Own It. Says Liz.

From the Patient again...

On Saturday Aaron & I had the chance to go out for a few hours alone (first time since last chemo day 3 wks ago) and we ended up at Dick's Sporting Goods to look for shoes for Cohen. While walking through the store we stopped at a display of women's hats and this is the conversation that followed:

Aaron:  Want to try it on? Come on try it.
Me:  No, that's ok.
Aaron:  Come on try it...if you want.
Me:  If I do, then I would have to take my hat off to try it.
Aaron:  So? Go for it.
Me:  Umm, ok.

I proceeded to quickly take off my hat—which exposed my baldness—and try on the other hat. I felt weird, but I did it.

Why did I feel weird? It's all about owning it which I am trying to learn to do. For the past 50 odd days I wake up facing a "new" reality that I really wish wasn't mine—or anyone's for that matter. I get asked all the time if it's becoming more real for me. Real? I guess so. The other day I was complaining/whining to Aaron about my peeling hands/feet and very sore fingertips. I was going on and on about how embarrassing it all is and he simply said, "You have to own it." I have thought and thought about what he said for the last few days. I need to own that I have cancer. I hate it. I hate that my family has to go through it. I hate that Aaron has to literally work from the wee hours of the morning until the wee hours of the night and then start all over again. We are doing all we can to make life normal for the boys, and most days I am wondering if it's enough.

I have to own it. I have to own that we are doing all we can to get through our days in the best way we can. I am buoyed up by all of the people who are supporting us from across the globe, especially through all of the thoughts and prayers. The days were very dark in the beginning and I felt like no matter where we turned there was always bad news. I am in awe of all the goodness that has come about in the last 7 weeks. I am not happy to be in this new reality, but I am trying to see the other side of it all. I know that I accepted to come to this earth knowing that life wouldn't be easy and I would face things that just didn't seem fair or right. I am grateful for the knowledge of a Heavenly Father and of our Savior, Jesus Christ, who both believe that I can fight this battle no matter the outcome. I am fighting with all my might even on the days when I can't get out of bed. I am fighting for Cohen who lovingly prays most nights for the medicine to work on Mom. And for my other guys. They need me and I need them. I am beginning to realize this is all about owning it. It's horrible physically, emotionally, mentally, and even spiritually at times, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone else. I can do this. I have to own it and win.

P.S.   To further push myself and even though it's super cheesy/screams " I have cancer!!", I also picked out a Livestrong t-shirt the other day at the store. Owning it.

Traveling logo pictures 2 and 3

My brother Howie's latest submission to the Team Liz traveling logo picture extravaganza:

Jeepneys in Manila, Philippines

My sister Becky (or 'Rebecca' to those more sophisticated than I) returns with a roundhouse from Vernal, Utah:

Fossil Wall at Dinosaur National Monument

I'll post all pics on the Worldwide logos blog page.

Family pictures tonight at the park. Hope they're awesome. The adult female subject of said pictures certainly is. Her kids are pretty cool too.

Go Team Liz.

Unconscious competence

Day 50 since diagnosis. This is hard. Obviously more for Liz than for me.

I'm a guy: I just want to fix it.

I missed a couple of MBA classes a few weeks ago, including the first negotiations class. Got caught up, but finally read the notes last night that a thoughtful classmate sent me. I haven't stopped thinking about one concept since: Fundamental Attribution Error.

Yeah, I know, snooze alert. That last paragraph almost put me to sleep. So forget the phrase.

But it's an important concept: we tend to view how we behave in a more positive light than we view others' behavior. We over-emphasize personal characteristics to explain what someone else does. So we blame the person, rather than external factors, when something doesn’t go right.

Be brutally honest with yourself for a moment. When’s the last time you thought “JERK!” when someone said the wrong thing (they should have known), bumped into you (they weren’t looking), cut you off (inconsiderate idiot), ate a gigantic hamburger and remained super skinny... okay, I can't get past that last one yet.

We tell our friends about someone who is stupid, mean, inconsiderate, unfair, unethical, oblivious, cocky, or out of control. We laugh when the mighty fall off their pedestals. We lob criticisms over the social media wall, caring more about scoring humor points than caring about how they can hurt. We craft simple narratives that help us distance ourselves from real people who commit crimes and horrific acts: they are evil, they are crazy, they are greedy.

