Benjamin Rubenstein's Blog, page 14
March 16, 2014
Mansion Hopping: Cat Style
As soon as I began looking for places to rent as it looked like my house sitting aka Mansion Hopping journey was ending, a single woman, Mashuguna, contacted me desperate for someone to care for her 14-year-old cat, Teddy. She was leaving the country for three weeks, though allowed me to stay with her for two months, so I found myself living with human and feline strangers.
While Mashuguna has been gone, I have worked hard for Teddy. I quickly found that he is a diva. Would he grow to like me? Would I get along with my roommate? Find out in my latest Mansion Hopping video, this one with my cat.
While Mashuguna has been gone, I have worked hard for Teddy. I quickly found that he is a diva. Would he grow to like me? Would I get along with my roommate? Find out in my latest Mansion Hopping video, this one with my cat.
March 5, 2014
The Couch I Chemo'd On
As published on The Huffington Post
Mom and I return home from clinic at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) Clinical Center. Two days are down with three remaining in this chemo cycle, the sixth of 14 over 10 months. Mom throws her bag over her shoulder -- heavy with unopened water bottles; her black book containing labs, treatment protocol and doctors' contact information; and the sandwich I'll try to eat right away before nausea consumes me. Mom unravels my walker, opens my car door, helps me slide out with my leg brace, and carries my IV pump which will deliver medicine to protect my bladder.
My heart rate accelerates as I labor up steps in reverse and on my behind, because it is safer this way. Groggy and depleted, I shuffle into the house towards my favorite spot for the next six hours: the couch.
I have been visiting my aunt and uncle's home in upper northwest Washington, D.C., not far from NIH, for Passover seders and Hanukah parties my whole life. Aunt Flojo gave us a house key when I began treatment. "Stay whenever you want. The key is yours."
The short couch had been yellow and covered in plastic until their kitchen renovation. Then, it was re-upholstered with brown fabric, drenched with a furry beige blanket, and moved to the 12-window nook overlooking the swimming pool.
Barney, the elderly Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, sees me and hops off the couch. I collapse and Mom takes off my shoes and swivels me and my brace to face the television. Then I lie at the angle that minimizes nausea, my legs outstretched and my toes resting against the opposite side. It's as if the couch was custom-built. I drape the blanket and brush my fingers where it and the couch meet. They are both so soft. I sink down, dreaming of never touching this couch or blanket again. Keep reading, here.
Mom and I return home from clinic at the National Institutes of Health (NIH) Clinical Center. Two days are down with three remaining in this chemo cycle, the sixth of 14 over 10 months. Mom throws her bag over her shoulder -- heavy with unopened water bottles; her black book containing labs, treatment protocol and doctors' contact information; and the sandwich I'll try to eat right away before nausea consumes me. Mom unravels my walker, opens my car door, helps me slide out with my leg brace, and carries my IV pump which will deliver medicine to protect my bladder.My heart rate accelerates as I labor up steps in reverse and on my behind, because it is safer this way. Groggy and depleted, I shuffle into the house towards my favorite spot for the next six hours: the couch.
I have been visiting my aunt and uncle's home in upper northwest Washington, D.C., not far from NIH, for Passover seders and Hanukah parties my whole life. Aunt Flojo gave us a house key when I began treatment. "Stay whenever you want. The key is yours."
The short couch had been yellow and covered in plastic until their kitchen renovation. Then, it was re-upholstered with brown fabric, drenched with a furry beige blanket, and moved to the 12-window nook overlooking the swimming pool.
Barney, the elderly Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, sees me and hops off the couch. I collapse and Mom takes off my shoes and swivels me and my brace to face the television. Then I lie at the angle that minimizes nausea, my legs outstretched and my toes resting against the opposite side. It's as if the couch was custom-built. I drape the blanket and brush my fingers where it and the couch meet. They are both so soft. I sink down, dreaming of never touching this couch or blanket again. Keep reading, here.
