The tutu

I haven't written in a few weeks. I haven't felt well. Usually, my New Normal is not that great anyway. But I can't even seem to reach my New Normal.
I felt bad enough (vomiting and dizzy) I actually called my oncologist.
"Yeah, he wants you to come in," the nurse on the phone said. I go in Monday.
I had planned to walk in the survivor lap for the York/Poquoson Relay for Life last week. I even made an orange tutu (like you see runners wearing sometimes) that I had planned to wear. It looks awesome.
But I didn't get to go. And it ticks me off.
And then I beat myself up because I think I sound ungrateful for all that I do have. My proverbial cup overflows. I realize this. I try to model a gracious and grateful attitude for our kids. I have been and continue to be blessed beyond belief.
But today, right now, I'm just ticked off.
Damn cancer.

So, I put on my orange tutu and took some pictures. My sister in Tennessee says I should wear it everywhere I go for, at least, a week. We'll see.

Patti in her tutu.

Go Team Patticakes.

Fear and loathing from the back side of 40

Birthday flowers.

Today is my birthday. 

I say that not because I want songs, or presents or recognition (although I did get all these things today) but because there was a time I wasn't sure I'd actually be here for today.

I have been trying to discover my New Normal while living with a cancer diagnosis since October. 

I remember the doctor's declaration distinctly. 

"You have leukemia."

Wait, what? 

"Leukemia." 

That's cancer, right, of the blood? You can't be serious. Cancer killed my first husband and now you're telling me I have it, too? How am I ever going to tell my kids?

What went through my mind?
Fear. Fear of the unknown future. Fear that there won't BE a future.

My brain immediately starts spinning and spouting off worst-case scenarios.

I'm going to die (not anytime soon).

My hair will fall out (eh, it changed, got thinner).

I'll need a bone marrow transplant (nope, only if the Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills stop working).

They'll admit me to the hospital (nope).

I'm going to die (not anytime soon).

Thanksgiving came. I watched from the couch, huddled in blankets, suffering from the effects of the Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills as my children prepared all our traditional dishes. My mind slipping into thoughts of "What if this is my last Thanksgiving?"

Which quickly became "What if this is my last Christmas?"

And then "What if this is the last ..."

Looking back now I realize it was fear driving the bus. And here's what I figured out: If I let fear drive me around I will end up frozen. So frozen, in fact, that I'll be unable to experience what's happening right in front of me. I'll miss it. All of it. 

The thing is, if I focus on the "what if ..." I realized I will miss out on the Right Now.

So, with a little help from Isiah 41:10, I told fear to get on the bus and go. 

"Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. 

I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

My New Normal is going to take some getting used to. But I do know that I want to be a participant in this New Normal and not a spectator. Today I got to experience my first birthday since my diagnosis and it's been my best birthday yet.  It's been complete with flowers, friends, singing phone calls, a massage, baked goodies, chocolates, laughter, and the love of my amazing family. It won't be my last.