Cancer sucks and other truths.

Alright listen.
Cancer sucks.
Like hard core.

Today is supposed to be this joyous anniversary of the day, two years ago, that I finally heard the golden words, "You're cancer free."
Except today hasn't been much of a celebration.
It's just been hard.

Lemme tell ya about my year.
Hang on, it's a roller coaster.

Last August. We celebrated one year of being cancer free.
I had hair, I was a freaking attractive individual, and I felt good about my life.
Isn't that always how it goes?
You feel good, you take it for granted, and suddenly something happens.

October. I started to feel tired and nauseous.
It scared me.
Listen, I get freaked every time I cough like "WHAT IF I HAVE COUGHING CANCER" which isn't even a thing but my brain is pretty sure it is.
So to feel crummy in general freaked me out more than a little.

November. I had an upcoming routine oncologist appointment.
I knew it was going to be bad.
I felt so sick.
The night before my appointment, I went to a home evening.
Because, ya know, handsome men.
The conversation turned into a chain of how people were grateful for cancer.
It was probably really touching except for the fact that it was the literal worst.
I ran out of the room and sobbed.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving.
I had my appointment.
The blood work confirmed it.
I had a PET/CT scan the next day.
I knew it wasn't good.
Doc confirmed it.
"Almost certain the cancer is back and this time, it's a 50/50 chance of survival."
"One and a half years of treatment."
"Nothing we can do right now - just watch and wait."
Oh cool. I'll just wait here. It's fine. Really, it's fine.

December. I told very few people.
I cried and tried not to be scared.
I didn't sleep.
I ate a whole lot of Christmas cookies.
I researched new therapies.
I waited.

January. More tests and blood work.
More waiting.
More sleepless nights.
More exhausted days.
More tears in the car.
Also the inversion which in and of itself probably causes cancer, but I had already checked that box, so that was a relief.

February. PET/CT scan.
I knew it wasn't good when my oncologist called me two minutes after school ended.
It was the day of parent/teacher conferences.
"There are three new tumors."
"We need to do a biopsy."
Have you ever curled into the fetal position and sobbed in your work chair?
I have.
"Yes, ma'am, your son can still turn in his essay and get full credit."

March. Biopsy was inconclusive.
Ultrasounds.
Tests.
Twenty doctors discussing what on earth was happening with me.
Waiting.
Very heated conversations with God.
"Excuse you, God, but I have an idea and it's called you stop giving me cancer."
I was so tired. So sick. So sick and tired of being sick and tired.

April. I woke up one morning and didn't feel as tired.
I started eating normal meals.
I stopped napping after school every day.
My heart started to hope.
We booked a trip to Jamaica with travel insurance, because come June I would either be on a beach or going through chemo.
It was a toss up.

May. I felt good.
For the first time in six months, I didn't feel sick.
I tried not to hope.
I avoided packing for Jamaica.
Took a day off and had my scan.
Read the results online.
Copied and pasted the results into google. #Englishmajor #nomedicalexperience
It looked good?

May 21. Meeting with my oncologist.
By the way, I'm his favorite patient. It's normal.
"Well, Tina, at least you're consistent. Your results always confuse me."
...Like...in a good way?
"I can't explain it. At all. But your last scan shows no signs of cancer."
...I'm sorry, excuse you? Because it sounded like you were saying I don't have cancer anymore and I just really need you to mean that if you're going to say it.
"Tina. The scan shows the three tumors are gone. And the other tumor shows no signs of lymphoma. It looks like we did chemo."
...BUT LIKE HOW. If this is a joke I will literally hit you in the face.
"I don't know how. But I'm 99% sure you're just fine."
Went home and packed for Jamaica.
Cried the whole time.
"Hey God...Thanks."

June. JAMAICA.
Southern Utah.
Boston. Maine. Rhode Island.
Mexico.
California.
The whole time, I was pinching myself.
How was this even possible? How is my cancer gone? What did I do to deserve this miracle?

I know, right. A heck of a year. So today, when I was supposed to celebrate being cancer free, I felt sad and like I failed because I didn't make it to two years without the cancer coming back. I felt guilty for getting a miracle when others haven't. I felt happy to be alive. I felt terrified because I had an oncologist appointment this afternoon. Just, ya know, a hot mess express of emotions over here.

I don't even know why I'm writing this, other than I don't want it to be a secret anymore. There's power in being vulnerable. Yes, my cancer came back. Yes, I was sick and miserable and I hid it. That's how I chose to survive. Yes, I live in fear that I'll wake up and feel sick again. Yes, by some miracle, I'm okay for now. Yes, I'm finally ready to talk about it. Ask me anything! I dare you! I accept that cancer is going to be a part of my life. And guess what? I think that's kind of beautiful. There's a sort of magic in living all-in and staring death in the face.

I didn't want to celebrate today, but my wonderful friend bought me roses and made us do shots (of the Martinelli variety #obviously), and she said, "I mean, it's been a crappy year, but it's one more year." I'm so grateful I get to be 26. I'm so grateful that I'll get to see the leaves change this fall. I get to laugh and cry and feel miserable and beautiful and powerful all at the same time. This life is so messy and I love it.  I mean, listen, I plan on living to be 109, and I'm sure as hell going to make the most out of every one of those days.


#miracleshappen
#onceinawhile
#whenyoubelieve

The Will

The Will

I can hear the crackle of electricity as the lamp on my nightstand flickers to life. It’s late. Or early. I’m not sure which. The light seems unusually bright, and I close my eyes to let them adjust. As I lift my head off the pillow, my face brushes against the pieces of hair that have fallen out while I was fighting to sleep. I brush the hair off the pillowcase with a shaking hand, telling myself I will vacuum the room in the morning. At least if the hair is on the floor I won’t have to look at it.

Groaning, I lift myself into a sitting position. My arms shake with the effort, and my joints ache. I swing my legs to the side of the bed and drag myself into the bathroom. The light from my lamp comes through the open bathroom door and illuminates my face in the mirror. The shadows accentuate my sunken eyes and pale skin. I lean toward my reflection, lifting a hand to my cheek. I rub at the dark circle under one eye like it will wipe away. It doesn’t. I sigh. Putting my hand against the mirror, I look into my empty eyes and whisper, “Things will get better.”

After getting a drink of water from the bathroom sink, I walk slowly back to my bed. My legs are stiff and resist movement, and the five steps from the bathroom to the bed make it difficult to breathe. Tears of frustration well up in my eyes. This should not be difficult. But it is.

I finally reach the bed and curl into a ball under the blankets. I turn a little to switch off the lamp and yelp in pain. My port is still sore from today’s injection, and it screams as I try to readjust. Tears of pain join my tears of frustration. I sit up, giving up on sleep for the night.

As I stare out the window at the empty road below, I watch the traffic light change from green to yellow to red. It changes over and over again. The thought strikes me that I am the only one in the whole world watching this light. How odd. After a while, one car pulls up to the intersection. The light is red, but the car speeds through anyway. I hope they’re hurrying home to dream of tomorrow, but something tells me they’re running away from today.