March 4, 2014
The Life and Death of My Make-A-Wish Gift
As Published on CancerFightClub
Batmobile or bust, I thought, so when the Make-A-Wish Foundation denied my request for the Batmobile because it went over 10 miles per hour (and not because of its rockets), I declined any wish. Friends convinced me to reconsider. I became a sounding board for their fantasies: sitcom roles, championship sports events, and girls. Dates with divas escalated to strippers and then willing participants. “Tell Make-A-Wish you need her for your cancer… tell them to get another one for me, too,” a friend said.
Time feels different in childhood. Three months later my entire left hip bone would be removed and the muscles would be stapled and taped to other muscles. But with so many epic battles in Madden 2001 with friends and homework assignments remaining before surgery, three months was a lifetime. Though I couldn’t comprehend that life would be different without a left pelvis, maybe my subconscious knew and pushed me towards my wish.
I had always been fascinated with consumer electronics. In middle school I envisioned my bedroom as a gamer and movie buff’s paradise with booming Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound and beanbag chairs. But it was not to be on my 19-inch TV/VCR combo that only had an A/V jack.
When we had become of driving age, my after-school sporting and video gaming friends expanded and we took over my house’s rec room in the afternoons. My parents happily obliged.
Once down the stairs, the rec room opened into a wide space with exercise equipment and a billiards table. To the far left was a long nook with three couches, blankets, a heater, a television and, after my friends and I took over, video games.
The rec room had mostly gone unaltered since I could remember. The thick carpet soothed cold feet and the dim lighting calmed overworked brains. It would always be a haven, beginning from when I could barely climb onto the couch next to my dad during Redskins games. Keep reading, here.
Batmobile or bust, I thought, so when the Make-A-Wish Foundation denied my request for the Batmobile because it went over 10 miles per hour (and not because of its rockets), I declined any wish. Friends convinced me to reconsider. I became a sounding board for their fantasies: sitcom roles, championship sports events, and girls. Dates with divas escalated to strippers and then willing participants. “Tell Make-A-Wish you need her for your cancer… tell them to get another one for me, too,” a friend said.
Time feels different in childhood. Three months later my entire left hip bone would be removed and the muscles would be stapled and taped to other muscles. But with so many epic battles in Madden 2001 with friends and homework assignments remaining before surgery, three months was a lifetime. Though I couldn’t comprehend that life would be different without a left pelvis, maybe my subconscious knew and pushed me towards my wish.
I had always been fascinated with consumer electronics. In middle school I envisioned my bedroom as a gamer and movie buff’s paradise with booming Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound and beanbag chairs. But it was not to be on my 19-inch TV/VCR combo that only had an A/V jack.
When we had become of driving age, my after-school sporting and video gaming friends expanded and we took over my house’s rec room in the afternoons. My parents happily obliged.
Once down the stairs, the rec room opened into a wide space with exercise equipment and a billiards table. To the far left was a long nook with three couches, blankets, a heater, a television and, after my friends and I took over, video games.
The rec room had mostly gone unaltered since I could remember. The thick carpet soothed cold feet and the dim lighting calmed overworked brains. It would always be a haven, beginning from when I could barely climb onto the couch next to my dad during Redskins games. Keep reading, here.
February 13, 2014
"Secrets" is Coming
I am giddy with excitement for this new upcoming project, but shh, let's keep it a Secret.
February 5, 2014
Synapses
My memory failed me on Christmas when JD asked what movie we saw the Christmas before. Normally providing more details than JD wants, and able to relive most episodic memories, I couldn't recall and still can't now six weeks later.
Many people who have read my book have asked what I used to detail my cancer journeys. For the first, my parents kept a three-ring notebook with test results, health research and correspondence. For the second, I emailed my friends Bubble and Hamburgers daily. Bubble saved my emails and printed them for me years later. I used those materials to write my book, but I had nothing else besides lightning-bright memories. I never kept a diary.
There is nothing wrong with me and my brain—after all, JD would say that he can't remember what he ate for dinner the other day. Maybe my failure is due to my aggregate memories piling up; starving my brain of energy, a necessary byproduct of staying super lean; or our 2012 Christmas movie sucking. No matter, my ability to recall autobiographical memories is one of my favorite attributes, and not being able to irked me.
