By now, you may have heard the news about Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin’s cancer. There was quite a hullabaloo regarding the fact he hadn’t disclosed any information about his cancer before his recent hospitalization.
Granted, I am not a VIP, and my cancer did not make headlines, but I know why he did what he did. I can relate to the fact he was unwilling to share his cancer diagnosis with anyone. Cancer changes everything.
Cancer reduces wonderful people to shadows. We walk around with tears right below the surface waiting to pour out. Suddenly you become sensitive to people invading your personal space. You want to be left alone. Every ache or pain becomes another source of panic. We are ticking time bombs, anticipating the next detonation.
The helplessness. The inability to do anything to change the outcome. Why would anyone want to announce to the world a weakness regardless of what or who is to blame? That’s the part that takes courage.
I did not want anyone to know. It took many days of deliberation to revive a blog I started a few years ago aptly titled “I.m N.ot D.ead Y.et Children so listen up” (INDYchildren.blog).
I had not planned for this platform to be about my treatment. I chose that name some years ago to record things about myself for my children, like my favorite recipes and stories to share with them after I was gone. The joke’s on me.
As it turns out, it became a fitting platform to tell my story of 2023. It seems like after my dad passed in September of 2022, a Pandora’s box of troubles befell our family. During treatment, when sleep escaped me, I would write and write and write.
I finally mustered up the courage to share my story. I’m not sure why. The words were all there waiting to be released.
You know the song they teach you in kindergarten, “Crying takes the sad out of you?” Well, in my case, substitute words for crying.
Some of you have read these posts since the beginning. Each post is a chapter that continues each week. While my current posts are happening in May 2023, following the April 28 bell-ringing, I need to jump ahead to the end of the year. I need to come out of the closet and tell my story in real-time before I continue with the remainder of 2023.
DECEMBER 2023
December was a fine month. I was busy sewing Christmas quilts and teddy bears for my newest grandchildren. We had farmers markets and I made some 20 dozen popcorn balls, 24 dozen pfeffernuse cookies, and other goodies for the market. Baking and creating and singing — I was immersed in my element. I was feeling like my old self.
We had our children over on December 23 for a family Christmas. Everything was wonderful. On December 24, the Rall’s (my daughter’s sister-in-law) for a super-fun family Christmas. Santa and Mrs. Claus were there, Ernie proposed to Melissa, and I won a Red Ryder BB Gun like the one in Christmas Story.
Before the evening ended, I mentioned I felt dizzy, and my left ear was plugged so I couldn’t hear very well over the ringing. I made an appointment to see the doctor. As usual, it would be January before I could get in. It was, after all, Christmas vacation.
We deduced it could be fluid in my ear, and the pressure would be relieved with tubes. Once that happened, I would once again be off and running. I felt confident about that until I didn’t.
There was nothing wrong with my ear. My head felt like it was filling with cotton, and my vertigo was worse. We left a funeral service to go to the walk-in clinic. Nothing. I was encouraged to keep the appointment with my general practitioner. The dizziness increased daily. Walking became dangerous, and I hit a half-wall in the middle of the night.
“Are you okay,” my husband asked in the morning.
“Why?”
“There’s blood everywhere in the bathroom.”
“Oh, I guess I stubbed my toe when I hit the wall.”
Besides the bloody gash on my toe, I found the black and blue mark near my left arm. I was so sleepy when I got up to use the bathroom I didn’t turn on any lights to see why the floor was sticky. I returned to bed, a small trail of bloody toe prints on the floor.
Oops.
I realized the vertigo was becoming so intense I was afraid to drive.
That’s when I sent a note to my oncologist.
With skipping a beat, he scheduled an MRI and appointment with the radiologist.
Somehow, he knew. He knew we hadn’t stopped cancer from coming at all, somehow it came, it came just the same.
INDYchildrendotme 
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