I look around my room. My eyes land on a green folder on the nightstand. On the front it says “we are what we leave behind” in fancy cursive lettering. I don’t have to open it to know what’s inside. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the nurse handed the folder to me as I left the clinic. “Just something we like all of our patients to think about,” she had said. I waited until I got to the car to open the folder and look inside. It took me twenty minutes to calm down enough to drive home.

I reach over and pick up the folder. I’m already crying, so I figure it can’t hurt. I’m not going back to sleep anyway. As I flip through the papers that are inside, the titles jump out at me. Things like “action plan,” “will and testament,” “advance health care directive,” and “planning for your posterity” leap off the pages and settle in my heart like a weight. I want to scream. I want to yell and kick and punch the wall and tell the world I’m too young for this. I’m supposed to be invincible. Why can’t I be invincible?

I pull the last page of the folder out of its sheet protector. It’s a light green color titled “Tips For Writing a Living Will.” A tear falls on the page and smudges the ink. I look around my room, as if expecting someone to jump out and help me. I look out the window. Nothing but the traffic light. It’s just me. Me and the tips on how to write a will.

I lean over and grab my notebook. I open to a new page and at the top, in all capitals, I write, “The Will of Kristina Moore.” That feels a little too formal, so I cross out the last word so it just reads, “The Will of Kristina.” I don’t know why that makes me feel better; it just does. I underline it. Following the tips on the paper, I start writing. I write the date and that no one is forcing me to write this. Easy enough. Now comes the difficult part.

The sheet of handy tips says that this is where I put down what possessions go to whom when I die. My eyes wander over my possessions and I realize I don’t have anything really worth leaving to someone. What am I going to say, “To my brother, I leave my bookshelf that’s not really mine, and to my sister I leave my car that I haven’t paid off yet?” Stupid. My mind races, desperately trying to think of something I can leave behind. It’s hard to breathe again. I’m not supposed to have to think about my legacy yet. I’m supposed to have time. I’m supposed to have 70 more years to create a life and collect ugly trinkets to leave to my grandchildren. But here I am, with nothing to give and an empty page in my notebook.

I sit in the same position for hours, not really thinking, but not sleeping either. I’m stuck somewhere in between. My mind can’t - won’t - wrap around the idea that I am at a point where I need to put in words what I want to leave behind. I stare at the ceiling. I wonder if people will miss me. I wonder if they’ll miss me for a while and then move on with their lives, and one day they’ll see something in a store window that will remind them of that one girl they knew who had cancer. Who will speak at my funeral? I hope there aren’t any empty benches at my funeral. I hope they don’t serve jello.

The pencil in my hand traces the lines on the page as I try to focus. What to write. What to give. What to leave. The words “living will” chant over and over in my brain. Sigh. I grab my phone from the nightstand and open Facebook. Maybe focusing on other people’s lives will help me figure out mine. It doesn’t. I end up scrolling through my own pictures, looking at my long hair and authentic smile. I cry and touch my bald head. I don’t remember the last time I smiled like that.

After a while, my focus shifts from how I look to who and what surrounds me in the photos. My brother jumping into my arms. Friends eating waffles at two in the morning. Sleeping on couches in a parking lot during a rainstorm. Hiking with my sister. Celebrating my best friend’s wedding. Graduating from college. My students gathered in front of the classroom. Running through the mud. Playing guitar and making s'mores around a campfire. Standing outside the temple hugging my family. In spite of my tears, I feel myself smiling. My mind clears, and something clicks.

I look down at the paper in my lap and narrow my eyes. Gripping the edge of the page, I rip it from the notebook. Quickly, I write a new title at the top of the next page. It reads, “Kristina’s Will.” I underline it and, with more energy than I’ve felt in days, I start writing.

I write for almost an hour, erasing things and rewriting them again. The words on this page have to be perfect. They’re my legacy. What I will leave behind. There’s no room for error.

My pencil finishes the last sentence. I read the page one more time, and then, at the bottom of the page, I sign my name. Carefully, I tear the page from the notebook and set it in the green folder. Closing the folder, I run my fingers over the words on the front. “We are what we leave behind.” Peace floods through me. I set the folder on my nightstand. Reaching over, I turn off the lamp. The ever changing traffic light shines through the window as my eyes drift shut.

Kristina’s Will

I will live my life with purpose.

I will smile even as I cry.

I will find something to be thankful for in every situation.

I will never let someone suffer alone.

I will take every opportunity to be kind.

I will express my gratitude for everything I’m given.

I will not leave loving words unsaid.

I will spend my time building relationships.

I will be there when someone needs me.

I will learn as much as I can about the world and God.

I will help everyone feel important.

I will strengthen those around me.

I will live my life so that I have no regrets when I leave.

I will take risks and face my fears.

I will love everyone for exactly who they are.

I will use my talents to make the world a better place.

I will create joyful memories.

I will never leave my family without saying “I love you.”

I will search for beauty.

I will realize that waking up every morning is a gift.

I will live a life that will make God proud to call me his daughter.

I will never stop trying.

I will leave behind the love that I give.

-Kristina Moore

It's Not About Me.

The 16th of the month is officially the BEST day of every month. For example, today the 16th marks TWO MONTHS since the day I found out I was officially cancer free. This is a big deal, folks! It's been an emotional day and I've had an insane amount of thoughts sprinting through my head all day, so here's hoping this post makes sense at all - and if it doesn't, you still have to love me. Agreed? Agreed.

The past two months have been intensely difficult for me as I've stepped into this new chapter of my life. Health-wise, I'm still feeling the effects of six months of chemo, but it's a world of difference! I feel so wonderful and I have so much energy most of the time. Plus I can actually sleep like a normal person, and I can almost feel my fingers and toes! *Spoiler alert #1: all ten fingers and all ten toes are still there.* Plus my hair is coming back! My little blonde hair makes me so happy, and a student I've never even met told me, "Ms. Moore! You look like a girl when you have hair!" ...Thank you, tiny human...

I've been trying so hard to get back to normal, but the problem is I don't know what normal is anymore. My whole world has shifted. My priorities, my desires, my goals, and even parts of my personality have flipped a 180. I'm not crazy (like, no crazier than normal), it's something that's kind of expected after having 8 months of life-and-death decisions put in front of you. *Spoiler alert #2: Facing death every day changes how you look at life.* I've done a lot of research and the best advice people have for moving on after cancer is to accept that you aren't, and never will be, the person you were before cancer. You have to rediscover who you are and get to know yourself again. This is real. And honestly, some days I desperately miss the Kristina I was before cancer. I was so confident. Isn't that bizarre?! I'm getting to know myself. Again. It's kind of fun! *Spoiler alert #3: I really, really like who I am.* I'm not saying that to be super conceited. I just love the person I've become and I love the way I look at life now. For example, I was trying to use my old workout plans and patterns to get back to where I was when I was jogging every day before chemo. I realized that I'm not that same person anymore (I'm missing like a hundred tumors), so obviously what I used to do won't work. I changed my routine to fit my life now, and yesterday I ran a mile faster than I did before my chemo started. Booyah! That's such a silly example, but I could talk about this for hours, and you probably have a life to get back to, so I'll stop. But if you want to know about finding yourself, puhlease come ask me. Seriously, it's so refreshing when people ask me about my experience, and if what I went through can help you in some way, it's so beyond worth it.

