I have a second chance. Cancer isn't always as kind.

Some of you know that I had a deadline the other day to meet a $5,000 goal for my LIVESTRONG fundraising. I didn't make that goal. As it prohibited me from being able to fulfill a promise to my daughter, I was pretty disappointed.

On a personal level, and please do not take this the wrong way or as me being ungrateful, it was most disappointing to have worked so hard this year, while fighting cancer actively, running 2 major events that beat last year's numbers, and to have still fallen short. Previous "angel" donors weren't able to give me a boost this year, and I'd made the mistake of thinking that one of my events would have been bigger than expected, and I didn't run with a couple of smaller events.

In the past, I would have beat myself up into a pulp, cried my eyes out, and second-guessed every decision I made that caused me to fail. I'd have then turned my self-loathing into anger and lashed out at every single individual like a petulant child.

You do realize that when I say, "In the past," I'm referring to just over one year ago, right?

Don't I look like myself?

That bratty single child in me is, at this moment, lying face down in her bed, kicking and screaming, tearing at pillows, refusing to come down for dinner and making the lives of all around her a living hell. But she's a much smaller part of me.

Well, maybe not. This goal was a big one. I was resigned to the fact that $25,000 was going to be out of reach and gave in to the $15,000 goal. As time ticked away, and the donations just didn't come in the way that they did last year, I started to panic, but LIVESTRONG set a special incentive at the $5,000 mark that made it "ok" to "settle" for $5,000.

I assumed, making an ass out of you and me, that the money would just come in effortlessly. Until the deadline passed, and I was still short.

Unlike cancer, which rarely gives second chances, LIVESTRONG gave an extension to those of us reaching for the $5,000 mark.

I now have until 5pm Friday, October 5, 2012, to finish raising $5,000.

As of right now, I am $1,500 away from the mark. That seems like a lot, doesn't it? But, here's the way I see it.

I have 1,716 Facebook friends. I have 678 connections on LinkedIn. I have 1,212 Twitter followers. Of course, there is quite a bit of crossover, so let's figure that there are 500 "real" people all told.

If I do the math correctly, if all of the 500 "real" people I presume are, in fact, "real," that means each would only have to donate $3 in the next 24 hours in order to meet the goal.

That's it. It's totally do-able.

So, now, I just have to figure out how to reach those 500 "real" people.

Are you one of the "real" ones?

Why do I want you to support LIVESTRONG? Read on...

First, the kind folks at the Journal News ran an article as a follow up to our October Breast Cancer Awareness program last year... It's a really lovely read - thank you.

This weekend, my friend from Boston, Lynda Beaulieu-Fresolo, came down. After a late start, we hit the road in Norwalk and rode a little over 22 miles. A twitchy left ankle and a left knee that wasn't feeling great prompted me to suggest that we turn back instead of continuing forward, reaching 40 miles. We averaged just under 11.5 mph - my goal was 12-15 mph.

There was a time I'd beat myself up about it, but Lynda told me to just keep working, and LIVESTRONG has taught me that no fight, nor victory, should be considered too small to be a success. My tush hurts, my legs are stiff, and I know I have a lot of work ahead of me.

But I'm doing it.

I wish I could say my fundraising this year was just as successful. I've scaled back my goal from $25,000 to $15,000, and now I'm hoping to hit $5,000.

HTTP://LAF.CONVIO.NET/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012

I need to meet that $5,000 goal today so I can be a part of the LIVESTRONG 15th Anniversary Celebration Gala in Austin, TX. It's the least amount I've raised for LIVESTRONG since I started fundraising. It's just been one of those years.

I'm more than halfway there. I have a check en route that will help. But I'm still not going to make it with that check alone. I need your help.

By my account, if each of those that reads my blog today could donate $25, I'll meet the $5,000 goal today.  It only takes 2 minutes. But your donation wouldn't just help me with my goal, it will help thousands of people like me, my mom, my aunt, my friend and so many others fight and find the strength to keep looking forward.

Please consider donating today by clicking the link to my personal page below. The funds we raise together allow LIVESTRONG to give survivors the services, information and direct support they need to tackle cancer on their terms. And 100 percent of what you donate for the LIVESTRONG Austin Challenge will go directly to these vital efforts.