The Fundamental Attribution Error describes a natural weakness in us all. It helps us cope with failure and can motivate us to seek success. Chances are that we blame someone or something else when we have negative experiences. We also tend to claim personal success when things go well. Why? To help us feel better about ourselves.

If we choose to blame, we won’t learn from the experience. We can learn to recognize internal factors that influence our behavior. The better we get, the more empathy and patience we have for others. It becomes second nature for us to evaluate our own biases, rather than to simply blame other people and reduce them in our minds to one-word descriptions. When we really think about it, we understand that "In most cases, people, even the most vicious, are much more naive and simple-minded than we assume them to be. And this is true of ourselves too." (Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, by way of my awesome brother Mike)

Unconscious competence = being so good at doing something that it doesn't require concentration or thought.

It takes practice.

Tomorrow might be worse than today. I can't promise our boys that their mom will be fine. But I can choose not to place blame when bad things happen. I can learn, grow, and take note from so many good people who have served us during these last 50 days—donations, childcare, meals, shopping, filling in at church and work, a listening ear.

I can choose compassion over criticism.

I can't fix this. We hope the doctors can. Or the juicer. But I can choose to become more self-aware, to give others more of a chance. Blaming or judging others can use up a lot of my available energy. I will choose instead to focus on my boys and my beautiful wife: my inspiration, my best friend, future cancer survivor.


"And if thou shouldst be cast into the pit, or into the hands of murderers, and the sentence of death passed upon thee; if thou be cast into the deep; if the billowing surge conspire against thee; if fierce winds become thine enemy; if the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good."  Doctrine & Covenants 122:7



Go Team Liz.

Worldwide, y'all

Not quite 'cancer good' today, but it was the closest Liz has come in the last two weeks. Hands hurt, red, weak, tender, peeling. Feet numb. Ish. Better than the alternative. But she was up and about, and she picked up Cohen from school today. Food certainly helps: Sandy made Liz some delicious homemade chicken noodle soup on Saturday. First thing she could taste in weeks. Thus the beautiful smile. And lots left to keep her happy for a while.

Home late today for me, kids to bed, then Marketing quizzes and negotiations by email for a work contract. Need to entertain myself more. So... (drumroll)...

New contest, but this one without competition and deadlines. So maybe it's not a contest after all. First submission below. It's tough to see, but thar be the Team Liz banner logo on an iPad at the Great Wall of China, with Dr. Howie and kids looking on.

Submit your own photos of a Team Liz logo in awesome places!

coolpeoplesubmitteamlizlogos@gmail.com

Logos are all on the new 'Team Liz logos' page.

Go Team Liz.

Rather this than that

Restful night, no rain, floods receding, beautiful sunrise, quiet streets, happy family, gorgeous wife, good days, Chicago sunrise. Rather this than all of the rest of that.

Happy Birthday J-Man

We had a great day with Jensen! Some quick pics below. Liz is moving around much better, but the Taxotere is still affecting how her skin looks and how much she hurts. But we're not in the hospital, and we got to enjoy these sweet moments with our boys, all of whom didn't seem to mind that we didn't have a gigantic birthday party. Happy Birthday, J-Man!

Get in line

So I got Indian food today at work. Chicken, rice, something mushy, something green and yellow with peas, naan bread, lots of curry. Smell? Great. Taste? Meh. The only reason I went to that station was because no one was in line and I didn't want to wait. Whoops.

Liz has a rule about eating out: she doesn't go to restaurants that have empty parking lots. I'm now going to extend her rule to cafeteria food: be eager to stand in line.

I was thinking about this in relation to cancer treatment. Our inclination has been to go to the doctors and treatment centers with the most caring, calm, and attentive environment and culture. So far so good, methinks. I've worried about the teaching hospital environment up until now: not as personal, large doctor and student teams, too many people. But if the goal is to get the best care possible to extend Liz's healthy days, we shouldn't shy away from the places where the people are.

If there's a line, then there's support, there are solutions. There are survivors.

Time to get in line.

Tomorrow is Jensen's 3rd birthday! We got the call on April 18, 2010, that our Cajun boy had arrived. The next day we met up with Grandma in Louisiana and rushed to the hospital to meet our little man. On his 3rd day he started staring at and loving on his mama, and he hasn't stopped since. Happy birthday, little man!