Anyway, to the point of this whole post. (Does it surprise anyone that Tina is talking a lot? No? Hmm...) I didn't ask for this experience. I didn't ask for cancer. I didn't ask for six months of chemo and tests. I didn't ask for physical scars and even uglier mental scars.

As I was going through treatments, and even still when I talk about my experience, I often hear things like, "You're such an inspiration to me." What the! Talk about pressure! Not really. It's a nice thing to hear. But here's the thing: I didn't ask to be an inspiration. I didn't start my cancer journey with the goal to inspire people. I started my cancer journey with the goal to survive. I sincerely hope that my experience has helped someone somewhere who is struggling, but that wasn't my endgame. As I look back, people ask me how I did it. How did I go to work every day and teach my 150 students with no prep period? How did I run a 5k after 11 treatments? How did I get out of bed? How did I smile when my hands and feet felt like they were on fire? How did I... the list goes on and on. And to be honest, I never know how to answer.

Looking back, I've realized that I didn't do those things at all. God did those things. I didn't go to work every day - God carried me to work every day and led me through each day. I didn't just smile on my own - God filled my mind with happy memories I didn't even know I had. I would be in bed at 3 in the morning crying because I couldn't sleep and everything hurt, and suddenly I would have a memory of picking carrots at my grandpa's house or jumping on a trampoline at the neighbor's house or playing night games in the park. And I would realize - life is good. Life is worth fighting for. I didn't beat cancer. God beat cancer. I know there are people reading this blog who believe different things than I do, but I want you to know that I am only strong because God lifted me up when I was weak. I am only happy because God reminded me how to smile when I was devastated. I am only alive because God strengthened me when I was dying. I am who I am because of who God is. I'm not belittling myself or trying to downplay the hard things I've done - I am hecka proud of where I've been and what I've survived. But in my heart - in my soul - I know that I wouldn't be half the person I am if I didn't let God into my life.

If you're going to be inspired by someone, be inspired by God. Be inspired by this all-knowing, all powerful Father that cared enough about me - little, imperfect Kristina - to carry me when I forgot how to move forward. Be inspired by God because if He cares that much about me, I guarantee He cares that much about you. What can possibly be more inspiring than the knowledge that we don't have to do this alone? God is listening to you. He is waiting and ready to help you. I believe in my Father in Heaven because I have felt His hand in my life as I make the decision to let Him change me - and I love the person He has helped me become. Let Him in. Let Him change you. Be inspired by the God who created you.

That's it. The end. Super impressed that you made it all the way to the end. Here's hoping I didn't waste your time! :)

A Letter to Myself

A Letter to Myself on the Day I Found Out I Had Stage 3 Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

Dear Self,
Today feels like the hardest day of your life. Every single thing you thought you had planned for yourself just got thrown up in the air and you don't even know if you'll be alive to celebrate your next birthday, so celebrating this one that's coming seems stupid. How do you celebrate your birth when you can't stop thinking about your death? But that's the thing, isn't it? Death. That's the thing no one wants to talk about and the thing that brings tears to everyone's eyes when you tell them you have cancer. The fear that you're working so hard to control is screaming at you through the eyes of everyone around you as they tell you to fight. They say they're sure you'll beat this, but their tears and their wide eyes betray their doubt. How are you supposed to cope with that? How do you hold your friends as they cry and tell them it'll be okay?
Here's how. Today, you will make the most important decision of your life. For your life. Today, you will think about all the options and everything that could go wrong, and you will decide to smile. Today, you will talk to God like you haven't before and you'll be angry and confused, but then you'll smile. If you want to survive this, you have to decide today to smile every. single. day. No matter how far into hell you feel like you've been thrown, you're going to smile.

I wish I could tell you that today is actually the hardest day of your life, but it's not even close. Get ready to cry, and buy your Kleenex at the Costco cause you're gonna need them. That's okay, though. You have to let yourself cry because I'm pretty sure if you bottle all this up you're going to explode like a bottle of Coke filled with Mentos. For reals. Cry it out. But after you cry, every single time, smile. Even if you have to force yourself to smile, do it just so you remember how it feels.

Want to know what's coming? You sure? It's not all roses and teddy bears, even though you will get some pretty legit stuffed animals as gifts. One even sings! Anyway, back to the whole glimpse of the future thing. You're going to want to stay in bed all day every day, but don't let yourself. People need you, and you need people. If you let yourself be sick and stay in bed, you're going to forget why you're fighting. So every morning when your knees feel like they forgot how to bend, your head feels like it's going to explode, your feet feel like someone set them on fire, and you can't even look at food, take it one step at a time. One painful step and then another. And then, after a while, the pain starts to fade. The bad news is that as soon as the pain fades and you start to feel human again, it's time for more chemo and you're kicked back to worse than you were before. But you'll get out of bed every morning and no one but you will know how much of a victory that will be. Because every time you get out of bed, you're taking control and the cancer loses a little bit of power - one painful step at a time.

You're going to feel sick. You're going to lose your hair, and you're going to realize how much your hair meant to you. You'll be okay though, because really, you're super sexy without hair. Where dem boys at?!? People will stare at you in the grocery store and say insensitive things and you'll cry. One day, you'll end up covered in vomit in your car outside of the chemo clinic calling your dad and sobbing and asking him to come and get you because you literally won't know what else to do. But guess what. That won't be the worst day of your life. I'm not going to tell you what the worst day will be, because guess what, you'll get through it the same way you'll get through every other day - one painful step at a time.

Cancer is going to do some crazy things. It'll rob you of so much that you'll feel like you have nothing left. Start taking pictures of happy moments and things that speak to your soul. You have to keep your soul alive and strong because right now, your soul has to carry you through as your body tries to kill you. Cancer brings out the true colors of the people around you, and I can't prepare you for that. There's no way to prepare you for the late night conversations with friends when you can't really tell them how bad you feel because you know it will terrify them. There's no way to prepare for your best guy friend from college to abandon you because he can't deal with the fact that you might die. "We'll be friends forever, right?" ...Or until cancer comes and they stop calling. Stop texting. Stop asking how you are. Some people can't deal with it, and you can't prepare for that heartbreak. But you'll get through it - one painful step at a time.