Thanks for your support.
LIVESTRONG,
Rica
HTTP://LAF.CONVIO.NET/GOTO/RICAROCKSAUSTIN2012

Why do I support LIVESTRONG? For hope

"We choose to go to the moon in this decade ... because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win" -- John F. Kennedy

When James Lipton asks celebrities of all types on "Inside the Actors Studio" Bernard Pivot's infamous question about what their favorite 4-letter word* is, we all laugh as we hear f-bombs being dropped, the s-word flung about, etc. But one day, I'd love to hear someone respond with the 4-letter word, "HOPE"

Tis but a foolish word, "HOPE." So simple. Simple to say, simple to spell, and simple to think about - that is, until hope is tested.

We all "hope" that our children will do well in school starting the first day they hop on the bus - and it's easy to hope that. But when a child is diagnosed with a learning disorder that prohibits an easy academic life, that hope becomes challenged.

So to, when we "hope" that our loved ones "have good day" when they leave for work or hope they "feel better" upon reporting that they have a cold, it rolls off the tongue without a second thought. And when we "hope for the best" for ourselves and others, we don't stop and wonder about any alternative to the "best."

That is, until there is an immediate challenge.

For those of us who have been diagnosed with cancer, even the most optimistic among us feel hope fade - even if it's just for a moment, it does. We can't help it. For those whose loved one is diagnosed, their hope may even falter even more - not only do they question hope for their own future, but they now worry about their loved one.

And, for those cancer fighters among us who have the dreaded determination that the cancer has come back, hope is tested once more, and sometimes in a far more brutal way. You see, when you've fought it once, and you've made it through the "other side," however that's defined in anyone's particular case - whether it be a no evidence of disease declaration from the doctor, finishing chemotherapy, recovering from surgery, etc - we instinctively begin the (sometimes grueling) process of rebuilding our hopes, possibly developing new and greater hope. Imagine, if you will, just coming out of that process, just starting to bathe in the light at the end of the tunnel only to learn that you have to fight that fight again.

For first time fighters, like I was, it's terrifying. For those fighting repeatedly, I can't imagine.

So, when hope is tested, sometimes our immediate loved ones can fill in, sometimes they can't. But LIVESTRONG can. LIVESTRONG helps us remember that there are things to look forward to - whether it be a LIVESTRONG Challenge, a program like First Descents, financial assistance, or helping to find the right program, medical facility or doctor - LIVESTRONG can be that beacon when others feel their hope tested.

Today, for example, was a wonderful case of why a foundation like LIVESTRONG's existence helps foster hope.

On the one hand, I have a friend who has a unique form of cancer. It's been very hard on them, and they are facing a new barrage of treatments - none of which are easy by any account. While several of us have been struggling to figure out what we can do to help and support this friend, contacts at LIVESTRONG coincidentally spread the word that today MD Anderson was making an announcement about a new program - Moon Shots. MD Anderson drew inspiration from President Kennedy's words quoted above, hence the program's name. "The nation’s No. 1 hospital for cancer care, with its unparalleled resources and capabilities, is uniquely positioned to accelerate the end of cancer. It’s closer than you think. What’s learned from these initial cancer 'moon shots' will ultimately lead to cures for all types of the disease."

While LIVESTRONG does not fund medical research, they do have ties to MD Anderson, and one is hard-pressed not to hear MD Anderson being referred by LIVESTRONG Leaders and staff.

As it happens, the Moon Shots program specifically addresses the challenging cancer that my friend is fighting, as well as several others. My friend was on the verge of giving up all hope. And, thanks to LIVESTRONG's communication network, we learned that my friend has a reason to hope - even if it's just the chance to look at an alternative.

Hope is such a simple thing on the surface. But look below that surface.

I pray none of you have to test your hope outside of what I ask you to do in this blog post.

But if you do, know that you can always turn to LIVESTRONG for reinforcement of hope for you and your loved ones.

Please consider a donation to my LIVESTRONG Challenge Account - http://laf.convio.net/goto/RicaRocksAustin2012. The LIVESTRONG Challenge, since my diagnosis, provided me with a goal and hope and something to look forward to while I was in treatment, and now that my procedures are winding down, something to continue to hope towards.


* FYI, yes, I know, he actually asks what their favorite "curse word" is, but that would have defeated the lovely literary thing I had going there.

Why do I support LIVESTRONG? For my family

Today, I have a family member going through chemotherapy and another who is having surgery for cancer as we speak. Within one year of my own diagnosis and embarking on treatment, 2 family members were diagnosed and began their treatment. One survived cancer once before, and another didn't see this coming after years of diligent screenings.