Remember that Jensen only wanted a mail truck cake and school bus cookies for his birthday? Well, Liz asked her good friend and amazing baker to create the mail truck cake, but we didn't have a chance to figure out cookies. Lo and behold, Stephanie (work) procured some PERFECT cookies and surprised me with them today. Mr. Jensen will be so excited!! Thanks, Steph!

Go Team Liz. And, tomorrow: Go Team Jensen.

Second Opinion

My first opinion: cancer is bad.
My second opinion: cancer treatment is horrible.

The point of chemo is to provide the patient with as much medication as she can tolerate. Tolerating it is the hard part, and we want Liz to be able to handle whatever they can throw her way. Liz has peripheral neuropathy. We want it to go away. Fast. This is still technically week 1 of the 2nd chemo treatment (at least through today!), and we knew that the first week would be bad. The oncologist's nurse confirmed that the foot pain is due to the chemo drug Taxotere, so we just need to wait until the next round of chemo and see if things get better. Tender, hot, red hands and feet = separate issue, same drug to blame. Here's hoping that tomorrow is a better day! It will be the beginning of the 2nd week, so we're counting on it.

We're doing some research to figure out where to get an in-depth second opinion. Some of the nation's best cancer research university hospitals are in Chicagoland (Chicago, Northwestern, Loyola, Rush), and some people rave about other facilities too (Cancer Treatment Centers of America, University of Illinois, our very own local cancer center). The oncologist has his own opinions about where to get second opinions (is this a second opinion, once removed?). We feel like Liz is in good hands medically, but we've received little-to-no advice and insight regarding health, diet, exercise, massage, vitamins, acupuncture, and other things that might help.

We also got the first 2 insurance decline letters today. Happy tax day! So we'll work with the doctors and cancer center to see what additional info we can put together to challenge the decision. I live for this stuff. It just takes time, and time is short.

So's my fuse.

I'm tired. Emotionally more than physically. And I'm not 100% for anyone right now, so after a major reset button push yesterday (thanks to ye unnamed individual, you know who you are!), I'm back on track. It seems, though, that my typical attempts (and moderate success) at communicating the right things in the right way with the right people at the right time aren't quite working like I would hope. I'm sure it's the stress, lack of sleep, worry, etc. But it's tough to sense that I'm not my whole self, especially when it comes to the most important people in my life. Tomorrow is another day, I'll center myself somehow and hit it hard then. The boys are all hanging in there, though -- they're such troopers.

But at the end of a difficult day, what to our wearying eyes would appear, but a gigantic photo on facebook for all to hear see! Here's Liz's Idaho family (her parents are in the middle) cheering her on as the charter Team Liz chapter, Idaho Support Division. They made the shirts tonight together. Thanks, fam, we love you! It was so fun to see Liz with a surprised-and-delighted smile on her face. Priceless.

My third opinion: we love our family. As Jensen would say, "Olive-um."

Go Team Liz!

Put your foot down

Liz's feet hurt a lot today, she can hardly walk. Frustrating, since she otherwise feels relatively OK. Besides the exhaustion and dizziness of course. We're praying that the foot pain subsides so she can walk around more. She did brave one outing to take Melissa to the airport via a drive through 'downtown' Plainfield, up Lake Shore Drive, and down Michigan Avenue. Some fun pics from the day:

 Baby 'Blue Steel' Eli

I fed Eli something other than formula for the first time today. Sweet potatoes mixed with rice cereal and water. Cohen asked if he could try -- first dad reaction was "NO" but I thought better of it and said "SURE!" Here's the result:

VIDEO: Cohen's first time feeding baby Eli

I love this family. Here's to Liz's feet deciding to play ball tomorrow.

Go Team Liz.

German sausages are the wurst

So we got Giordano's for Melissa, a final taste of Chicago before she must leave tomorrow. No sausage, though. I reward myself with food, so it seemed like this made a lot of sense as a thank you meal. Perhaps TSA will allow her to take the leftovers?

It was such a blessing to have her here this week. The boys miss her already. Jensen won't have his "I need a grownup Muhwissa" to help him find things he "no know where it is." Cohen understands that "my cousins need their mom back." We just wish she could stay. Thank you, Melissa!