Guess what else I can't prepare you for. All the wonderful things that will come from fighting cancer. I know that right now, that sounds ridiculous. Wonderful things? But it's real. Cancer won't make you strong. How you choose to fight will make you strong. Stronger than you ever thought you could be. Not because you had cancer, but because you had cancer and chose to smile and keep walking with your head held high. THAT will make you strong. As soon as death stops controlling you with fear, you'll finally start living. Life isn't about being afraid and giving in when you're in pain - it's about love and happiness and growth, and when cancer strips you of who you thought you were, you'll find all of those things. Love - you'll be 132% overwhelmed when you realize how many people truly love you and support you. It will change how you treat strangers on the street and kids in your classroom and the people you've known the longest. Happiness - you're going to learn that no one and no situation controls how you feel. That's one thing you are always in charge of and you can always choose to smile. Growth - failure won't scare you anymore. Once you've gone through hell, your whole life revolves around finding heaven. You'll learn to take time for yourself and to try new things. Fighting cancer will let you appreciate what you have because you'll learn that it could be taken away at any moment. You'll stare at the sky a little more, smile when the wind touches your face, and wear dark lipstick just because you feel like it.

The next seven months are going to be awful, but you'll make it. One painful step at a time. But just know that every one of those painful steps is bringing you closer to August 16. The day that you'll finally hear the words, "You're cancer free." It will feel like every bit of light in the world rushes into your heart as you walk out of that clinic, and I promise, every painful step will be worth it as you call your best friends to tell them it's over. You'll cry and laugh and hyperventilate a little bit - but in a good way. You'll speed back to your school and tell your coworkers and principals the good news and they'll cry and hug you and you'll know that you've never been alone. You'll film a silly dance just because you want to, and you'll stop wearing hats because your twinkle will finally be back and you won't give a darn what people think anymore. You're alive! Every day now, when you wake up, you won't take painful steps. You'll take steps filled with purpose and hope and strength, and nothing will take that away from you. Cancer will try to weaken you. It will try to convince you that you aren't strong enough for this, but you are. You have God and the best people in the whole world on your side, and you've always been stubborn, so you won't let it beat you. When you walk out of that clinic, finally cancer free, you're going to realize something. Cancer didn't really take anything from you, because everything and everyone that matters can't be changed or stolen by some stupid tumors. You're more than that. You're more than your cancer, more than your tears, and more than your doubts. You are freaking awesome, and you're gonna make it - one painful step at a time.

Love,
You. The future you. The CANCER FREE you.

Now What?

Can I get some kind of HALLELUJAH for chemo being over?!? It's a pretty great feeling to have survived 6 months of feeling like the walking dead.
But it's actually pretty confusing trying to figure out how to feel. Because even though I'm done with chemo, I don't know if it worked or if I'm cancer free, so that's still scary. It's one terrible, miserable chapter closed, but there might be more terrible, miserable chapters ahead. OR I could be done and move on. It's just this crazy fork in the road, and I won't know until I have my PET scan in a few weeks. *Cue emotional wreck for the next few weeks.* Add to that the fact that I'm trying to plan my school year without having any idea how I'm going to be feeling. It's a good time.

BUT we celebrate when we can, right?!
I told my mom that I didn't really want to do an end-of-chemo party or make a big deal out of it because ending chemo doesn't mean the cancer is gone, but, like any good mother, she didn't listen and planned a party anyway. I love that lady.

I got all dolled up for my last chemo! The nurses and doctors have gotten used to my crazy wigs and hats, so they were all excited to see what I'd bring for the big last day. I think I did a pretty good job... my rainbow mohawk rocked it, even if it was too tall to comfortably fit in the car. And my shirt was a hit - it said "My oncologist does my hair." My doc took a picture to keep because he liked it so much/because I'm his favorite patient, I'm pretty sure.

Mom and Michelle came to chemo with me, and mom brought flowers and purple cupcakes! It was legit!
Chemo took longer than usual because my port had to be flushed out due to blood clots - those nasty little things. But as soon as I finished my injections, in came all of my favorite people (minus David)! They walked in to the clinic wearing matching shirts that said "Lymphoma Lost" on the front and "So just dance, dance, dance" on the back, and they had balloons, and I might've cried just a little.

Dad, Joseph, Erin, Drew, Becky, Cassie, and Brenda had all taken time out of work and life to come and support me and celebrate and it was just the best moment! I'm 100%, for real, the luckiest lady to have these people as my support team, and I know I can't ever repay them for how much they've loved and supported me. When I first realized I might have cancer, I called Cassie from my car and I just cried and told her how scared I was. She was a red-headed angel and cried with me and told me it would all work out in God's plan. A different time, Drew knew I was at my parent's house and came all the way over just to give me a hug before I left for Salt Lake. And so many times, Becky calls me just to check up and talk about life, and makes sure I have everything I need when I pretend I'm a hobo and sleep on her couch. This is the kind of high quality friends I have, folks. I'll tell you all about my amazing family later, but they're gold-medal worthy, too.

It's a cancer tradition (apparently) that you get to ring this bell after your last chemo to symbolize finishing and all that jazz, so we gathered around the bell and I rang it like a champ! Only I didn't expect it to be as loud as it was, so that was a bit of a shock. Good times.
We then headed to the office supply store to stock up on their 1 cent items for my classroom, and then came home and had wonderful food and happiness. Then I took a nap, because even though it's my last chemo, it's still chemo - so it still sucks.

So...what happens now?
Well, tomorrow I'm taking a mental health day and spending the night at a fancy resort. I'm super excited because #1: hotels are my favorite thing, and #2: I need some time to process, so why not do that in a complimentary bathrobe or mineral water hot tub?
It's been the craziest 6 months, and a lot of what I thought made me who I am has been taken away. So many things that I thought were important to me, like my freaking sexy hair or my energy, were suddenly gone. I can't describe what that's like, but it's hard. I've had to really evaluate who I am and what I want, and I'm taking some time to get used to the changes. Plus it's an excuse to wear a fluffy bathrobe, so really, it's a win-win, right?
Then, just to take the relaxation to the next level, I'm spending some time in a cabin far away from blogs and hashtags and oncology appointments.
And thennnn it's back to real life, and I'll have my PET Scan. It will show if the cancer is gone or how effective the treatments have been. The next day I'll meet with a radiologist to review the scans and go over the options. Hopefully (let's all pray!) the cancer will be gone and I won't need radiation, but it's still an option because it lessens the chance that the lymphoma will come back. It's not a great option, though, because the tumor where I'd be most likely to need radiation is nestled right between my heart and my lungs. Little brat. So we will see. If I do radiation, it will be every. single. day. for 4 weeks. So that's exciting.

So that's the 4-1-1. The down low. The scoop. The headlines. All that jazz.
Cheers to making it through chemo! Fingers crossed that radiation doesn't have to be a thing!

Being bald has its perks, I mean, look how great I look as Darth Maul.