My friends from my first rock-climbing trip have been sharing their favorite thoughts about one of our group members, Sunny. These thoughts are often specific, like Sunny teaching how to "creepy hug" someone. I’ve been trying to remember detailed memories of Sunny, but I can only think of her generally: hilarious, glowing, courageous-as-all-fucking-hell. Without specifics then it is the latter term that stands out, even though I bet Sunny would prefer we remember her by the first two. My memory has failed again, and this time it saddens me.
Rereading my previous blogs about Sunny here, here, here and here have helped. Her voice and smile are returning. I can see her in our van en route to the next climbing wall, providing too much information on whatever we were discussing. I see her frolicking with the enviable inhibition of a child, so full of life.
Seven years going this month, my blog has become a snapshot into my past and a way for me to re-fire synapses. Now I can always remember Sunny even though she passed away yesterday due to cervical cancer.
Kelly PozzoliJuly 22, 1980 – February 4, 2014
Many people who have read my book have asked what I used to detail my cancer journeys. For the first, my parents kept a three-ring notebook with test results, health research and correspondence. For the second, I emailed my friends Bubble and Hamburgers daily. Bubble saved my emails and printed them for me years later. I used those materials to write my book, but I had nothing else besides lightning-bright memories. I never kept a diary.
There is nothing wrong with me and my brain—after all, JD would say that he can't remember what he ate for dinner the other day. Maybe my failure is due to my aggregate memories piling up; starving my brain of energy, a necessary byproduct of staying super lean; or our 2012 Christmas movie sucking. No matter, my ability to recall autobiographical memories is one of my favorite attributes, and not being able to irked me.
My friends from my first rock-climbing trip have been sharing their favorite thoughts about one of our group members, Sunny. These thoughts are often specific, like Sunny teaching how to "creepy hug" someone. I’ve been trying to remember detailed memories of Sunny, but I can only think of her generally: hilarious, glowing, courageous-as-all-fucking-hell. Without specifics then it is the latter term that stands out, even though I bet Sunny would prefer we remember her by the first two. My memory has failed again, and this time it saddens me.
Rereading my previous blogs about Sunny here, here, here and here have helped. Her voice and smile are returning. I can see her in our van en route to the next climbing wall, providing too much information on whatever we were discussing. I see her frolicking with the enviable inhibition of a child, so full of life.
Seven years going this month, my blog has become a snapshot into my past and a way for me to re-fire synapses. Now I can always remember Sunny even though she passed away yesterday due to cervical cancer.
Kelly PozzoliJuly 22, 1980 – February 4, 2014
January 28, 2014
My Donor May Not Have Been So Bad After All
No ice cream, or die: an unimaginable predicament and I wasn’t even given the choice. My bone marrow donor unknowingly transferred her milk allergy, which began affecting me six months after my transplant, leading to frightening episodes of hives, mouth swelling and chest tightening. I visited an allergist who administered a skin prick allergy test. Milk protein resulted in a 10-millimeter reaction, while just a 14-millimeter reaction would have indicated potential anaphylaxis. I had to give up milk products forever.
I dealt by going through the classic stages of grief: denial (read: ER visits), anger, bargaining (read: brainwashing myself into thinking that soy is great), depression and acceptance. I achieved acceptance after understanding the relationship between allergies and health. Eliminating my allergies and receiving seasonal allergy shots cured my eczema and reduced my ear infections by 90%.
Last month I visited my allergist for my annual seasonal allergy testing. “Has any progress been made in developing shots for food allergies?” I asked the nurse, an annual inquiry in which I know the answer.
“No, unfortunately. But, we can test you again. It’s been about seven years since your last milk protein test.”
“Sure, why not!” I said.
The nurse pricked my arm with pollens, molds and milk, and my allergist came in later to see the results. My milk reaction had reduced from 10 millimeters to one.
