ANYONE could be the match, but people with a Persian/American background, like I am, would be especially desirable candidates. 
Joining the Registry is easy and fun! Their website is very comprehensive and tells you everything you need to know about how to find out if you're a match (cheek swab) and what would happen if you did become a donor. 


Onward to get a blood transfusion. Mad love to my peeps.

September Setbacks

Reunion Faces

One thing I feel tremendously grateful for is that our wedding—and the entire time I spent in Mass, reuniting with friends and family—was completely carefree. Cancer couldn't have been further from my mind. All I was thinking about was celebration, and the feeling of coming back full circle to greet the people I'd never gotten a chance to say goodbye to in the first place.

Of course, everyone had the same question for me: when are you coming back for good?

"Oh, about six months," I'd say casually. "Just gotta go back and get this stem-cell thing done with, snip-snap, and as soon as I've recovered I'll be back! Probably right around the end of winter, don't see a need to rush back for February, ha-ha."

However, there was a hidden subtext in my response that I didn't understand at the time. That subtext was: This cancer is in the bag. I've got this under control. It's all going to go exactly as planned, I'm sure of it.

The thing is, five days after we returned to California, I learned that cancer is never in the bag, except maybe several years into remission. Or perhaps longer than that, I'm not sure. I have no control. Plans are made to be changed. And nothing is guaranteed.

Marriage in Massachusetts

Our wedding was perfect.

As a recovering perfectionist, I don't take that word lightly. Most of the time, there is almost always some detail that could be improved upon, some fault to be found if you look hard enough.

But I would not change a thing about our wedding. Not one single moment.

It felt as if the seas parted just for us, to make our wedding possible. Hurricane Irene came and went, just in time. The sun came back out, the floodwaters receded, the roads were opened and the flowers and the caterer both survived the deluge. 

No tantrums were thrown, both families got along, everyone looked their best, the food was fantastic and we danced in that barn 'til we couldn't dance no more. 

Best of all, Annie and I were officially joined as Partners In Marriage—at least in the eyes of God, our families, and the State of Massachusetts.

Hurricane Irene—Bringing Out My Inner Bridezilla

In my last post about television, I conveniently forgot to mention one of my biggest guilty pleasures. And no, it has absolutely nothing to do with creative people putting their talents to the test. Bridezillas is a reality show on TLC that spotlights brides-to-be behaving badly. Very badly. Truly, some of the women on this show are a handful of the worst examples of humanity you could ever witness. Screaming at their mothers, bitching at their bridesmaids, and usually treating their fiances like something that crawled out from a crack in the pavement.
Many of them spend the week leading up to their wedding sporting oversized t-shirts airbrushed with the word Bride, and stand in front of the camera flailing their arms, yelling at their friends/moms/future husbands, "this is going to be my special day! This is the most important day of my life! You're going to be feeding me grapes while I'm getting my hair done! I hate you! Don't talk to me! It's my special day! Mine!!!"
Each episode leaves you wondering, why would anyone ever want to marry this woman? Sometimes their male counterparts actually threaten not to show up for the Big Day, and I'm always hoping they'll follow through. Shockingly, they never do.
Up until yesterday, part of my enjoyment of this show was how superior it made me feel. I am nothing like these people, I'd think smugly to myself. See how mellow I am? I'm getting married while I'm bald. My dress is from Banana Republic. I'm so down-to-earth. 
I'd always thought that I'd remain unfazed no matter what kind of complications arose surrounding the wedding. I wouldn't be the girl to flip out if I spilled wine on my dress, if the food ended up overcooked, if it rained a little and the reception got moved into the barn. The important thing, of course, is simply to stand and declare your love in front of friends and family.


Enter Hurricane Irene. 
So. My flight is scheduled to land in Hartford, Connecticut at half past midnight tomorrow, Monday the 29th. The wedding is September 3.
By Friday night (the 26th) I was freaking out that either a) my flight would be canceled or b) I'd get bumped from my flight so my seat could be given to someone else who had missed their flight over the weekend. I don't know where I got the idea that such a thing was even possible. I guess I was operating under the assumption that airlines are Never Fair, and reserve the right to screw you over at every opportunity. Apparently, this practice of "bumping" people was a complete figment of my imagination. Regardless, that's when the panic started setting in.
My anxiety was only worsened by the fact that the American Airlines website declared that flights canceled in the wake of Irene could take up until September 4th to be rescheduled. The wedding, as I mentioned, is September 3rd.

Annie Left and I Took a New Lover—Television

This blog has been a little heavy on the introspection as of late. While Deep Thoughts are to be expected from a Cancer Blog, lately the currents have been running a little more on the shallow side.