This disease, or as Lance Armstrong pointed out in March at the LIVESTRONG Leader Summit, this collection of thousands of diseases with their own personalities, traits and Achilles' Heels, does not discriminate. It does not distinguish between fair and unfair. It doesn't appreciate irony or Murphy's Law. It has no concept nor care of how it can push an individual, or a family, beyond their breaking points. It's oblivious as to what a burden it is on us. It simply doesn't care.

But LIVESTRONG does.

While I cannot come out publicly, at this time, with specifics, I can tell you that in the past few days, as little was being asked of LIVESTRONG, the organization reacted and responded. Two days after letting a contact at LIVESTRONG know, a box was shipped to my family member with support material. A fellow LIVESTRONG Leader participated in a mud run with my family member on his back. I've gotten advice on this person's type of cancer already, how to help after today's surgery (as this surgery is very different from my own), and tips as to how to help this person deal with their upcoming radiation treatments, which I didn't have to endure. They are willing to reach out to other caregivers.

And, all the while, without intruding on my family member's situation, as they went within one week from out-of-the-blue diagnosis to surgery. I know, without question, they will be ready when this person is ready to speak with them, and I also know they are available to those immediately around this cancer fighter when they need help and support.

More so, LIVESTRONG is providing an outlet for the frustration that we feel - that cancer does not - at having our immediate network barraged by this infernal disease within a calendar year - my children and I will take our aggression out on the road at the LIVESTRONG Challenge in a month.

I hope my fellow family members fighting cancer can join me someday at the Challenge to see the masses of supporters they have and don't even realize right now.

Your donations do that. They really do. Your donations provide LIVESTRONG the ability to fund programs that can directly, locally, touch cancer fighters and their families, like mine. Supporting the organization allows them to provide a unique opportunity for cancer fighters to gather together and fight the only ways we are able to - on the road, with our own bodies, letting out our anger, frustration, and triumph, in a celebration. A donation today will continue to enable us to be a safety net not only for the cancer fighters themselves, but their support networks.

Please consider a donation today. Do it in honor of my family. In honor of yours. And in honor of the families around you that you'll never know are fighting, too.

First Descents Day 3: So, this is what you call a "Rest Day?"

Yoga is not my friend. It never has been. In my mind's eye, it would go something like this:

Or this:

So why, after knocking over co-workers at Cendant years ago at our lunch-time yoga wellness program session like dominoes, and all my previous attempts & fails at yoga before, I decided to join the yoga session on our 3rd day with an instructor named Pretzel, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps it was because I was so in the moment, and I had succeeded in suspending enough of my neuroses that I felt that I could conquer it.

I'm pleased to report that I didn't knock anyone down. But Pretzel's pace was too great for me to keep up with and her "modifications" weren't frequent enough for me to follow. I'd asked her before the class if she was going to include modifications, which she said she would, but me thinks her definition of "modifications" and mine were about as similar as chocolate and umami. But, that's ok. I had done enough Windsor pilates to be able to modify some of the poses well enough. Besides, thanks to Bethenny Frankel, I kept reminding myself that yoga is more about the breathing and feeling one with the breath than the actual poses themselves.

It wasn't until we got to some of the stretches of the chest and back, however, that I broke down. As many of my fellow teammates from my years in basketball, fencing, softball and even ballet can tell you, I've always been flexible from the waist up. I could hook my arms backwards and pull myself in all kinds of different directions. Before. Before the butchery.

However, as we held a simple stance, reached behind ourselves, grabbed our hands, and then had to stretch our clasped hands up, I felt a strange tugging and disconcerting shifting in my chest.

Fuck.

The implants. My pectorals. These fucking, G-d forsaken foreign objects that yield to no one, that have turned my pectoral muscles to the surface just below my skin, so that every twitch of the muscle causes a disgusting, gut-wrenching yank and pull and ripple in what had been my soft, supple cleavage. I could lift 100 pounds, and my breasts still looked feminine. Now, just stretching made me look like a roided up Arnold Schwartzenegger in the Mr. Olympia contest.

My primary goal of this adventure with First Descents was to try and feel like myself - something I haven't felt since my diagnosis. I hate my body for betraying me. I hate my body for falling apart. I hate my implants. I hate these stupid fake nipples with no sensation. I hate my skin that is in a constant state of tangible numbness. I hate it all.

