I Went To A Church

Hi All,

I'm sorry I've been so wishy-washy with my posts.  I don't really have a very good excuse, and when I think about it, I really was kind of avoiding it.  I had intended to post the day after Christmas...but I was surprised at how emotional I actually got on Christmas Eve/Christmas, and although I felt like a total puss for it I really didn't want to write anything.  It's not like I've been sitting around crying over things or holed up in my house feeling sorry for myself...there's just been this weird "aura" around me.  Like every once in a while I will think "this day 4 fours years ago I was having an allergic reaction to benadryl and thought I was going to die" or "this day four years ago I bought my first wig"...and I know, I know: it really sounds like I'm being overdramatic.  But like I said...I don't have a mental breakdown over it...I just remember it, and then feel funny for a little while.

Nothing made me feel funnier than I did on Christmas Eve.  If you didn't know, Christmas Eve was the day I began chemo.  But to be perfectly honest, I don't remember much about that day, except that in the evening the morphine was making my legs itch so they decided to give me Benadryl.  It was then that we learned that I'm allergic to Benadryl.  I had heart palpitations all night, and I could not relax at all.  I remember thinking that my heart was going to explode and I was going to die before Christmas morning.  It is literally the only recollection I have of the day I started chemo.  I don't remember them hooking me up to the bag, I don't remember the bone marrow tests, the blood tests, and all that shit they did to see if the cancer had spread.  I don't even remember them coming in to tell me the cancer hadn't spread. 
 
But this year, I did fine all day.  I was finishing up some errands for my mom, working on this writing project I've been doing, and I was totally content.  My dad took Jackie to the hospital to drop off the Build-a-Bear, and we went off to my aunts.  Still totally fine. I don't know what came over me that night...I was having fun playing dolls with my little cousin, and eating the cookies that were accidentally made with granulated seasalt.  And then all of a sudden I heard my mom mention something about that Christmas we spent in the hospital...and I realized that I didn't remember what she was talking about.  And when I really started thinking about it...I couldn't remember anything about that Christmas, except that my extended family uprooted from the house in Seneca Falls to come to the hospital.  That was my grandma's last Christmas.  I've always felt guilty about that...she passed away a week after the doctors declared me in remission.  Just two weeks before the next Christmas.
  
Well...I was done after that.  I left the room and had a good cry.  I cried silently all the way home.  Angry at myself for something...not just for ruining Grandma's last Christmas...I realized I was angry with myself for carrying on with the holidays like nothing had happened.  Pretending this was not the anniversary of the single most momentous time of my life.  Pretending there weren't families having the same crap luck this year, sitting in the hospital thinking "what the f**k is going on?"  And pretending that I didn't still feel so sorry for that girl I was.  Because I do, and I always will.  I will always cry for the Jesse Pardee of Christmas 2008. 
  
We got home, and I was trying to watch A Christmas Story on TBS like any sane person would, and I couldn't sit still.  I just couldn't.
  
Now...the following events...I don't even know how it happened.  I mean, no offense to religious people...but I am just not a religious person. I've tried to be, and I just can't be.  But all of a sudden, I was out brushing off the car in the middle of a snowstorm, slipping and sliding my way down the road in a freaking blizzard.  And I went to a church.
  
I got to the door at 11:57 pm, and a woman I recognized as one of my childhood friends' mothers whispered "Merry Christmas" as I walked in.  I sat in a pew by myself, pretending I knew the prayers, and watching the people next to me when they did the sign of the cross so I didn't screw it up.  At some point during the service, I realized that I had had some sort of out of body experience.  I don't know what brought me to the church.  I really don't.  But if I had to guess...I would say it was my Grandma.  She was very religious, and I had a feeling that she was really happy that I was there in that church.  I'll bet she was there, too. 
  
When I saw everyone around me pulling out the little kneely thingy, I quickly joined them, and I started praying.  Not just sending my "positive energy" as I usually say.  Praying.  I prayed for Grandma, and I prayed for everyone battling cancer.  I prayed for those who were stuck in the hospital right now, sad and confused.  I prayed for my family.  I prayed for the families in Connecticut who were missing a crucial part of their holiday cheer.  And I prayed for Jesse Pardee with the itchy morphine legs whose heart beat out of her chest as she received her chemo on Christmas Eve 2008.
  
It was quite an experience. Cathartic.  Therapeutic.  I didn't feel like I was forgetting anymore.  It made me feel like I was paying tribute to those events in my life...and when I got back home in the snowstorm that night, I was happier and ready to have a nice holiday. I fell asleep to A Christmas Story on TBS, waiting for Santa.