A World of Pure Imagination

Sometimes people say things to me like "Wow, only two more rounds of chemo! Piece of cake!" And a little part of me wants to smack them in the face, but a bigger part of me is glad that they don't understand how awful chemo is. Two treatments is still a huge obstacle. As of yesterday, only one more. Something to celebrate, but also still scary and hard.

A lot of people have been asking me what chemo is actually like and what actually happens on chemo days. It's like this big mystery. Somebody gets cancer, and we all know they are getting chemo, but we don't actually have any idea what the chemo is or what it does to them. Soooooo I decided to give you a glimpse into the world of my imagination as we take a journey through a typical chemo day -- told through my thoughts.

Tina's thoughts on a typical chemo day:

Ughhhhhhhhhhhh it's chemo day.
If I just go back to sleep, we can pretend it isn't chemo day, right?
Right.
Ughhhhhhhhhh a text message. Probably someone checking to see if I'm awake.
Yep. If I don't message back, we can pretend it isn't chemo day, right?
Nope.
Ughhhhhhhhh fine I'll get up but I won't be happy about it.
I need to eat something or I'm going to throw up.
I'll eat a healthy breakfast.
All I want for breakfast is butterscotch pudding.
...I have cancer. Butterscotch pudding for breakfast it is!
Why does pudding take so long to make?! Doesn't it know I'm freaking starving?!?
Oh look, the 5 minutes is up. Pudding's done!
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
That was a solid decision. Nailed it!
Ughhhhhhhhhh I have to get dressed.
...It's chemo day...sweatpants it is!
Man I love sweatpants.
I gotta find me a man who loves sweatpants.
And also he has to love bald chicks. That might be harder.
Psh, totes whatevs, I'm rocking this bald head look.
Oh hey there, sexy lady in the mirror, fancy meeting you here!
Nope, didn't work, still kinda ugly.
I'm so going to throw up.
Welp. I'm dressed.
I can't do this. I don't want to do this. I hate this.
Look, a text.
Well here come the tears, that text was exactly what I needed.
Friends always know. Man I have the best friends.
Maybe I can do this.
OH CRAP I forgot to put my numbing cream on!   [[Side note: Before each treatment I put numbing cream on my surgically implanted port so that when they jam a giant needle in my chest it doesn't make me see stars. But it only works if you remember to put it on...]]
Dang it, Tina, get it together!
Well better late than never, I guess.
We don't have any seran wrap, so I'll just cover my port in this press-and-seal wrap. That's probably fine, right?
I can't do this. I so can't do this. I can't do this.
Ugh I need an ativan or I'm going to throw up. Or faint.
Dang it, Tina, where did you put the medicine??
Oh, right. On the bookshelf. Because that makes perfect sense.
I wonder if Michelle is ready to drive me to chemo.
Oh look, she's dressed and ready. Dang it. That means we have to leave.
Let's stop at Walmart for some chocolate. I deserve chocolate.
Mmmmmmmmmm chocolate.
I should probably go for a jog.
I'll go for a jog tomorrow.
Today I'm eating chocolate. Get over it, you super fit people.
We're totally going to be late to chemo.
We could just keep driving and pretend chemo doesn't exist.
for reals.
Let's just go to the airport and catch a plane.
Fiiiiiiiine I'll go to chemo and live or whatever.
I still might throw up.
Oh look, we're here. Great.
Smile at the other people in the waiting room like we're not all waiting to get poisoned.
It's the polite thing to do.
Time for the weigh in and vitals.
Stupid blood pressure cuff is going to rip off my arm.
Oh good, my heart's still beating. Woot woot!
I hate when they put the needle in my port.
"Little poke!" Yeah, how about I give YOU a little poke, nurse? Hmm?
Just kidding I would never do that. Probably.
Oh good, they just took like half of my blood.
Can ya make sure you took the blood with all the cancer??
Hahaha I'm so funny.
And now we wait.
Oh hey, doctor, let's talk about how miserable last treatment made me.
Yes, I was nauseous.
Yes, I was freaking exhausted.
Yes, my feet hurt and I couldn't feel my fingers.
Yes, my appetite was cray-cray-crazy.
Yes, my skin has random dark spots.
Yes, my nails are dying.
Yes, I have bags under my eyes.
Yes, my muscles are embarrassingly weak.
Yes, my balance is off.
Yes, my brain doesn't work and I forget words all the time.
Oh, that's all normal and expected?
GREAT.
Welp, my blood levels look awful...just the usual...let's pump me full of poision again!
Breathe, Tina, this is just the first two bags, the steroid and the anti-nausea.
These bags are your friends!
Maybe I'll just go to sleep.
Crap, the first two bags are empty.
Time for the real fun.
I might throw up.
Here comes the Bleomycin.
This one's not so bad at first - just causes all the side effects.
Stupid bleomycin. Why'd I ever name my stuffed leopard after you anyway?
Crap, The bleomycin's done.
Time for the red death...Adriamycin.
Oh shit, here comes the chemo taste.
Swallow, Tina, swallow.
Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up.
Where's my bubble gum?! I need my bubble gum.
Okay, I almost can't taste it through this bubble gum.
Maybe I can do this.
Let's go on Facebook and look at pictures of cute boys.
Distraction....might work.
Nope, not working.
Here comes #3...Vinblastine.
More chemo taste.
Chew the bubble gum, Tina.
Close your eyes and block it out.
Ugh, not working.
Oh good, we're on #4...Dacarbazine.
This one lasts an hour, but doesn't taste as bad.
Now I can try to sleep for an hour.
Ugh, the guy next to me is snoring.
There goes the sleep option.
Maybe I'll text that cute boy.
Oh yeah, great idea, Tina, and say what? "Oh hey, just hooked up to chemo and thinking about you?!"
That's a great opener. Not.
No, nurse, I do not want a cupcake.
Unless you want me to throw up that cupcake all over you.
Which you probably don't.
Sorry for thinking that, nurse.
I'll try not to throw up on you. Or on me.
Oh good, I'm done.
Now let's see if I can walk straight.
Ughhhhhhhhh I feel so heavy and gross.
Probably the 3 pounds of poison I have running through my veins.
Okay, Tina, focus on walking. And not falling over.
Just make it to the car.
Made it.
Breathe, Tina.
Chew the bubble gum.
You made it.
Only one more to go.
Get ready to be sick and hate life for the next 4 days.


So that's it. That's a typical chemo day. Not the best, not the worst. Almost the worst.
I have one more treatment planned. Prayers are always appreciated!

Oh, and here is a hauntingly beautiful picture of me taken by the AMAZINGLY TALENTED Kynsie Rife. She captured the pain and hurt and loss that cancer has brought into my life, and I'm in love with the pictures she took. Enjoy. :)

Good Spirits!

Everything is awesome! Everything is cool when you're part of a team! Everything is awesome when you're living our dream!

Sorry for the Lego Movie Song moment that just happened there. #sorrynotsorry

It's legit though! This week we moved into our super adult, super beautiful house that Michelle bought with her very own money. I'm in love and I never want to leave my room because it's beautiful. That's a true story. And there are ducks everywhere outside, which makes leaving my beautiful room worth it. Living the dream.

