One

It starts with just one cell. In every human body, there are trillions and trillions of cells, but it only takes one. One cell that for some unknown reason mutates and goes rogue. Maybe the reason is genetic, or maybe environmental. Maybe it's completely random, but regardless this cell mutates and begins to reproduce itself rapidly. Depending on the specific mutation, it can take weeks, months, or even years, for that one cell to become millions of cells. In the beginning, it goes unnoticed and in general causes no symptoms, but eventually as the millions of cell continue to rapidly multiply, eventually another cell mutates again, and begins to multiply in a completely different place in a completely different organ. Eventually, the body begins to react to these Benedict Arnold cells, which have effectively begun a war against itself. For different mutations, there are different symptoms, ranging from pain to fatigue, to physical lump, and eventually is detected.

It is cancer.

When the doctor utters those words in your presence, it's liked being socked in the gut. Your ears buzz as the doctor starts talking about treatment and prognosis, but inside you're still coming to terms with that word. Cancer. How did this happen? Why? Am I going to die. Your mind is flooded with questions, some of which perhaps the doctor is answering but you don't notice. It's hard not to feel as if your own body has betrayed you, because it has.

It is fortunate that I have been able to survive all the rounds a harsh chemotherapy that it takes if you are going to wage war against those rogue cells that, left unchecked, will eventually kill you. I survived. My mother didn't. My friend Donna didn't. Thousands of others won't this year. But as a survivor, I am left with guilt. With distrust. Will the body that betrayed me once betray me again? Have we won the war, or merely the battle? I choose to believe the latter, but deep down I can't help but remember....It starts with just one cell.

Puppy Love

Ever since Justin and I moved out to California, we felt like our lives were missing something. We are, unequivocally, dog people, and we pined for a pooch, but we didn't live in a place where we could have a dog. Then, out of the blue, our landlord decided to change his "no pets" policy, and allow us to get a dog. We were ecstatic! From the beginning, we knew that we wanted to adopt a dog, so we began to search on the internet and at adoption events for our perfect pup. I had a general idea of what we were looking for. We agreed that we wanted a girl dog because, I'm sorry, but boy dogs are gross. They're always humping things and marking things.....no, I wanted a girl. Also, due to the space restrictions of living in a condo, we also decided that a small dog would be more appropriate, even though Justin was more naturally drawn to big dogs. Finally, we decided that we should adopt an older, adult dog, so that we didn't have to go through all the rigmarole or house training a puppy. And so, we searched. After a week or two, we found a little dog that seemed to meet our criteria, or at least most of them. He, that was the first criteria he didn't meet, was a small daschund/beagle mix, and he was an adult. His name was Buster, and we put in an application to adopt him, but we were rejected. They wanted him to go to a home that had other dogs. Dejected, we went home empty-handed.

Then, one day a couple of weeks later, we went to Petsmart to check out the dogs that were up for adoption, and made a pass by the different crates and enclosures, but saw nothing that particularly seemed to be the right dog for us. Except.....there was a small pen containing two black and white puppies. Of course, we didn't want a puppy, but....they sure were cute. Justin walked over to the pen, and the little white one, who had two black eyes, jumped up and began gnawing on part of the pen. Justin said to me, "What about these two?" We looked at them, and they were very cute, but they were puppies. And they were a cross between an English Bulldog and a Standard Poodle. I reminded him that we weren't going to get a puppy, and this 6 month old puppy was already 27 lbs. On the info sheet, it said that she was a boy, but a quick inspection informed us that they were incorrect. It was a girl.

To make a long story short, Justin picked up this puppy, she snarfled his face, and we applied to adopt her. The adoption people called her Oakley, because she looked like she was wearing sunglasses, but we renamed her Bailey. Bailey the Boodle, half bulldog, half poodle, only fit one or our criteria. I had to potty train her, and teach her not to eat my things. She weighs 52 lbs now that she is fully grown. But we love her. She makes my life better. I take care of her every day, taking her to the park, walking her, feeding her, and petting her. She inconveniences our lives many days, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. Right now, she is lying at our feet, chewing on a rope, harassing us to take her to the dog park. And she just farted and it smells terrible. But having her around is everything we ever hoped it would be and more. She makes us smile ever day. Bailey is our puppy love.

Mother Mine

Yesterday was a day for mothers. A day when we scramble to find a way to show our mothers at least a small fraction of our love for her. For me, however, Mother's day is bittersweet, because my mother has been dead now seven years. Almost exactly seven years to be exact, because she died on May 29, 2003. That makes May a particularly emotional month for me, because it is punctuated with reminders of her absence. Part of me always wants to wallow in self pity this month, but as the years have passed, it just doesn't seem useful.

Instead, I just want to remember her better. I want to hold on to memories more than I want to hold onto my hurt and anger. So I've been thinking about some of my favorite memories. I remember how she used to make dinner every night and wait for my dad to come home. (This was in the time before cell phones were ubiquitous.) She would wait and wait and wait, and finally she would sigh with exasperation and tell us that we would go ahead and eat without him. Of course, no sooner did she issue that pronouncement, his truck would pull into the driveway.

There was the time when my sister told my mother in church, very loudly I might add, that her lipstick made her look like a floozy. This was a concept she picked up from my grandmother, who told her that she shouldn't wear bright red lipstick because it would make her look like a floozy.

And of course, there was the time when mom decided to cook a brisket overnight for the next day. Unfortunately, she turned the heat up way to high in the oven, and we all woke up in the middle of the night to screeching smoke detectors and a house filled with the stench of burning meat. By the time the brisket was removed from the oven, it resembled a charcoal briquette more than a piece of beef.

My mother was kind and funny and determined. She was brave and giving and had a great heart. I love her so much, and I still miss her, but I am determined to hold on to her memory. I am determined to remember the best of her and to apply the things she taught me to my own life. So, as I endured my own PET scan this morning for my own cancer, I tried to emulate her own grace under fire and her trust that the right thing would happen.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.