I'd wondered how I'd pass the time without Annie. I thought maybe I'd be forced to confront my inner demons, face boredom head on, and transform into a deeper, more evolved Self.

Instead, I gave myself over completely to Television.

There is one perspective from which this can be viewed as a positive transformation. 

I have written before about my inability to relax. How so much of my time in Visalia as a cancer patient has been spent avoiding a sick-bed. How, before and during cancer, any time I'd think about laying down and flipping on the Tube there was always that voice in my head saying read more, learn more, do more, cook more, yoga more, clean more, DON'T JUST SIT THERE!! Your brain will atrophy! (Yes, the voice sometimes does sound a lot like Dr.Dad, who hates television with every cell in his highly-toned, athlete's body).

So, if you look at it one way, honing my ability to lie in bed for hours in front of the TV and feel no restlessness, no judgement and no anxiety, just sheer bliss, can potentially be seen as Progress. It helps to have a cozy spot. (See photo)

My Television Nest

Family, Norma and the Ultimate Gift

Golden Gate in the Fog

Yesterday was my Grandmother's 90th Birthday. Unfortunately, she was not able to celebrate, or even have awareness of this milestone. She has reached a very advanced stage of Alzheimers, and is locked inside her body in a place nobody can really reach.
Dr. Dad and I went up to visit her at her nursing home in the Bay Area this weekend, after having stopped at Stanford for a routine check-in with my doctors. Everything on that front appears to be going as planned—which is great—so there's nothing really noteworthy to report about the visit, other than the very first thing out of Dr. A's mouth when he saw me was, "Ohhhhh! You've gained weight!" 
Just what every gal wants to hear first thing as someone walks into the room. 
(I get it, it's healthier than being underweight, it will provide extra protection during my feeblest moments of stem-cell procedure. Still.)


The last time I saw my grandmother, about three and a half years ago, she was in her apartment under the care of live-in helpers. Her mind had started to slip, but she still recognized me and let out an excited cry of "Kia Joooooon!" (a Persian term of endearment, as she is my Iranian grandmother) then shed a few happy tears. 
She and I have never been able to make much conversation, as English is her second language, and by the time I was able to relate to her as a teenager and then an adult, her hearing had started to go. (Dr. Dad had not felt it important to teach me Farsi, his native language, when I was a child and therefore a sponge of language acquisition. This skill would probably be very useful to me now, but I try not to hold that against him anymore.) 
Anyway, it never seemed to matter that my grandmother and I couldn't make small talk. Whenever I visited she'd launch into high-pitched exclamations in Farsi, pinching my cheeks and planting kisses all over my face, fussing over me like the I was the only granddaughter she had (as I was). 
She also had a practice of cooking up a tremendous batch of ghormehsabzi, my all-time favorite Persian stew. It involves a mountain of mixed greens and herbs, cooked down and mixed with kidney beans, beef or lamb, dried limes, and served over saffroned basmati rice. With pita bread. And cucumber-mint yogurt. MMM! My grandmother would then demonstrate the depths of her love by feeding me bowl after bowl of the stuff. A common practice with grandmothers, no?
How I wish I could have made her a pot of ghormesabzi yesterday, in return for all the loving and feeding she blessed me with over the years. 

Fear, Marriage and Separation

Before I got cancer, the plan was for Annie and I to get married. The wedding was supposed to be on September 24. It was gearing up to be a pretty big event, with close to 150 guests—over half of that number her relatives—and all of my best friends flying out from California. 
We had booked a venue, a historic Inn that bordered on her brother's property in Greenfield, Mass. We'd met with a caterer, tentatively planned a menu, and gotten all jazzed about serving our guests on compostable plates that would somehow be used to feed local cows the day after the party. I'd even bought a dress, an elegant, ivory-colored BCBG gown that perfectly suited my offbeat-bridal aesthetic. 
And then, less than a week after the dress purchase, came the Cancer Diagnosis. Once that happened, we almost instantly agreed to postpone the wedding. There were too many unknowns ahead, it seemed, to just carry on as planned. I imagined I'd be much too sick from chemo to deal with the stress of planning, not to mention actually getting through the event. And who wants to be a sick person on their wedding day? It seemed like the Obvious Choice to focus on getting through the Cancer Experience, and then come together with all our loved ones to celebrate not only our union, but my survival. 

Round 5 Hospital Hijinks

We're keeping things pretty upbeat over here for Round 5. 