With a new house comes a new ward and church location and all that jazz. Today was my first time at the new ward because I was sick from chemo last week when the roomies went to church. I went to the meeting for new ward members like a good child, and when I told them that I have cancer (which nicely explained my super sexy black Audrey Hepburn hat they kept staring at), one of the men said, "Well, you seem to be in really good spirits!" And I was like, "haha, yeah I guess."

But then I realized something crazy: I actually AM in really good spirits! Which is crazy! Because really, if I think about it, my life is kind of super lame right now and I sort of hate it. I still have 2 treatments to go, I have to wait a month after my last treatment to find out if it even worked so I'm going to be an emotional mess for a month, I'm pretty much narcoleptic and sleep all the freaking time, and I more closely resemble a potato than a real person. Not exactly the best time of my life, but screw it. Because today I'm happy. 

Today is AMAZING. Today I'm just, like, giggling-to-myself-for-no-real-reason happy. Today I feel strong and I can do anything. Today I feel beautiful. Do you know how long it's been since I felt beautiful?!? Today I am excited for the future. EXCITED. I'm excited to see what happens and what doesn't and how life is going to work out! I don't even remember the last time I was excited about the future! Mostly I've just been worried and scared - but not today. Today I'm just stoked out of my mind because life is freaking wonderful! Today I'm smiling because my new ward seems awesome, because a cute guy helped me find Jupiter last night, because my makeup was on point today, because ducks crossed the road in front of my car this morning, and because of so many other silly, little, ridiculous reasons. It's a great feeling. And I know that this excitement and this little emotional high I have going on has an expiration date because I have chemo on Friday, but that makes it even more special because I realize how rare it is. It doesn't even matter why I'm happy - It just means so much to remember that I am even capable of feeling this happy. I'm really good at smiling for people and I laugh all the time, but how long has it been since I've laughed and smiled when I'm alone, just because I'm honestly feeling it? Way too long. 

Anyway, I just wanted to document this happy day so I can look back on it when I'm feeling like a lumpy little potato on the couch. I'm going camping this week and I'm going to look at so many stars and write my novel and sketch and just generally love my life. See ya later, gater!

And just in case you missed it, here's my super-not-redneck chemo hair from last week. 

What, No Unicorns?

If you are someone whose life is going 100% according to plan, you have absolutely no worries, and you're currently riding on a unicorn eating rainbows, this is not the post for you. So just go sit on your unicorn and be happy in the corner.

BUT, if you are someone whose life is maaaybe going like 62% according to plan on a good day, and your mind is full of all kinds of worries, and you've never even seen a real unicorn, you might need this post.

Listen up, little camper. I don't know your life. And even though you read my blog religiously, you don't know my life. You aren't there when I'm crying because of how people look at me at stoplights. You don't know what I'm feeling in the mornings when every step feels like little garden gnomes are kicking my knees. You haven't experienced my pain when I can't remember a word or phrase that I know shouldn't be difficult. You can't understand how intensely sick I get just thinking about chemo. But, like most things, it goes two ways, folks. I'm not there when you're up at two in the morning stressing about your love life. I don't know what you're feeling when you go to a job where you aren't appreciated. I haven't experienced your pain when you find out that you aren't pregnant. I can't understand how worried you are not finding a job. Like I said, you don't know my life, and I don't know yours.

Guess what, though? I don't think that really matters. Not in the long run. It's hard and it's sad to experience things like that, and I wish there was a magic antidote, but there just isn't. I'm really sorry if this is a spoiler, but life can suck and so far I haven't seen any unicorns. Guess what I have seen? People. People who make every sad, hard, difficult thing worth it because they are magical and beautiful and *cough* even better than unicorns.

My 7th graders read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton at the end of the school year. If you haven't read it, you've spared yourself some tears but you're also missing out on an amazing book. There's a part in the story where a boy reads a letter that was written to him by a friend before this friend died. In the letter, he reads, "There's still a lot of good in the world. Tell Dally. I don't think he knows."

There's still a lot of good in the world. 

That one sentence has been stuck in my mind for months, and it's kind of become my new mantra because it's freaking awesome. When I'm sitting in the chemo chair trying to forget where I am, I think, there's still a lot of good in the world, and I focus on making it through those few hours. When I wake up and can't think of a reason to get out of bed and try, I think, there's still a lot of good in the world, and I buck up and find something to do. When I watch the news and just want to slap everyone in the face for being stupid, I think, there's still a lot of good in the world, and I want to slap them a little less.

We have to focus on the good. There's so much bad in the world and in our lives that it clouds out everything else. It makes it so hard to find happy moments and reasons to keep going, but the good is there. The bad in the world tends to yell and shove itself in your face. The good is quieter. It's always there, behind the hurt and the sadness, but it doesn't broadcast itself. We don't hear about good on the news everyday and it's not blowing up our Facebook feeds. Why? Because so often the good that gives us the strength to keep going isn't some huge, newsworthy event. The good parts of life come to us in little moments, little glimpses when we can see just how wonderful life can be. Moments like driving through a field of Aspen trees and loving the wind on your face. Moments like hearing a song that somehow matches exactly how you're feeling. Moments like laughing with a car full of friends because they hate laundry too. Moments like buying 7 things of shaved ice and spilling them all over the car on the drive home. Moments like flirting with a drop-dead gorgeous man. Moments like laughing uncontrollably at stupid internet puns. Moments like eating half a watermelon with a fork. Moments like looking around at a family barbecue and realizing you're so lucky that these people are yours. Just moments. Those little things that make you smile and make your heart beat a little faster - look for those moments!

It's okay to have hard days. It's normal to have worries. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one whose life is going maybe 62% according to plan. I can't know and can't take away all of your hard times. Heck, I can't even do that for myself. But what I can do is tell you that there's still a lot of good in the world. Keep going. If you didn't find a happy moment today, look for one tomorrow. Call a friend who makes you smile. Read your favorite book. Watch a Will Smith movie. Jump into a pool. I can't promise you'll find unicorns, but I do know that you can find the good if you look hard enough. Find the good. And once you find it, help someone else find it, too, because maybe their good is hiding behind a wall of bad. We can't let each other forget that the good is still out there. Who knows? Maybe you can be the good in someone's day. Be the person who reminds them that there's still good in the world. There's always a reason to smile and there's always a reason to keep fighting. That's pretty magical. Maybe even more magical than a unicorn.

Here's a picture of us eating watermelon. Just, ya know, for your viewing pleasure. Also, I do not have a unibrow - that's just my glasses mocking my lack of eyebrow hair.

Just keepin ya up to date!

Break out your party hats, you happy people, because we are almost done with chemo!! I've completed 9 treatments and have 3 more. For those of us that aren't into the whole math scene, that's 3/4 of the way done! Can I get a WOOT WOOT?!? Isn't that wonderful?? I'm super excited because, come on, only 3 more treatments?! I got this in the bag.

