It Even Rains in LA (+ one more true story)

Yesterday I received the reality check of stepping into a cancer center for the first time. Upon arrival, I also received a wrist band that would be used to identify myself. This will now be the routine as I spend significant time there ~ years at this point.

M nerves were lit with uncertainty and fear as I sat in the waiting room. The weight of worry rested right on my chest as I glanced down at the ring around my wrist. I needed to find calm so I told myself the band was just a VIP backstage pass to my favorite concert.

After all, that's where this whole journey began...

This past March I had planned for a dream-come true: a double VIP trip to see my favorite band, LANY, in concert. The first concert was scheduled in Los Angeles, CA on Saturday, March 23. I had a flight booked for early that Saturday morning, drop time in LA by 9am, reservation at Sonder Lum hotel and VIP tix waiting. My quick-turnaround flight was planned for Sunday morning with subsequent obsessive plans to head to Minneapolis on March 26 for the band's next concert. After that, I had designed my recovery trip ~ a solo visit to Grand Marais, MN to hike, write and be entirely alone.

The plan was in place & I was ready to go until ~

a few days prior to leaving for LA, a recurring thought of "something bad" happening wouldn't get off my shoulder. More specifically, I kept hearing, "you are going to get yourself into something you can't get out of". I examined this thought deeply; I am intuitive-driven so I always hear my heart and mind when they won't shut up.

I cancelled my LA trip 36 hours prior to departure and decided I would still go north a few days later and be a little closer to home.

In lieu of LA, I spent time with my family that weekend. I was more glad than disappointed, and on Tuesday, I headed to Minneapolis to have the long-awaited-time-of-my-life.

Just like I imagined, I danced and sang to every single lyric and song and did, indeed, have the time of my life. It was an evening of moments I had been waiting for so very long and it was my adventurous, independent spirit that had gotten me there.

I went back to the hotel that night and could not sleep! I laid there and rewatched every video I had taken. I watched them over & over again. When I say I love this band, I mean I LOVE THEM. I eventually fell asleep, dream-having-been-achieved.

The next morning, I didn't get out of bed to workout at the hotel gym or go for a morning walk. In fact, I went back to sleep for an extra hour. Maybe that doesn't sound like a big deal to many, but to me, it is outside the bounds of my being.

I explained this non-workout morning away as a 2-am bedtime consequence ~ after all, that is also outside the typical bounds of my being.

I packed up and headed further north, eager to grab the remains of my well-planned trip.

As I drove, I grew increasingly knowing that I still didn't feel right.

I am a dancer, singer, shouter on solo road trips. This time, I was quiet.

I arrived in the most beautiful cabin overlooking Lake Superior. I was happy, but it was different. On any other trip, I would have dropped my bags, thrown on my hiking boots on and run out to explore for hours. This time, I took a quick & still-excited walk around the property and decided I would make dinner and enjoy the view with book-in-hand.

The ill-feeling remained the next morning, but I kept pushing for my way of life. I drove to the Canada border and did a 4-hour hike, stopping to rest far more than usual.

I still walked the sweet streets of Grand Marais ~ hit the library, attempted to drink a flight at the local brewery, but ultimately opted to go back to the cabin instead of sitting outside to watch the waves crash against the rocks.

The confirmed suggestion of "I am not okay" arrived at 2am on the second night. I awoke in the middle of the night to the clearest, most beautiful sky and a full moon resting over a most crystal-clear Lake Superior. It was life-altering kind of beauty.

Yet again, I found myself out of bounds of my being. I sat up in bed, got teary with the world's gifts and immediately found myself confused by why I couldn't get out of bed, throw my boots on and go explore for hours on end. My normal self would have been out the door before I could even squeal with excitement. On this particular night, I felt like the only thing I could do was go back to sleep.

I don't know if it was because I was by myself or because I was surrounded in silence. Maybe it was both. Either way, I could hear my body calling. All I can say, even to this day, was that I knew something wasn't right.

My drive home was my first reality check. I had a very honest conversation with myself. I reminded myself that I was 47-years old and not invincible. I reminded myself that I had only been to the doctor on a few rare occasions recently when I broke out with a rash or had an ache. My physicals over the past 5 years had been sporadic at best and with nobody consistent, just whomever was available.

When I arrived home, I called an in-the-medical-field-friend and asked them to recommend the best physician they knew. I called immediately upon the recommendation. This physician was well-respected enough that an appointment was 3-months out. At that point, and a few days after getting home, I was returning to my normal & recognizable self. 3 months-out felt exactly right. I would check-in on July 2.

I put the date on my calendar, felt grateful for feeling better and moved on with a life I love.

July 2 changed my world for both the worse and the better.

July 2 led to a July 25 mammogram & ultrasound.

July 25 led to an August 1 biopsy.

August 1 led to an August 2 phone call confirming a breast-cancer diagnosis on my left side,

(with the radiologist demanding that I repeat the words, 'small & slow-growing', back to her)

August 2 led to an August 8 MRI.

August 8 led to an August 15 MRI biopsy to check spots on the right side of my chest.

August 15 led to an August 16 phone call confirming that there is absolutely no cancer on my right side

(with the radiologist also asking me, "do you know how lucky you are?")

My answer to her was yes, I do know how lucky I am. We both know.

There was no way for me to know that I had breast cancer. Zero lumps, zero signs, zero-zilch-nothing.

There is no reason that this diagnosis should have or could have ever been caught early.

And there was no reason to believe that my right side would come out clear.

There was no audible, visible chance that I could be here.

But, here I am, with this reality to work with.

The first song I listen to EVERY DAY right now is "It Even Rains in LA" by LANY.

(And if I might share, this is also the artist that got me through the past month, through all those biopsies & MRIs. I asked for that band, and only that band, to be played through the headphones they put on you to cancel out the noise and the fear of those procedures. Every time they said, you're going in for 4 more minutes, 7 more minutes, 15 more minutes, I knew how to measure that time in lyrics and remain calm - I could picture myself dancing on March 26 in Minneapolis).

I listen to this particular song every day right now because it reminds me that life is unfair and that disappointment is part of the game none of us can escape. More importantly, it reminds me what this season of life has in store for me...

"You're out of breath, you're out of reasons. You're out there looking for a sign of significance. Got nothing left, you're out of feelings. You're out there screaming at the sky, what's the point of this?"

I often get pointed at for being too positive and, quite frankly, I don't care. Positivity does not mean un-terrified or un-sad or un-mad or un-tired. It means that I literally don't know how to get to the pessimistic side of any life circumstance - if I do go there, it is only for a brief visit. I am deeply devoted to hope and joy, and in this case, to being really damn, fucking lucky.

In my opinion, you don't disregard luck. You roll it up into a beautiful ball that is far, far greater than gratitude. You turn it into something that you didn't even know could exist. You recognize that life took something away so you could find something else. You accept challenge and push away the nerves you feel sitting in the cancer center waiting room for the first time. You transform your energy into discovery.

You search for the answer that the song is asking...

"WHAT'S THE POINT OF THIS?"