“Many people outgrow their allergies and you may no longer be allergic to milk,” he said. “I see this in children and it makes sense since your immune system is only 10 years old.”
I suspended ecstasy until I was certain. That evening I began my kind of allergy test: drink milk one ounce at a time until I clearly show signs of allergy, go into anaphylactic shock, or feel confident that my allergy is permanently gone.
“How long will you continue your test—until you drink 8 ounces of milk?” my dad asked.
I reminded him that I haven’t had a real milkshake, Klondike bar, Chipwich, Dairy Queen strawberry shortcake, or banana pudding in a decade. “I’m thinking more like 40-60 ounces,” I said, knowing that once I give myself the green light, I’ll probably consume so many milk products that I’ll cause a milk allergy.
I drank one ounce without a problem, two the next day, and so on. I am now up to 12 ounces. This test has reminded me why I always added chocolate powder as a boy: white milk tastes nasty. Time for my medicine, I think before each new, daily test.
My dad bought me Nesquik powder to make my medicine tolerable. To calm his fear that he’s aiding in my anaphylaxis, I promised to carry Benadryl the way I used to before giving up milk. Surely decade-old pills are still effective.
Do you want to see how this experiment unfolds? Follow my experiment updates on Twitter and maybe, hopefully, I pray, soon you can find me at every ice cream shop in a 70-mile radius.
I dealt by going through the classic stages of grief: denial (read: ER visits), anger, bargaining (read: brainwashing myself into thinking that soy is great), depression and acceptance. I achieved acceptance after understanding the relationship between allergies and health. Eliminating my allergies and receiving seasonal allergy shots cured my eczema and reduced my ear infections by 90%.
Last month I visited my allergist for my annual seasonal allergy testing. “Has any progress been made in developing shots for food allergies?” I asked the nurse, an annual inquiry in which I know the answer.
“No, unfortunately. But, we can test you again. It’s been about seven years since your last milk protein test.”
“Sure, why not!” I said.
The nurse pricked my arm with pollens, molds and milk, and my allergist came in later to see the results. My milk reaction had reduced from 10 millimeters to one.
“Many people outgrow their allergies and you may no longer be allergic to milk,” he said. “I see this in children and it makes sense since your immune system is only 10 years old.”
I suspended ecstasy until I was certain. That evening I began my kind of allergy test: drink milk one ounce at a time until I clearly show signs of allergy, go into anaphylactic shock, or feel confident that my allergy is permanently gone.
“How long will you continue your test—until you drink 8 ounces of milk?” my dad asked.
I reminded him that I haven’t had a real milkshake, Klondike bar, Chipwich, Dairy Queen strawberry shortcake, or banana pudding in a decade. “I’m thinking more like 40-60 ounces,” I said, knowing that once I give myself the green light, I’ll probably consume so many milk products that I’ll cause a milk allergy.
I drank one ounce without a problem, two the next day, and so on. I am now up to 12 ounces. This test has reminded me why I always added chocolate powder as a boy: white milk tastes nasty. Time for my medicine, I think before each new, daily test. My dad bought me Nesquik powder to make my medicine tolerable. To calm his fear that he’s aiding in my anaphylaxis, I promised to carry Benadryl the way I used to before giving up milk. Surely decade-old pills are still effective.
Do you want to see how this experiment unfolds? Follow my experiment updates on Twitter and maybe, hopefully, I pray, soon you can find me at every ice cream shop in a 70-mile radius.
January 16, 2014
Why I’m Only Kind of an Idiot, Now
Our tenth-grade English teacher offered extra credit to students who made a video based on the dystopian novel we were reading. I don’t remember which book. HollaAtYoBoy, Zeke, TaxiSide and I also procrastinated until the final weekend. Can you tell I needed that extra credit?
During our planning session that Saturday, while playing football in the snow, I backed out of our video. We would have to record the following day, on NFL Championship Sunday, with the games playing in the background. Having a blast with my best friends and improving my grade fell below in priority to watching the NFC and AFC Championships uninterrupted. As I watched the St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans advance to the Super Bowl, my friends recorded a video mostly demonstrating that I was an idiot and somewhat addressing themes from the book.
