I am an ordinary girl, living an ordinary life.  Don’t read anything bad into that, there is (hardly) anything bad about my life.

At least it was ordinary until the day I was diagnosed with cancer.  At that moment, my life became extraordinary.  And with it a deluge of every raw, negative, warped, scared, and awful emotion there is.  Let’s face it, I was a worrier before [just the typical things like flesh eating bacterial infections, air travel, terrorism, world peace, ya know – the little things all moms worry about, right?]

But cancer changes your entire experiential compass. Rather extraordinary.

WHOA! What is it that the great Willy Wonka said,  “wait a minute.  Strike that.  Reverse…”  I think, maybe, it is the exact opposite. For forty years, I lived an extraordinary life.  At that moment of diagnosis, somehow, my life – very much against my fierce free will – became ordinary and taken out of my control[freak] hands.

Fear, anger, anxiety…suffering, are all very real.  Valid.  Appropriate even.  But ordinary.

It was one year ago, that my odyssey began.  A routine test that was anything but. A barely visible speck on a screen that was supposedly “nothing” but that wasn’t there a year ago (Have you exercised your right to a routine mammogram recently?  Consider this is your monthly nudge!).  I walked into a hospital broken but whole and I walked out a perfectly, beautifully even, rebuilt but internally mutilated mess.

Imagine, if you can, in the span of 24 days, I celebrated my 40th birthday, my 10th Anniversary, was celebrating Mother’s Day, and was diagnosed with cancer.  The one thing I was most scared of in the world was suddenly (AGAIN) front and center taunting me, violating me, and threatening my future. Yet, somehow, and I mean I literally have no earthly idea of how, a whole year has passed.  Each day and long night, whether I slept or more often paced my house like a greyhound, the sun continued to rise with shocking color and just like that next occurred.  Time is extraordinary.

Mother’s Day, one year ago, all I could think of was the excruciating notion of who will be mommy to my babies when I am no longer alive.  I assumed, notwithstanding what the doctors said, that I would suffer the same fate as my father and my boys would live without me.  A therapist called this “awfulizing.”  Whatever I may have “ized,” I called it just plain awful.   The only way my children can thrive in this world and develop to their true potential is with Jason and me as their personal guides and protectors, right?  Of course, I know this is not correct, but I want their every need and desire to be fulfilled, my way.  I want to be their only mommy, at least until such time that I consider maybe sharing them with a girl and her mom.   Bottom line, is that I need them, and they need me.  We are meant to be together, I believe it, thus it has to be true.  I just do not know any other way to say it.  Incredibly, it is Mother’s Day again, and I am still here, I am their mommy.  Raising and unconditionally loving them [despite the fact that one of them is currently screaming and carrying on (including some fine Jodi-esque eye rolling and mumbling under his breath over not wanting to do homework and the other has ice on his face after he got punched in the eye at school by one of his best friends because he  (including some fine Jason-eque flirting) paid more attention to the pixie on the playground]…being a family is extraordinary.

I meet an older couple recently while I was getting Herceptin and she was starting chemo for the first time.  Her husband was going downstairs to get tea for them with his walker.  She seemed so sad and scared and I was alone that day, so I broke my rule of not talking cancer in the chemo room and tried to help.  She told me about the many decades they had been married, their children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren.  I cried, but she glowed. She was not young…yet her comment was that they wanted to grow old together. That is my mantra.  I say it no fewer than a million times a day.  I want to grow old with Jason. He is the great love of my live and I refuse to be taken from him. True Love is extraordinary.

Last week I was honored at the Baptist Sip and Saute.  Standing before a ballroom of people cheering for my so-called accomplishments was utterly overwhelming.  The Baptist professionals are the remarkable ones.  The one who saw that faint speck on the screen that would have killed me, the ones who brilliantly operated saving my life and…my appearance while becoming my friends.  The one who guides my ongoing care with a knowledge and expertise that I marvel at daily. On what would become the second worst day of my life, I also laughed, while a care coach held my hand as we processed those first biopsies and results.  I put the doctors and staff in the Baptist health care system up against any in the world.