I felt the tears start to fall, and I tried so hard to stick it out, but when I felt the onslaught of sobs, I had to bail. I tried, as quickly and quietly as possible, to run to the bathroom where I just let it go. I felt so defeated. I'd have slammed my fists to these false breasts repeatedly, beating them up, if there were any option to feel anything - even pain. But there wasn't any point - I wouldn't be able to feel anything. I couldn't do anything with them. And I couldn't feel anything with them. They simply fill in my dresses and bra cups. That's it. They are hollow, useless, and unattached, but attached, permanent accessories.

I broke down, curling up on the floor, breathless with grief. My breakfast to this point consisted of my coffee cup and now a serving of tear water and snot. I was mortified. I couldn't believe I abandoned the class. I couldn't forgive myself for not being stronger. I just wanted my cat, Sammy, to force me to play with him and out of this funk. But he was at home. I had to do this by myself. I closed my eyes and just breathed. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I tossed cold water on my face, as I know I have inherited my mother's tendency to get flush and terrible red eyes when crying, and I go back to the outside patio where the yoga class was continuing. I struggled through the poses again, quivering, stumbling, kneeling, chest heaving...

Yoga ended, Namaste, and I just wanted to curl up and die. But it was breakfast time. The coffee and food was too good to escape company, so I joined the group at the table. We prepped for the next part of our rest day - a hike, some shopping in town, and chilling. (I was opting for the shopping, as I wanted to see the town and I always enjoy seeing what the locals do wherever I visit.)

We pile into the vans, and our first stop is a drive through Rocky Mountain National Park. The views were spectacular. The photos say it all:

Hot Pink in a field of wildflowers...

Well, not really... just a planting at the gas station.

Yeah. I climbed over the safety wall. And?

Chipmunk

The Amazing FD 2012 Estes Park Gang

"I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school...
I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy... "

The Amazing Wildflower

Yes, that's an Elk Bull.
Yes, we were that close from the car.

Next, we were onto our hike at Gem Lake. Those of us who were shopping would not complete the entire hike while the rest actually completed the trail to the lake itself. Though I'd been feeling winded during some of the walks we were doing to the rocks, it wasn't too problematic - I simply dismissed it as altitude or something. But I figured this hike should be a piece of cake - I've always been able to hike - granted, my knees would be problematic, but it's not that much of a challenge. Hell, most of my mountain bike races are hikes on the way up, and that's with a full Camelbak and a Trek 3900 in tow! But, in this case, it was merely a backpack with a couple of light items and no bike, and I was near hyperventilation almost immediately. Not only was it inconvenient, it was thoroughly pissing me off, which wasn't exactly helping. Chopper, Mermaid, Little Bits and I walked along - clearly, they were designated sweeps. The negative was falling back. The positive was that I was with a local, a photographer and a local birdwatcher - this meant I could take in the beauty around us. This trail was stunning. Well kept, looking over vistas that I'd never seen in this country, birds flitting about - it was lovely. We talked, got to know each other.

I didn't know that Chopper, for example, was a former cycling pro until Bits & I started talking about cycling, and I was trying to explain some of the strategy to Mermaid. He seemed impressed that I knew about the sport, the Tour, etc. If I recall, it was when I was comparing hiking up to cycling, and pointed out that I was more like a Jans Ullrich vs. a Contador when it comes to climbing, but the ideal is to be more like an Armstrong - with powerful legs but not overly heavy, so you can be a well-rounded player. Unfortunately, the topic didn't come up until we were almost at the overlook, so I didn't get to pry Chris with questions.

Here, Wildflower explained we would have a rock ceremony. We were, in silence, to choose 2 rocks, and a Sharpie marker. On one rock, we were to write down everything that we wanted to leave behind - every insecurity, trait, etc. One the other, what we hoped to keep with us, earn or takeaway with us. Tomorrow was graduation day, so it was time to really think. For my positive rock, I found a lovely stone with quartz crystals. It was small, light and lovely. The other had to be huge. I had a tome to write in order to list all the things I wanted to relieve myself of - so many issues, qualities, etc.

Now, I've participated in my fair share of similar ceremonies. And there is always this forced silence while you wait for everyone else to finish. But this was different... there was no urge to break the silence. There were no giggles, sneezes, awkward shifting. I sense that most of us finished our rocks long before anyone said a word. The air was so clean, the sun felt so good - it felt like such a whole moment that I don't think any one of us wanted to disturb that purity.