After my treatments are finished, which should be July 29, we have to wait a month and then we will do a PET Scan to see if the cancer is gone. And we're just gonna bank on the fact that it will be gone and then we'll be done! :)

Hots and Colds

Life is like a freaking roller coaster! It's SO exciting and SO scary and SO wonderful and SO crazy all wrapped up in one crazy adventure!

I don't really know how I'm feeling about cancer right now, because I'm so up and down about it. It just depends on the day. Or the hour. Or the minute. It's normal. Don't believe me? Here are some highs and lows. These are real things, people. Real. Things.

High: Rocking my Audrey Hepburn hat and getting alllll the likes on the social media. Talk about validation, amiright?!
Low: Looking in the mirror at my bald head, scars, bags under my eyes, and my pale skin, and legitimately feeling textbook-definition-ugly for the first time in my life.

High: Everyone constantly saying how they love you and will always be there for you.
Low: Not wanting to call anyone when you're crying at two in the morning because you can only ask so much of people.

High: Accomplishing a whole lot at school!
Low: Trying to take out the trash, not being able to lift it, and collapsing in tears on the floor.

This is not a picnic. Or if it is, it's the worst freaking picnic ever. I've learned a lot about life and people, though. That sounds like a total cliche, and maybe it is, but it's also totally true. I've learned that sometimes the people who you thought would always be there for you flake out when you need them most. The people you thought would have your back don't even return your calls, and that's really, really, really hard. But on the opposite side, I've learned that sometimes people surprise you. The people you haven't been the best friend to come out of nowhere and give you support and love you couldn't even have imagined. Your real-life BFF's don't give up on you even when you're sad and no fun, and they cry and laugh and call even when you don't want to talk. Your family reaches out and makes sure you aren't ever really alone. People are genuinely GOOD inside, and that is awesome and something that cancer can't take away. I've also learned how important it is to have a purpose and something to fight for. When you're told that you actually have to fight for your life, you kinda wonder why. For me, at least, it made me step back and think about what matters to me and why I love living. Again, sounds cliche, but 100% real. Maybe one day I'll let you in on what I decided about my purpose in life. If you're lucky. ;)

It's a tough ride, people. But guess what? The school year is almost over and I am finishing the year with TWO AND A HALF UNUSED PAID DAYS OFF. This is big. This is like my-pride-and-joy big. When I was diagnosed, I was so worried that I would have to take a leave of absence from teaching because first year teachers don't have short term disability. I had already used one of my sick days, and I used like 4 more on tests and surgeries before treatment even started. That meant I went into chemo with only 9 paid days off I could take. If I used those, I could take a few unpaid days off, but then a leave of absence was really the only option. But guess what, I'm a freaking rock star and I only took one day off after each chemo treatment! And I have no idea how I did it. I do know that pretty much every day since the beginning of chemo I have fought with myself to get out of bed, fought through the day at work, and then come home to take a bath and go to sleep. But I did it! I made it through with paid days to spare. DAYS TO SPARE, PEOPLE. Not to brag, but like, that's super impressive. I'm pretty impressed with myself about that, and I think that's okay, because when you're legit too weak to lift a pickle jar, you gotta find something to be proud of. Suck it, lymphoma.

Hey You Guys!

It's been a while since I posted, because honestly I forgot I had a blog for a few days! How do you forget you have a blog, you ask? Well, try a severe case of chemo brain combined with the end of my first year teaching. Plus I've been writing in my super secret diary like a crazy 7th grader, so I haven't felt the need to write on the blog.

But here I am, writing on the blog again! Want to know something crazy I learned? When I don't write on the blog for a while, there are people who get anxiety and think I'm dying, which is rough. So here's an update!

I had chemo #6 a week and a half ago and the side effects haven't been nearly as bad as chemo #5, so that's super wonderful! Plus my a-maz-ing BFF Farrari knows a dealer and got me some stuff that's really helped. Oh stop your judging people, obviously I'm talking about essential oils. What were you thinking I meant?? ;)
Frankincense has worked wonders on my neuropathy in my feet and peppermint helps with practically everything else, so it's been rockin!

My school held their lymphoma society fundraiser and it was the BEST and I will write about it later.

I'll have chemo #7 on Friday. That's in two days. Gross. I get really nauseous even thinking about it, so Michelle is going to drive me. If she drives me, it means I get to take an anti-anxiety pill before we go, so that will help and life will be good!

I have 7 more days of teaching this year. WHAAAAAAAT. Summer is calling my name, and I'm going to enjoy it all covered up to avoid the sunlight and all isolated to avoid crazy crowds and too sleepy to do anything crazy... yeah... it's gonna be a summer to remember!

...Only 5 more chemos after Friday. And only 67 days until mom and I run our 5K. Watch out, finish line, here we come!!

How to Parent an Adult with Cancer: 401

Cancer is hard! It's hard for me and it's hard for my family. Luckily, I'm surrounded by champs! I do wish there had been some kind of warning label for them before this all started so they knew what they were getting into. So, in true teacher fashion, I created a mock syllabus on what to expect as a parent of a cancer sicky. Enjoy. Or don't. Your choice. ;)

Welcome to the advanced course of How to Parent an Adult with Cancer: 401. If you have not already taken the prerequisite courses (How to Parent a Bald, Chubby Baby: 101, How to Parent a Rambunctious Child: 201, and How to Parent a Stubborn Teenage Girl: 301), this class will be beyond your skill level. Expect this course to include late nights, tears, and plenty of driving time. The course may not be fun, but if we all follow the syllabus, we'll make it through.

Required Materials for this course include:

1. Textbook: The Book of Mormon, The New Testament, The Pearl of Great Price, and The Doctrine and Covenants will be used extensively. The Old Testament will be referred to occasionally, but as it is rather dense, it will not be required reading. You will also be required to conduct multiple internet searches on topics like lymphoma, chemotherapy, and remedies for side effects.

2. Class Fees: The cost of this class varies from month to month, so be prepared to dedicate substantial financial means to your success. Anticipated expenses include: gas money, chemo foods, carpet cleaning supplies, and cheese sticks. Lots of cheese sticks.

Class Assignments:

You will be assigned multiple roles. As this course is happening in real time, assignments are subject to change and the instructor reserves the right to alter or add to the assignment list at any time.

1. Written Reports: Once a week, you will be contacted and asked for information that, more than likely, you don't have. Use your required reading and the internet to compile your answers. Sample questions might include topics such as: sleeping aids, how electricity works, insurance issues, chemo side effects, how to remove the smell of vomit from a car, etc. After compiling your answers, proofread them for correctness. These reports will be delivered via text message.