Liz's feet burned and tingled all day, her hands hurt when she tries to grab/grip, and now her knees are aching. Still all "normal" with chemo, but the pain is tough to deal with. And sometimes the only food that sounds good is the one that'll make you sick. One day at a time... Some extra rest will hopefully help us all. Cohen prayed tonight that "Aunt Melissa will get home safe and help her family, and bless Mom that the medicine works the first time." Amen.

A little marketing study, final exam prep for stats and accounting, and negotiations planning, then I'm off to bed. Excited to wrestle with the boys in the morning, they've missed their dad. Right back at them.

Go Team Liz!

Maybe not as normal as I thought

Rougher day for Liz today. Lots of foot and toe pain/burning, general blah-ness, body aches, exhaustion. Likely early peripheral neuropathy as a side effect of the chemotherapy, which is terribly unfortunate and highly inconvenient—not to mention painful and stupid (don't tell Cohen I used that word)—but it is relatively common, since the chemo drugs often damage nerve cells on their no-holds-barred quest to destroy cancer cells. But her mind is as sharp as ever, and she is a compassionate, caring, loving lady. She even tolerated me breaking the "comfort IN, dumping OUT" cardinal rule as we talked for a while this evening. It's tough seeing her in pain and feeling horrible, especially when there's nothing I can do about it. I'm a guy: I want to fix things. We just hope and pray that the treatments will help long-term and we'll forget about these short-term annoyances and frustrations.

Go Team Liz!

Now back to work and school stuff for me tonight before bed. In the meantime, see below for your reading pleasure. Or, more likely, for your reading head-shaking and time wasting.

The following discussion took place a couple of weeks ago between Mike (M) and me (A). It was a pretty typical sibling conversation. It seemed pretty normal in the moment. Maybe not as normal as I thought.

M:  Hey Aaron.
A:   Wuzzzzzuuuuuuuup bro.
M:  I was just talking with Maren and she said that onions were the only food that made her cry.
A:   Oh yeah?
M:  Yeah, so I threw an apple at her face.
A:   ...huh.
M:  OK, I'm still working on it.
A:   You're getting there. Funny, yes. But it didn't really flow about throwing it at her face.
M:  Maybe I'm a bad shot and don't even hit her. That wouldn't make her cry.
A:   Well it might make her cry that her husband has such bad aim.
M:  True.
A:   You could say "so I hit her with an apple..."
M:  Concise, gets the point across. I think food is a little too general, doesn't direct the audience to a specific thought. I should probably change it from all food to a vegetable or fruit.
A:   Yeah, you should limit the food groupings. Why not just use a vegetable.
M:  True. I guess I could consolidate it by just throwing a vegetable, like a potato.
A:   Potatoes aren't really that funny.
M:  That's what the Irish said.
A:   Oooh...too soon.
M:  Coconut?
A:   Don't be ridiculous. Anyone can do a coconut joke.
M:  What about avocado?
A:   "So I hit her with an avocado..." Yes, it's funnier, but it still doesn't provide optimal comedic flow. How about an artichoke?
M:  Hmmm...artichoke...
A:   Or artichoke heart?
M:  That's better, but almost too expected as a funny vegetable. What about an eggplant?
A:   That works: funny vegetable, not expected, large enough to hurt.
M:  Okay, so, "I was just talking with Maren and she said that onions were the only vegetable that made her cry. So I hit her with an eggplant."
A:   Much better, that sounds good.
M:  Good, thanks.
A:   Awesome. Have a good one.
M:  You too.
A:   Ciao.

A rising tide lifts all forts

"Here's the thing. I'm a really good fort maker, actually the best. Itchoo ever want me to bring all of my stuff to your room and make you a really awesome fort, just let me know, that'd be perfect."
         -- Cohen tonight, because he is awesome.


So we're now at the end of day 3 of chemo round 2. Liz feels terrible. But it's all relative: she feels 1,000 times better than at this point of the first round. We mere mortals would be miserable with the discomfort, nausea, pain, insomnia, emotional stress, and exhaustion caused by the chemicals coursing through her veins. We'll see how the next few days go. For now, I'm just happy we're sitting on the couch together.