Benjy’s all growns up, now (sort of).
My December speech at George Mason University for a sorority leadership council got rescheduled due to snow. My speech coordinator, Mrs. Sunshine, emailed me, “I hope this new time works with the football schedule. If you’re not available then I understand.”
The speech will take place on Championship Sunday during the Patriots-Broncos game. “There’s no way I would speak at her workshop during the championship games, and she’s my wife,” my friend, Mr. Sunshine, said.
I’m turning off my phone and radio to avoid spoilers, and telling the sorority girls not to utter one score update. After speaking, I’m driving to my parents’ house just so I have someone to rewind the game recordings for me and I won’t catch a glimpse of the scores. My dad will record both games and the subsequent programming in case they go into overtime.
If Suzanne Collins calls Sunday afternoon asking to use my character for Katniss’ secret lover in her next dystopian series then she and Jennifer Lawrence will have to wait about seven hours.
During our planning session that Saturday, while playing football in the snow, I backed out of our video. We would have to record the following day, on NFL Championship Sunday, with the games playing in the background. Having a blast with my best friends and improving my grade fell below in priority to watching the NFC and AFC Championships uninterrupted. As I watched the St. Louis Rams and Tennessee Titans advance to the Super Bowl, my friends recorded a video mostly demonstrating that I was an idiot and somewhat addressing themes from the book.
Benjy’s all growns up, now (sort of).
My December speech at George Mason University for a sorority leadership council got rescheduled due to snow. My speech coordinator, Mrs. Sunshine, emailed me, “I hope this new time works with the football schedule. If you’re not available then I understand.”
The speech will take place on Championship Sunday during the Patriots-Broncos game. “There’s no way I would speak at her workshop during the championship games, and she’s my wife,” my friend, Mr. Sunshine, said.
I’m turning off my phone and radio to avoid spoilers, and telling the sorority girls not to utter one score update. After speaking, I’m driving to my parents’ house just so I have someone to rewind the game recordings for me and I won’t catch a glimpse of the scores. My dad will record both games and the subsequent programming in case they go into overtime.
If Suzanne Collins calls Sunday afternoon asking to use my character for Katniss’ secret lover in her next dystopian series then she and Jennifer Lawrence will have to wait about seven hours.
December 31, 2013
Farewell to My Make-A-Wish Foundation Gift
Thirteen years ago I received my wish from the Make-A-Wish Foundation--a 53-inch high definition television and accompanying electronic devices. It is now in its final days, so I made a video tribute to the greatest gift I've ever received.
December 15, 2013
To My Next 30 Cancer-Free Years
As published on The Huffington Post
My friend did not want to celebrate her 30th birthday. She hadn't accomplished what she had expected. She drowned in a void -- her hollowness filled with a ticking clock, save-the-date cards, movies and shows with typical American happy endings. To her, 30 was not part of the linear ascent but rather a cliff. "You can either feel young or wise," she said.
***
There are many things to count besides years of living. As a boy I counted my baseball cards; specifically the ones with Ken Griffey, Jr., and Cal Ripken, Jr. I counted the minutes until I was allowed to finish practicing piano. I counted each passed week during summer break, glowing after only one and sulking with only a few left.
When I was 16 and 17, I watched the hour-countdown on my IV pump, rejoiced at the beep, watched the next hour-countdown, rejoiced at the next beep. I counted the drips of anti-tumor drugs. Some staggered, clumped together and formed one large drip. Others followed one after the other. I counted down until bedtime so that I could begin again the next day. Keep reading, here.
My friend did not want to celebrate her 30th birthday. She hadn't accomplished what she had expected. She drowned in a void -- her hollowness filled with a ticking clock, save-the-date cards, movies and shows with typical American happy endings. To her, 30 was not part of the linear ascent but rather a cliff. "You can either feel young or wise," she said.