First of all, we had two unexpected visitors this week:

Annie and Emma (Great Dane)

Annie and I had already gotten into bed on Wednesday night and were curled up watching So You Think You Can Dance on our ceiling-mounted television set when one of the nurses poked her head in and asked, with a very confused expression, "were you expecting a visitor with a Great Dane?"
"Yes!" Annie called out immediately, not because she had expected it, but because those are her favorite dogs.
"Um, no, not exactly," I said, "but send them up!" 
Who wouldn't want a late-evening visit from a giant Horse-Dog?
It turned out that my mom had been at a meeting with the local hospice, and Emma is one of the dogs that's trained to hang out and cuddle with hospice patients. 
Even though Annie and I are more animated than her usual crowd, she was very sweet and mellow. There wasn't much space for her in our cramped little room, so she just mostly laid on the floor with her head between her paws. Annie immediately got down on the floor with her and cradled her head, while I took pictures and patted her flanks.

It turned out to be a good thing I didn't get too intimate with Emma. The next day my mom called in a panic, saying she'd just heard from Emma's owner that poor Em had been diagnosed that very day with a digestive parasite called Cryptosporidium. Like Giardia, it's a water-borne parasite that causes diarrhea and other abdominal discomfort. It's treatable, but would obviously put a kink in all the cancer-treatment agendas. Luckily, neither Dr. Dad nor my oncologist are overly worried about it. At least I remembered to wash my hands after petting her! 

Kia and Kia (Schnauzer)

The next surprise visit came yesterday, from a much smaller hospice-dog whose name also happens to be Kia. A sweet little Schnauzer, she laid on the bed next to me and panted away under her long white beard and tufty eyebrows. I did play a little kissy-face with her—this was before we got the news about the Crypto—so hopefully she was not carrying any amoebas or other saliva-borne pathogens. 
There really is something heartwarming and uplifting about getting to hang out with animals while one is in an otherwise depressing and cloistered environment. Just stroking their fur, gazing into their deep, dark watery eyes, sharing comforting little cuddles, it brings this cancer patient—and every other kind of patient, I'm sure—an extra dose of life. To hell with hygiene, I say. Bring on the dogs!  


Unfortunately, after the Crypto incident, it does't look like I'll be having any more canine visitors this round. So it was up to Annie and I to entertain ourselves. This was accomplished with the help of a fine old friend of mine—shout out to you, Lydia Osolinsky!—who just happened to have randomly sent me a care package that included stick-on mustaches the very week that my oncologist shaved his off. 
He usually comes by on his rounds around 8 a.m., so this morning at seven thirty, before I was even fully awake, I stuck on my mustache and slipped back under the covers, laying in wait for his arrival. 
The look on his face was pretty priceless when I sat up in bed, sporting a thick furry mustache very much like the one he had so recently parted with. I got a good laugh out of him, but it was the nurses who really got a kick out of it. A small stream of them poked their heads in to see what all the fuss was about, so naturally Annie and I both had to oblige them with a photo session, which I believe they will be printing and posting in the ward. 

Is it Annie? Or famed serial killer H.H. Holmes?

No Stage - I mean - No Stache

Kia as Dr. Havard, with his "you're going to be just fine" expression

An entertaining morning for everyone!

The Wonderful World of Fo Stage and No Stage - a little book within a blog

Fo Stage and No Stage have been busy the past three weeks! 


There was one hospital stay, but that was so uneventful it doesn't even get its' own chapter. The only remarkable element was the woman next door, who hollered for the nurse all day, every day we were there.
One day, around 11:00 a.m.,
Lady : "Nurse! Nurse! I poop! I poop!"
Three seconds later : "Nurse! Nuuuuuuuurse! I poop!"
Five seconds later : "Nurse! Get me a cigarette!"
Two seconds later : "Nurse! Please, get me a cigarette, I'm dying for one!" 
Really, that's all there is to say about the hospital.


Far more exciting are the tales of the adventures we have taken, the journeys we have made, the fears we have conquered, and the laughs we have had along the way. 
In the three chapters below, you can follow Fo Stage and No Stage through what have turned out to be some of the best times of their lives. Come along for the ride!

Chapter One: A Camping Trip - With A Buddy!

It was the perfect time for a camping trip. 
I'd been depressed for the entire month of June. Just "giving it time" didn't seem to be helping things. Each morning I'd wake up, contemplate the inevitable expanse of day in front of me, and just cry and cry. So I talked to both sets of doctors about it, and to no big surprise of mine, they recommended anti-depressants. What the hell? I figured. After the depo-provera shot, the Prednisone spikes and, oh yeah, the chemotherapy, I figured one more pharmaceutical would just be another ripple in the pond. If it made me feel better, I'd keep on taking it. By time Scott rolled into town, I had tried and rejected Prozac. (I thought it was amusing though, that after all that aforementioned medicine, the only thing to give me the runs would be freakin' Prozac.) I hadn't started the Paxil by that point, which I am now taking and appears to be doing more good than harm. Still, as soon as our trip began, the little storm cloud that had been following me around magically vanished. We had a spectacular time.