At the event, they (much to my disbelief and discomfort) sang my praises in honoring me on my cancer journey.  The real honor, however, is how they encounter “little girls” like me every day and turn us into survivors.  I thoroughly enjoyed my very emotional evening flanked by two full tables of my incredible family and friends and even more so enjoyed spending time with most of my dream team ladies who I adore outside of the office!  Drs. Giron, Martinez, Marshall, Wang, and my Care Coach Loretta have championed my survival as I hoped they would when I chose them.  These are doctors and professionals in a brutal field where they deal in death and grim outcomes daily.  Yet, they never lose sight of the person inside the body they seek to heal.  It is a gift and a hardship for them I’m sure. Honor and respect are extraordinary.

I continue to speak my voice while trying to balance my family’s privacy and my own desire for the world to understand what having cancer means [if more people did, we multiply our disease fighting budget and slash our war wasting or campaign bullshitting dollars]. The real, even if painful truth, is something I am always seeking.  I know it is important to share, for me, for my family, and for a whole lot of others out there in cyber world, even if very hard and often uncomfortable.  I have tried to be as honest as possible (hold on to your seats, my “Fifty Shades of [c]ancer” is coming soon to a blog near you, hopefully co-written by guest blogger and bestie Lisa Lou).  Honesty is extraordinary.

I want you to know, I no longer cry every time I look in the mirror or see my reflection (it is more of a frustrated and pathetic but accepting sigh now).  Well, actually, sometimes I still whimper or gasp but it is a happy and relieved gasp because seeing myself is proof that I am still here and not otherwise imagining my survival. The chemo pounds are about gone and my hair really is growing ringlet by frizzy ringlet.  When I look at this picture, I know it is all Jodi, though even then that hair was totally outrageous.  I am beginning to see that girl emerge again.  I am also learning to say thank you without further commentary or smirking when you see me and “tell me” I look all fab.  I am learning that you do not necessarily see big green eyes, or a lack of luscious locks, my new very pretty titty’s, my wrinkles, or even my pear shaped tush.  You do (I now think) see the girl that loves you and wants so much to live and do good in this world.  And you care enough to try and make me feel good. I appreciate, now, that you (maybe) see the whole of me. When I think of it that way, I no longer wish to pop you in the face for your compliment.  Though I will tell you, I wish I knew people in the fashion industry.  Thirteen year old pre-pubescent waifs strutting down the catwalks.   Next October, I want to see InStyle showcase the real young women who faithfully chow on what they dish month after month.  Instead of us drowning in a sea of pink ribbons, I want see women, like me, who survived showing off their rebuilt  and perfectly imperfect very real bodies and souls with pride on the cover [ok fine, a little air brushing would not hurt].   Beauty is extraordinary.

Today is a big [read HUGE] milestone.  One year since I was officially deemed cancer free. And while the year was filled, and continues to be filled with aggressive though preventative and precautionary treatment, officially I am cancer free.  I marked the occassion with a weekend on the Riviera Maya with a friend.  Aside from being peaceful and beautiful, it was fun! Watching the wind churn the ocean with a friend who was nothing less than a life line this year, I had no doubts of my luck and my blessings.  My friends have endured a lot this year, sacrificed at lot, put up with a lot this year, and stuck around to see my through my ordeal.  Friendship is extraordinary.

We came to play and so we did.  Between Carlos who called us “las senoritas bonita” all weekend long and brought us fresh margarita’s without asking whenever he walked by to our “education” at the neighboring swingers colony [focus Jodi, “Fifty Shades” is next time].  We never opened our books or computers.  We just talked and giggled and giggled and giggled and listened to the silence.  Effortless laughter is extraordinary.

For those of you keeping track, August 3 is my last dose of Herceptin, August 13 my final surgery and at long last the port will be taken out of my chest closing this book, I pray, on cancer forever.  I accept that cancer, the fact of cancer, will always be part of my life, and thus my story, but this part of the story please g-d, will end.  I do believe in my survival.

Hope and survival are extraordinary.

[c]ancer is one shitty bitch!  Take this cancer, I have been free from the worst part of your silent and menacing growth and tyranny for one year today. I warned you, I am a lover AND a fighter and, I. Don’t. Ever. Give. Up!

So, while I may be just an ordinary girl doing ordinary things, I know life is extraordinary.

My life.

Much love,

jodi alison