***
There are many things to count besides years of living. As a boy I counted my baseball cards; specifically the ones with Ken Griffey, Jr., and Cal Ripken, Jr. I counted the minutes until I was allowed to finish practicing piano. I counted each passed week during summer break, glowing after only one and sulking with only a few left.
When I was 16 and 17, I watched the hour-countdown on my IV pump, rejoiced at the beep, watched the next hour-countdown, rejoiced at the next beep. I counted the drips of anti-tumor drugs. Some staggered, clumped together and formed one large drip. Others followed one after the other. I counted down until bedtime so that I could begin again the next day. Keep reading, here.
November 26, 2013
Overcast with a Chance of Showers
Summer 2012
After my rock-climbing group vacation last summer, my new friend, KMac, read my memoir. My last chapter is an excursion into self-discovery—the boy who grew up with immense suffering becomes a man without much. I list all the people in my life who have passed away resulting from cancer: three grandparents, some patients I met in treatment, a friend’s dad, and some others. The list was shorter than expected because until recently, I pushed the cancer community away.
Of the 15 cancer “survivors” on our vacation, some were still in treatment and some would begin again soon. This is the nature of young people with cancer—it is relentless, lacks empathy, and destroys. “Your list is about to grow,” KMac said.
Fall 2012 – Fall 2013
When Sunny’s cervical cancer returned seven months after her original diagnosis, she received chemotherapy and a radical hysterectomy including the removal of her ovaries. Her lymph nodes and surrounding tissue, entire vagina, urethra and bladder were also removed. Radiation blasted her body cavity along her pelvic wall. Her urologist rerouted her urinary tract using a urostomy that hangs from her belly. Sunny’s plastic surgeon recreated a vagina using the left half of her abdominal muscles and the skin that covers them.
Sunny moved 1,200 miles to receive treatment, spent 27 consecutive days in a medical facility, banked 10 embryos and seven eggs, and has zero internal female reproductive organs and a 15-inch scar running down her abdomen, all thanks to her five tumors. Months later her cancer returned again and Sunny underwent more surgery and radiation. Then declared cancer-free, she continued to be hospitalized for infections and other issues.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone endure the level of suffering that Sunny has over the past year.
November 2013
Scans showed even more cancer and there are no more treatment options for Sunny.
Lings and Doogie, two others from my rock-climbing trip, joined me on Google Hangouts to remember Sunny. We didn’t know how far her cancer spread; how bad it was. We knew that without hope, the devastation can be swift.
“Do you think if she could do it over again, she would not have proceeded with treatment last fall?” I asked Lings. “I know that is unfair to ask; probably horrible to think. But I can’t help it.”
“I don’t know. It was a chance. I think I’d go for the chance,” Lings said.
We praise the fighters for their bravery while looking down on those who choose to live out the remainder of their lives. When, if ever, does quality of life rank higher than quantity?
All at once I suffocated with regret, a feeling I despise. I could have become closer with Sunny had I tried. “Regret is no more useful than hindsight,” Lings wrote in comfort.
In sadness, there is hope and inspiration. Days after learning of Sunny’s latest scan, I felt inspired to attend a random happy hour where I met Leeuwin, a couch-surfing German-Dutch traveler. I connected with Leeuwin on Facebook through a mutual friend and invited her rock-climbing.
Leeuwin, Dutch for lioness, is the climbing nickname I designated for her which was inspired by Lings, Sunny and all my other cancer friends’ climbing nicknames. Later, Leeuwin invited me to sing karaoke, where we and her couch-surfing friends chirped until the Metro stopped running on a Sunday night, several hours before I awoke for work. So I guess in the inspiration resulting from sadness comes adventure and liveliness.
I don’t know how many more rock-climbing, traveling or karaoke adventures Sunny has left. I know that she has touched the lives of thousands of people including those who have known her personally and others who watched her on The Jeff Probst Show. If only the goal in life was to inspire instead of simply to live.
Sunny made me grateful that I am, somehow, so healthy—so I guess with sadness comes sickening shame, too. With the holidays nearing, I am grateful for my health and the chance to sing terrible songs with strangers just because that’s something Sunny would do.