Jensen, Eli, and Liz all have colds/sinus infections. That stinks. Liz's nurse gave an antibiotic after a quick email exchange. Jensen's pediatrician jumped on the pity train and prescribed over the phone (those negotiation courses paid off yet again!). But I had to take a quick, late lunch today to take the baby for a checkup and get a prescription for him too. Man, he's heavy. Here's hoping they all sleep well tonight. Although I strangely enjoyed seeing Jensen at midnight... and at 2:30am... and 4:30am.

Thank you, Melissa, for keeping the boys happy and sane on a rainy Chicagoland day! So glad you're here.

We got some good news: Liz's blood work from Monday showed that all 3 breast cancer markers had a significant reduction after just 1 round of chemo! And her liver enzymes are still in good shape. This basically confirms what she has felt: the treatment plan is working. Gotta celebrate the wins.


"A rising tide floats all boats."
         -- John F. Kennedy, talking about how improved economies help everyone, but could have easily been talking about how a little good news can provide a future cancer survivor enough positive thought and hope to feel a little better about everything.


Let's keep the tide coming in. Go Team Liz!


And since I feel obligated to include a photograph in each blog post, I hereby share my new favorite photo blog, a tumblr as it were. Enjoy.

Reasons My Son Is Crying

How not to say the wrong thing

Limbo day here. Liz doing reasonably well, much better than chemo round 1. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, hoping it doesn't. Perfect time to share my new favorite article. Of all time. Ever. Of today.

Comfort IN, Dump OUT.

Sis-in-law Amanda sent the following article that is an awesome companion to Avoiding the Stupid Comments List and What To Say To Someone With Cancer. This seems like excellent advice when talking to (or about!) anyone in crisis, along with those family and friends who support them.

_____________________________

Original article located at:
https://www.latimes.com/nation/la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html

How not to say the wrong thing

It works in all kinds of crises – medical, legal, even existential. It's the 'Ring Theory' of kvetching. The first rule is comfort in, dump out.

Susan Silk and Barry Goldman
April 7, 2013
_____________________________

When Susan had breast cancer, we heard a lot of lame remarks, but our favorite came from one of Susan's colleagues. She wanted, she needed, to visit Susan after the surgery, but Susan didn't feel like having visitors, and she said so. Her colleague's response? "This isn't just about you."

"It's not?" Susan wondered. "My breast cancer is not about me? It's about you?"

The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie's husband, Pat. "I wasn't prepared for this," she told him. "I don't know if I can handle it."

This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say. And it was wrong in the same way Susan's colleague's remark was wrong.

Susan has since developed a simple technique to help people avoid this mistake. It works for all kinds of crises: medical, legal, financial, romantic, even existential. She calls it the Ring Theory.

Draw a circle. This is the center ring. In it, put the name of the person at the center of the current trauma. For Katie's aneurysm, that's Katie. Now draw a larger circle around the first one. In that ring put the name of the person next closest to the trauma. In the case of Katie's aneurysm, that was Katie's husband, Pat. Repeat the process as many times as you need to. In each larger ring put the next closest people. Parents and children before more distant relatives. Intimate friends in smaller rings, less intimate friends in larger ones. When you are done you have a Kvetching Order. One of Susan's patients found it useful to tape it to her refrigerator.

Here are the rules. The person in the center ring can say anything she wants to anyone, anywhere. She can kvetch and complain and whine and moan and curse the heavens and say, "Life is unfair" and "Why me?" That's the one payoff for being in the center ring.

Everyone else can say those things too, but only to people in larger rings.

When you are talking to a person in a ring smaller than yours, someone closer to the center of the crisis, the goal is to help. Listening is often more helpful than talking. But if you're going to open your mouth, ask yourself if what you are about to say is likely to provide comfort and support. If it isn't, don't say it. Don't, for example, give advice. People who are suffering from trauma don't need advice. They need comfort and support. So say, "I'm sorry" or "This must really be hard for you" or "Can I bring you a pot roast?" Don't say, "You should hear what happened to me" or "Here's what I would do if I were you." And don't say, "This is really bringing me down."

If you want to scream or cry or complain, if you want to tell someone how shocked you are or how icky you feel, or whine about how it reminds you of all the terrible things that have happened to you lately, that's fine. It's a perfectly normal response. Just do it to someone in a bigger ring.

Comfort IN, dump OUT.