We all gathered at the edge of the overlook and, on the count of three (well, I needed 4 since my rock was SO large that I had to wait for everyone else lest I accidentally hit one of my friends in the head with mine), and our rocks went flying over the ledge. Poetically, mine hit an edge and splintered into hundreds of shards. I breathed in, looked at Snapjacks and the others (she happened to be right near me) and I said, "I may have been the last one up here, but I'll be damned if I'll be the last one down!"

It seemed like a bold statement, I could understand that, but bear one thing in mind - while I'm not a great cyclist, and at the speed required for mountain biking, I can't always find the line, when I have the chance to study a course, I can pick some damned fine ones. I knew I didn't have to run, but just find the lines of least resistance and approach it to scouting out a bike trail or road course. So I zipped down. Except for the occasional confirmation that I was making the right turn at junctions, there was no looking back, no stopping, no slowing down - just forward momentum. Until I saw a hairband on the ground.

Suddenly, I had a strange urge - something that had merely been a longing for months. I picked up the hairband, ran my fingers through my hair, pulled back as hard as I could, and deftly wrapped and tightened that band against the stub at the back of my scalp. More than likely, I looked more like George Washington vs Lady Godiva, but, for the first time in just under a year, I was able to pull my hair - my own hair - into a pony tail. (Ok. Pony tail is stretching it - maybe a bunny tail.) I grinned and then just let gravity lead me down. Before I knew it, I was leaning against the van, looking up at the trail, and I couldn't see Wildflower, who was the first one in the pack behind me. It was a few minutes before the group broke the clearing into the parking lot.

I had done it. I finished first. And I was barely winded.

Shopping in town was fine, though not my cup of tea. We only had an hour, which was a shame, because that barely left us much time to do more than hit some of the typical t-shirt/souvenir shops and an ice cream store. Personally, I love to mill around, look at the galleries, look at the craftswork, jewelry and art work and spend $50 on a piece of local, handcrafted specialties that represent the place I'm visiting vs. $50 worth of t-shirts and hats, but that's ok. I was able to find keychains for both of my kids - a tradition I started several years ago - a keychain for every state I travel through for each of them, a couple of magnets and some postcards (which, dummy me, I forgot to put into the mail). Besides, I'd already gotten my special Estes Park goodies earlier in the week, anyway - a key chain and key from the Stanley Hotel Room #217 and a door plaque for my bedroom, now known as Room #217.

I will say this: Huckleberry Ice Cream is Colorado's equivalent to Maine's secret weapon, Blueberry Ice Cream. I won't choose one over the other, but they are both equally divine.

We met up with Wildflower and the others and headed back to the ranch for dinner and our campfires, which aren't actual campfires - but more like a communal gathering where we reflect upon the day and award each other with one of 3 special tokens - a monkey for work "On The Rock," a set of maracas for work "Off The Rock," and a turkey hat for... well... anything else - spirit.

Before dinner, though, I was feeling stiff and tense for the next day's climb. The guides and staff had been hyping it all week, and the fact that, at best, I'd done moderate climbs, everyone else had attacked the advanced and expert climbs. I didn't. I felt out of my league, so I did something I didn't think I would - I went into the hot tub. Everyone else went downstairs to play Hydration Pong (I never really got Beer Pong, anyway), and I just took in the mountain air while surrounded by bubbles. I started to sing. I felt that if I could sing, in the hot tub and perhaps even the mountain, I could maintain my breathing and pace myself. I think I was in there for 2 hours.

Then, I heard the announcement that dinner was ready - those beautiful lasagnas Antelope Jamboree and Chamomile had been working on all day with their hearts and souls. It was sumptuous. Everything (but the pasta) was homemade. It was divine, comforting, soothing, nutritious and filling.

As we went through our campfire ritual, we gave our staff and guides a token of our affection - a Red Solo Cup printed with a cute message, signed by each of us. And then it was onto the awards.

I was still so relaxed by my soak in the hot tub, I was barely awake when I heard Snapjacks re-quote me to the group,  "I may have been the last one up here, but I'll be damned if I'll be the last one down!" My meltdown repelling on Day 1 made an impact on everyone, as it was mentioned a few times at Day 1's campfire as a moment of inspiration, but this one I wasn't expecting. The next thing I know, I'm receiving the monkey for work On the rock. ME.

I was honored. And stupefied.

And I realized I had a lot to live up to the next day on Graduation Day. I would be carrying the monkey.

Failure would not be an option.

Was I ready for the Challenge?

Seeking motivation...