2. Interpersonal Communication: You will be expected to update and correspond with countless people who are interested in your child's well being. Don't be surprised when you are stopped at the grocery store, church, the gym, work, or your own living room by someone asking, "How is insert child's name here doing??" You need to be prepared with an answer for each person that is polite, honest, positive, and appropriately serious. Throughout the course, you will learn how to alter your answer to fit the following three kinds of people: (1) the curious bystander who will repeat everything you say in their weekly gossip meeting, (2) the caring neighbor who is actually willing to help and listen, and (3) the person who doesn't realize your child has cancer and is about to be emotionally traumatized.

3. Cleaning Assignments: A required part of this course is easing your child's burden, and much of that comes through cleaning. When you visit your child's home, you can expect to clean up messes the likes of which you haven't seen since course 101 - the toddler section. You will also be taking loads of laundry home to wash, dry, fold, and then bring back so that your child doesn't look like a hobo in dirty clothes.

4. Emergency Phone Calls: Due to the nature of this course, you can expect to experience emergency phone calls at every hour of the day. How you respond to these situations will have a great impact on your grade in this course. For example, when your child calls you from outside of chemo sobbing because she has just thrown up all over her beautiful car and is too sick to walk, the ideal response is to hop in your shiny new truck with a carpet cleaner, pick up an aunt along the way, and drive straight to chemo. Take the sick child home and then spend your day cleaning the vomit out of her car as she sleeps. Hey, no one said this class was going to be easy. If you want easy, switch classes now and take "How to Parent a Self-Sufficient Adult who Can Handle Their Own Problems: 101." 

*This syllabus is subject to change due to chemo scheduling, unexpected side effects, mood swings, emotional traumas, or laziness.*

FYI: I give my parents an A+. And I never give A+'s. Just ask my students.

What is Cancer Like? ... Part 2

Hopefully today I'll meet my HALFWAY POINT of chemo treatments. (It was supposed to be last Friday, but instead I had the worst day of my life, because why not?) It's exciting and terrifying. Terrifying because it's been a real life struggle and the second half is going to get worse. I read my first "What is cancer like?" post and realized that it's changed a little since then, so I made another list for you!

Here's more cancer according to Tina:

1. Cancer is finding a balance between being too hot with a hat and too cold without a hat.

2. Cancer is realizing you won't have long, beautiful hair for years.

3. Cancer is not high-fiving people because they have germs.

4. Cancer is lifting the pickle jar out of the fridge with shaking arms and almost dropping it.

5. Cancer is smiling and saying "I'm feeling good!" to everyone you've ever met.

6. Cancer is staring at the ceiling at 3 am. Every night.

7. Cancer is being nauseous whenever you think about chemo.

8. Cancer is looking at vacation destinations on the internet and promising yourself you'll see them in person.

9. Cancer is thinking twice about everything because what if I meet God sooner than I thought?

10. Cancer is not being able to make death jokes without traumatizing people.

11. Cancer is eating the same food over and over again.

12. Cancer is scheduling days when you know you'll be sick.

13. Cancer is having your face on posters all around your school.

14. Cancer is realizing that every little moment is precious and beautiful.

15. Cancer is laughing at things that honestly shouldn't be funny.

16. Cancer is choosing what is really important and focusing on what matters most.

The Real MVP.

Sometimes you have a sister who is 3 years older than you and you get along perfectly your entire lives and you’ve never fought and you are like the exact same person and your parents call you the dream team.

*ahem* enter reality *ahem*

Sometimes you have a sister who is 3 years older than you and as kids you have to share a room and you divide the room in half so they won’t go on your side and you don’t have to clean up the other person’s mess. Sometimes you and your sister are as different as could be, but you both like Harry Potter and Theo James. Sometimes you and your sister are roomies in your twenties and everyone takes bets on how long you’ll last before you kill each other, but *surprise* you’re both still alive!

That’s because Michelle is the real MVP.

I know what you’re thinking. Michelle is soooo lucky to have Tina as a roommate! I bet Tina is just the perfect person to live with!

You’re not wrong. Except that I rarely cook edible food, I hate wearing pants, I’m in a serious relationship with my bed, our whole pantry is full of pickle popcorn, I have full-on-kicking-my-feet-face-down-on-the-ground tantrum moments, I eat Michelle’s Fruit Tootsie Rolls, I never put her DVD’s away in alphabetical order, I only load the dishwasher if I have absolutely nothing else to do, I unplug everything all the time so it doesn’t burn our house down (including her computer that is charging), I almost left the stove burner on this morning before work, and I think laundry is worse than cancer. Other than that, I’m the perfect roommate.

Being serious, though, Michelle is the very best. Like, cancer sucks and I get that it’s hard for my friends and my family to deal with, but Michelle is the one who has to deal with me every. Single. Day. So this girl needs some serious recognition.

She’s the one who has to check on me in the mornings before work to make sure I’m awake - which means she gets up early on days she doesn’t have to just so I can haul my lazy, good-looking bum out of bed. That’s a big deal.

She acts like it’s normal that I talk to my fish. And my phone. And my bed. And my stuffed animal.

She goes to game nights and parties and ward activities on her own because I’m too sick or too tired.

She is always going to the store and buying whatever sounds good to me at the moment because I’m basically a crazy person when it come to my appetite.

She puts up with my crazy mood swings.

She makes me food even after she’s been working all day.

She lets me take over the living room and watch movies and do puzzles.

She pays the rent, on time, EVERY MONTH. Like, if it were up to me to remember, we’d be living in a box with hobo Joe.

She makes sure I don’t overdose on medication.

She usually doesn’t tell me gross poop stories or stories about brain drains while I’m eating.

She comes home from a long day at work and lets me go to bed at 7 pm just because I’m tired and she’s the greatest.

She lets me write her profile on dating websites. Which, by the way, I am rocking at, and I will gladly offer my profile-writing-services for a small fee.

She doesn’t even draw on my face when I fall asleep during every single movie we watch.

She throws away all the weird food I buy in my chemo-stupor and then never eat.

She cleans the house when people are coming over.

She goes all the way to the office to get my packages like a super sexy mail carrier. *Men - she’s available!*

She drives all the way to my work in the middle of the day when I forget my mouth spray and I’m dying. (Not literally dying. You get cancer and suddenly no one thinks dying jokes are funny anymore. It's the weirdest thing.)

She calls me from the grocery store to make sure the food she wants to make won’t make me throw up.

She keeps me from buying twenty bags of lettuce for our munch-n-mingles because obviously three is plenty.

She lets me wear her whole closet. And by “lets me wear” I mean I go to her closet after she leaves for work and decide what I want to wear that day, and then she doesn’t kill me when she comes home and I’m modeling all of her clothes.

I’m not even a little bit exaggerating when I say that I don’t think I could survive this whole cancer thing without Michelle. That’s the real, honest truth. She is incredibly strong and kind at the same time and I’m the luckiest person on this here earth to have her as my big sister. I want to be Michelle* when I grow up.

*Minus the icky gross nursing part of her life. Besides that, I want to be Michelle when I grow up.