Mortal thoughts

I’m feeling mortal the last few days. Truth be told, the last ten months have taken a severe toll on me mentally, emotionally and physically. Only the months leading up to and following Jane’s death in 2010 left me feeling more shattered than this year has.

My last real break was at Christmas.

Since January, I’ve lost a close friend to triple negative breast cancer, blundered my way through my father’s first strokes to his eventual death in August, dealt with a niece’s death, travelled to Seattle to close up my father’s house–and been ambushed by all the memories that effort called up.

Mortal reality

And every week, I’ve learned of at least one death of someone in the carcinoid/ NETs community that I have come to know and care about. Generally, it’s been more than one. Each of those deaths reminds me that we still do not have a cure–and that there are people out there who desperately need that.

I’m feeling mortal the last few days.

I’ve also dealt with three surgeries on my gums aimed at keeping my slowly dissolving teeth in my mouth and a knee injury that prevented me from doing the Marathon Walk the way I wanted to do it. Both remind me that I am mortal, too–and that the time I have to bring about change is limited.

Mortal accomplishments

Despite all that, this has also been a year of singular accomplishments. Our Boston Marathon Jimmy Fund Walk team will have raised over $65,000 for carcinoid/NETs research by the end of October–over $17, 500 of that total directly from my efforts; our Relay for Life team raised another $9000+ for the 2014 effort–and 2015 is off to a good start; this website has gone from being within days of closing to our three biggest months ever over the last six months–and total views for the year of close to 11,000 since January.

Both remind me that I am mortal, too…

I’ve also rediscovered a whole bunch of people from my past who remember me with fondness and have honored me with their renewed friendship. I’ve had a book dedicated to me and been reminded in myriad other ways that I have made a difference in people’s lives. I cannot tell you the difference a single kind note can make in a week of unrelenting sorrow.

Finding a window

There is much that remains on the docket between now and the end of November. I have a craft sale to play vendor at tomorrow, a Walking with Jane team to help with in the Fall River Half-Marathon on October 19, and a clam cake and chowder dinner to do the PR for on October 24. November is also filled with things to do–and I still need to finish the carcinoid/NETs marketing plan I’ve been working on for several weeks.

I cannot tell you the difference a single kind note can make…

One week from today marks the 46th month since Jane’s death. A few days later will mark four years since our first meeting with her heart surgeon. Each day of every fall is freighted with memories of four years ago–and this fall those anniversaries have been particularly difficult.

A short break

Every three months, I try to take a week to step away from cancer and everything to do with it. But this year those weeks have dissolved into more distress rather than being a time of reflection and rest. My last real break was at Christmas–and even that was marked by the knowledge of my friend’s impending death. So I will do the craft fair tomorrow, take care of a couple of things that won’t keep on Monday–and then take a few days to put my mind in neutral.

Each day of every fall is freighted with memories…

Part of me will feel guilty about that: those of you living with carcinoid/NETs can’t take a vacation from your bodies or what the disease is doing to you. Those of you who are family members taking care of them don’t really get a day off either. But my mission now is different–as are my circumstances. I can’t continue to do my best work without an occasional break–and it’s time I took one.