Well, yesterday was a bust. I didn't ride. I didn't canoe. I got wrapped up in the Olympic equestrian cross-country events and then I had an interview. Lame, I admit.

Today, I've got a lot of housework to do, some planning for the upcoming ROCK the RIDGE benefiting LIVESTRONG on September 23 with my partner-in-MTB-crime, Sean. But the weather doesn't look like it's going to cooperate for a ride, either.

So this self-motivation thing hasn't been working so well. I guess my own cancer journey isn't stimulating enough for me.

As I reflect on what a lazy slob I've become (well, I've always been a slob, but the lazy part is relatively new post-cancer), I think it's time that I rely on an oldie but a goodie when it comes to motivation - I look to YOU to kick my ass into the canoe and/or onto the bike.

Since the canoe is much more convenient in terms of location (the lake is literally a couple of hundred feet away from my house), for every $18 that is donated to my LIVESTRONG Challenge account daily (even once I find a job), I will canoe 1 clockwise lap around the circumference of Lake Kitchawan - that is a 2-mile lap.

Donate $25, and your lap will be counter-clockwise (as that is how you go against "current" in the lake). If I get 10 donations in one day, I will canoe 10 laps.

The bike, sadly, poses more difficulty. Because I live at the bottom of a valley, it would mean a 3-4 mile climb up onto decent roads, with some hills close to a 10% gradient. Pardon my French, but it's a bitch even when one is in great fitness. Not me.

Therefore, I would have to load up the bike and drive to a new location to start the ride. Given the state of my fitness, it would have to be relatively flat, so I'd be shooting at the Norwalk/Westport beaches, a ride I was introduced to on the Blooming Metric 3 years ago. So, for a donation of $36 or more, I will ride the Norwalk/Westport beaches.

Want to make me suffer? For a donation of $72, I will attempt (I can't make promises!) to ride up to Sherwood Island, which includes some climbs, and back to Norwalk, which includes a couple of more if I take the hilly route.

I want to do this. I really do. But wanting to do it hasn't been getting me out the front door. There is too much anxiety and fear. But you all have made me fearless over the years - from my first mountain bike races, to taking on ridiculous distances. And this isn't lip service - every single time I've looked to quit, I think of all of you supporting me, investing in me, and I stop myself. If I've ever quit an event, it's been with aching guilt.

You really do motivate me. Please, help me regain my fitness again. Help me get back on my bike.

Do I have enough cancer for you?

This week I've been struck by the notion that some survivors look at other survivors and judge them by how bad their cancer was. Now, I will never deny that depending on the diagnosis, other people's journeys will be more, or less, traumatic and challenging than others. Just like pregnancies, some women experience easier or more difficult pregnancies. However, pregnant is pregnant, no matter how you got that way and what your journey was. It's still a life-changing event, regardless of outcome.

It's the same thing with cancer. There is no such thing as "good cancer" or "bad cancer." There are good and bad prognoses, there are subjectively more difficult treatment plans, etc.

And yet, some people feel the need to look at some of us and say, "Well, you didn't suffer for as long as I did, so your cancer 'doesn't count,'" to which I say, "Bullshit."

That sounds harsh. I know. That sounds incredibly insensitive. But the minute you belittle another person's cancer experience, you kind of negate any willingness to be open to your plight.

Having cancer doesn't automatically turn us into saints. Jerks are simply jerks with cancer. Yes, there is the chance that being faced with something as significant and mortal as cancer may prompt us to rethink our approach to life, etc. But sometimes, it really doesn't.

The notion of judging another person's cancer as being "less than" is so insulting, too, because it presumes that the person who has the "lesser" cancer isn't aware that others have gone through hell and back. I am very well aware, for example, that I am surrounded by people who have endured things for many more months and years, who have had chemotherapy for much longer, etc, and that their cancers have a much higher mortality rate than mine. But that doesn't make me, or anyone else, any less of a survivor, and that doesn't mean that I'm less qualified than someone else to say, "I'm a survivor," have an opinion on the matter or work for the cause.

My opinion? Accept that everyone has their own cancer journey, and that for that individual and their family, it is (hopefully) the most disruptive, challenging and difficult experience of their lives, no matter the time span, prognosis, etc.

Perhaps, rather than reserve judgement about another person's treatment and cancer, leave it at "I have cancer," and provide support. Or walk away.

A blanket statement: If I have ever made anyone feel that I've made their cancer experience seem insignificant, my sincerest apologies. I hope I've never done that.