Chapter 74: We’re Fine
Post-radiation hair does what it pleases … :-/
Recently, I traveled to North Carolina for a second opinion at Duke. Although I absolutely love my care in Minnesota, I think a second opinion is a good idea for everyone and I figured if I was going to get one I should get one from one of the best brain tumor centers in the country.
I met an incredible team at Duke- all super smart, incredibly capable female providers. My inner feminist was very happy.
When my doctor walked into my clinic room after reviewing my history and scans, her first words to me were “You’re fine…. Well…not fine, but…you’re fine.”
This really made me smile and I have not been able to stop thinking about this line. So, today my blog is based off of an incredible lesson my neuro-oncologist didn’t even realize she was teaching me.
“You’re fine…. Well…not fine, but…you’re fine.” Is a brilliant line. It sums up many of our lives right now so perfectly. Sure, it’s still 2020. Sure, COVID is worse than ever in many midwestern states. Sure, many people will be spending the holidays without their families. But, overall, we’re fine.
Ok, so, we’re not totally fine, but on a grander scale, we’re fine. We are alive. We woke up to see another day. We had technology to call our families and see our smiling loved ones on Thanksgiving. Many of us have jobs and could afford to cook ourselves a nice holiday meal. If you’re reading this blog, you have internet access, a phone, or a computer, probably both. We have health care providers and mental health providers ready to help whenever we need them. We have restaurant takeout; we have home gyms; we have grocery delivery services; we have Netflix; we have books; we have pets; we have coffee and sunshine and wine and smiles. We’re fine.
Ok, so we’re still not totally fine because these times are “not normal” but honestly, we’re pretty much fine.
I have cancer, so I guess I’m not “fine.” But, in many ways, I am totally and completely fine.
There are many people in this world who do not have the luxuries we have. There are many people who are suffering, who are homeless, jobless, and alone. I’ve started to make kits for the homeless population of Minneapolis/St. Paul. I put together bags filled with snacks, socks, toiletries, water, and some small gifts and hand these out when I encounter someone in need on my way to work. I’ve found this is an easy way to help spread just a bit of holiday cheer. I wish I could do more. If you live in the Twin Cities and want to donate any goodies to put in these kits, I’m happy to accept them.
This weekend, I turned thirty. Birthdays mean something once you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness. Actually, if you really think about it, life itself is technically a terminal illness, so birthdays should always mean something in my opinion. Year 29 consisted of a divorce, two moves, a diagnosis of brain cancer, two brain surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation therapy, buying a house, two new jobs, a blog, and a book. I hope thirty brings a bit more relaxation, but also doubt it. I can’t stop learning, can’t stop exploring, won’t stop creating or growing or living because I simply don’t want to. Life is short. Life is a tiny moment of time and I am so lucky to be living it.
Keep smiling. Keep staying home. Keep learning and growing. Keep doing hard things. Keep loving yourself and everyone around you.
Compassion may not change the world in big, giant, visible ways, but I think small everyday changes in our attitude and outlook are the real way we better ourselves and our world.
Fondly, your now 30-year-old doc with brain cancer, Courtney
©CB2020