There was nothing wrong with Katie's friend saying she was not prepared for how horrible Katie looked, or even that she didn't think she could handle it. The mistake was that she said those things to Pat. She dumped IN.

Complaining to someone in a smaller ring than yours doesn't do either of you any good. On the other hand, being supportive to her principal caregiver may be the best thing you can do for the patient.

Most of us know this. Almost nobody would complain to the patient about how rotten she looks. Almost no one would say that looking at her makes them think of the fragility of life and their own closeness to death. In other words, we know enough not to dump into the center ring. Ring Theory merely expands that intuition and makes it more concrete: Don't just avoid dumping into the center ring, avoid dumping into any ring smaller than your own.

Remember, you can say whatever you want if you just wait until you're talking to someone in a larger ring than yours.

And don't worry. You'll get your turn in the center ring. You can count on that.

Susan Silk is a clinical psychologist. Barry Goldman is an arbitrator and mediator and the author of "The Science of Settlement: Ideas for Negotiators."

Chemo Round 2

Day 35 since diagnosis. Round 2 of the first chemo treatment. Kicking cancer in the can. Feeling like being more graphic and angry about what I want to do to cancer. Learning that there are many like-minded folks out there. But maybe I'm just mad that I had to write income tax checks. I'm sure there are many like-minded folks out there for that too. Liz update on the way, but first, some updates on our little men.

Cohen is amazing with Eli -- a natural babysitter and so caring for his little brother. I covertly snapped a photo this morning:

Rough day for both boys, though. So glad that Melissa (Liz's sister) came in last night. She's great with the boys and is handling their transitional drama like a pro. I love this picture she took while the boys waited for the bus.

Check out Jensen's mischievous grin. She was fortunate enough to snap another photo of Jensen immediately thereafter. He was in a bad mood today:

Jensen's birthday is in 10 short days. He wants a school bus party. Don't know what that is. But he wants school bus cookies and a mail truck cake ("for Maria!" -- she delivers the mail, and Jensen basically thinks she's a superhero). And we want to get him a big boy bed. He's not a fan of the idea. Colossal 3-year old meltdown assured. Don't worry, I'll record the whole thing.

We bought a juicer. Because some say it can really help, and because we don't want to ever say "we wish we would have..." And I made this today out of organic apples, carrots, spinach, and kale. Yes, it looks terrible, but it actually wasn't bad. I'm not sure we'll ever get to the veggie-only juicing stages, but at least it's a start. I did try to make orange juice last week with Cohen. That was a disaster. Cohen took the first big drink, looked at me and said, "Dad, I think something's wrong." Indeed it was.

We're home now. Liz is trying to rest, I'm typing this here blog, Melissa is saving everyone's sanity by playing with the boys at the park, and I'm nominating myself for father of the year by helping baby Eli see how well he can completely fill up the far-too-small-even-for-his-short-legs baby swing.

Now back to Liz. We've had a good day, actually. In fact, I can assert that it has been a 'cancer great' day. She felt reasonably well and strong. Probably her magic Braves hat I picked up for her last year at a conference in Atlanta. Fitting, though -- she is brave.

The nurses drew blood from Liz's new port. Amazing technology... She hardly felt a prick, they drew blood and attached the IV lines to the port, and we can save her arms and hands from needle torture. Great news: her blood levels are all normal! Tomorrow they'll let us know her liver enzyme levels and breast cancer blood marker levels. The Doc is confident that the liver enzymes will be normal (like they were at the end of Liz's hospital stay), and he's certain that the breast cancer blood markers will be lower than when they tested them prior to the first round of chemo. He is convinced that the medicine is working, and Liz really feels like it is as well. So he didn't need to reduce the potency of her chemotherapy (Herceptin, Perjeta, Taxotere), and he just added 2 new medications: Xgeva shot once every 4 weeks to make sure her bones stay strong to prevent any cancer growth, and Neulasta the day after each chemo treatment to boost her white blood cell count. We felt really good about today.

The exhaustion and chemo fog will likely intensify starting tonight and into tomorrow, and they'll be around for the bulk of this week. So don't be offended if she doesn't personally respond to your texts or emails or calls, and don't be shocked if you hear from me instead. Keep the prayers and happy thoughts coming -- we can sense your support and I'm convinced that it helps.

Go Team Liz!