We all envy Sunny’s presence, attitude and energy. I wish we could bottle Sunny up and open the jar on special occasions or when we need sunshine. There are some other people in the world like Sunny, but not many. It is unfair how much the world is going to miss out without her.
After my rock-climbing group vacation last summer, my new friend, KMac, read my memoir. My last chapter is an excursion into self-discovery—the boy who grew up with immense suffering becomes a man without much. I list all the people in my life who have passed away resulting from cancer: three grandparents, some patients I met in treatment, a friend’s dad, and some others. The list was shorter than expected because until recently, I pushed the cancer community away.
Of the 15 cancer “survivors” on our vacation, some were still in treatment and some would begin again soon. This is the nature of young people with cancer—it is relentless, lacks empathy, and destroys. “Your list is about to grow,” KMac said.
Fall 2012 – Fall 2013
When Sunny’s cervical cancer returned seven months after her original diagnosis, she received chemotherapy and a radical hysterectomy including the removal of her ovaries. Her lymph nodes and surrounding tissue, entire vagina, urethra and bladder were also removed. Radiation blasted her body cavity along her pelvic wall. Her urologist rerouted her urinary tract using a urostomy that hangs from her belly. Sunny’s plastic surgeon recreated a vagina using the left half of her abdominal muscles and the skin that covers them.
Sunny moved 1,200 miles to receive treatment, spent 27 consecutive days in a medical facility, banked 10 embryos and seven eggs, and has zero internal female reproductive organs and a 15-inch scar running down her abdomen, all thanks to her five tumors. Months later her cancer returned again and Sunny underwent more surgery and radiation. Then declared cancer-free, she continued to be hospitalized for infections and other issues.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone endure the level of suffering that Sunny has over the past year.
November 2013
Scans showed even more cancer and there are no more treatment options for Sunny.
Lings and Doogie, two others from my rock-climbing trip, joined me on Google Hangouts to remember Sunny. We didn’t know how far her cancer spread; how bad it was. We knew that without hope, the devastation can be swift.
“Do you think if she could do it over again, she would not have proceeded with treatment last fall?” I asked Lings. “I know that is unfair to ask; probably horrible to think. But I can’t help it.”
“I don’t know. It was a chance. I think I’d go for the chance,” Lings said.
We praise the fighters for their bravery while looking down on those who choose to live out the remainder of their lives. When, if ever, does quality of life rank higher than quantity?
All at once I suffocated with regret, a feeling I despise. I could have become closer with Sunny had I tried. “Regret is no more useful than hindsight,” Lings wrote in comfort.
In sadness, there is hope and inspiration. Days after learning of Sunny’s latest scan, I felt inspired to attend a random happy hour where I met Leeuwin, a couch-surfing German-Dutch traveler. I connected with Leeuwin on Facebook through a mutual friend and invited her rock-climbing.
Leeuwin, Dutch for lioness, is the climbing nickname I designated for her which was inspired by Lings, Sunny and all my other cancer friends’ climbing nicknames. Later, Leeuwin invited me to sing karaoke, where we and her couch-surfing friends chirped until the Metro stopped running on a Sunday night, several hours before I awoke for work. So I guess in the inspiration resulting from sadness comes adventure and liveliness.
I don’t know how many more rock-climbing, traveling or karaoke adventures Sunny has left. I know that she has touched the lives of thousands of people including those who have known her personally and others who watched her on The Jeff Probst Show. If only the goal in life was to inspire instead of simply to live.
Sunny made me grateful that I am, somehow, so healthy—so I guess with sadness comes sickening shame, too. With the holidays nearing, I am grateful for my health and the chance to sing terrible songs with strangers just because that’s something Sunny would do.
We all envy Sunny’s presence, attitude and energy. I wish we could bottle Sunny up and open the jar on special occasions or when we need sunshine. There are some other people in the world like Sunny, but not many. It is unfair how much the world is going to miss out without her.