These past few days...they've still been a little strange for me, so forgive me for avoiding this blog.  My New Year's Resolution is to stay faithful to it!  Wednesdays!  From here on out (until I don't post on a Wednesday).

Happy New Year,
Jesse

Uncomfortably Different Christmases

Hey, I suck, we all know it.  I could say finals were my excuse, yada yada yada, you've heard it before.  But I'm here now, so you can all exhale.

I was actually planning to sit down and blog this past Friday.  I had this whole blog post planned where I retold my sad Christmas story from 2008 when I was diagnosed with cancer, and we spent the holidays in the hospital, getting biopsies and scans and tubes and shit, and somehow turn it into a story about the spirit of Christmas and elves and pine cones or something.  

But then, the Newtown, Connecticut shooting occurred, and my story didn't really matter anymore.  At all, really.

I sobbed as I read the descriptions about each of the people killed, and even felt kind of sorry looking at the shooter himself. You have to wonder what was going on in his head... But this isn't about him.  He made a decision that day, and that decision is wreaking havoc on the people of Newtown, Connecticut.

There's something about Christmas time that puts a sort of fog over tragedy.  It's like you know the gravity of a situation but you can't fully grasp it because it's Christmas time.  Everything starts happening in slow motion.  It's like...trying to walk through a pool of red and green Jell-o...all of your coping mechanisms and comprension abilities are on the other side of the pool, and you're trying to get there, but you're constantly being assaulted by the red and green, and twinkling icicle lights, and pine scent attacking your nose, and you just can't get there.  (Sorry, I had green Jell-o the other day.) My sister Jackie said herself in the essay I posted, that she knew how serious it was, but couldn't think of anything but Christmas.  Tragedies are not supposed to happen at Christmas-time (apparently no one told the Mayans).  

Like the song says, "it's the most wonderful time of the year," "don we now our gay apparel," and like such as ("and like such as" is my new phrase, courtesy of Miss Teen USA 2007 South Carolina).  It's hard to comprehend that something bad is happening when the world is cramming cheer and merriment down your throat.

And I obviously have no idea what the people in Connecticut are going through.  No idea whatsoever.  Will never even be able to grasp.  But I'd be willing to guess that a lot of them are walking in a Christmassy blur, asking themselves what the hell happened.  One day they brought their child to sit on Santa's lap, and the next he was gone.

Christmas will be different for them this year.  Uncomfortably different.  And although I know nothing about what they're going through, I know a thing or two about uncomfortably different Christmases.  They are bittersweet.

When I woke up on Christmas morning in the hospital, the nurses (lead by my girl Detria!!!), had put out a pile of presents on the little tray at the foot of my bed.  A pretty decent sized pile, really.  And not only that: there was a table of presents for my sister, Jackie.  And they weren't shitty presents either.  Altogether, we had a pretty decent collection of Aeropostale sweatshirts, Build-a-Bears, Twilight books, make-up kits, games, and plenty of other really nice gifts.  The nurses knew that our Christmas was completely shattered, whether we realized it or not.  And they tried the best they could to bring some sort of happiness to the day.  And I'll tell you, I was probably as happy as I could be, for someone who was spending Christmas with as a little orange elf named Doxorubicin.  

And even more overwhelming than the nurses' kindness...was thinking of where those gifts came from.  They came from people.  People we didn't know.  People who didn't just stop at the dollar store and grab some silly putty to donate to the hospital.  People who knew were just people struggling on Christmas.

Throughout the day, more gifts arrived, some of them from people who had spent Christmas in that very room in years past.  My sister brings a Build-a-Bear up to 11G on Christmas eve now, to pay it forward.

That's what the vitcims of the Connecticut tragedy need right now.  At least I think they do.  They need people.  I know that there's been lots of gifts, letters, and food sent there.  And that's great.  But I know not everyone has the money to send things, and that's okay.  I will request this of you, though.  Whenever you post a status, tweet, blog (like this kid), or even just plain old say that you are praying for  everyone involved in this tragedy (or sending positive energy, like this fruitcake over here), you actually take a moment or two to send that energy, or say that prayer.  Really do it.  I know how easy it is to say "sending my prayers" and then start watching that show on MTV where Nev the catfish guy shows  people how to use google---because clearly I am guilty of this myself.  I am going to take a moment right now...

Everyone have a Merry Christmas, and hug your loved ones extra tight.

Jesse

The Little Tumor That Could, Might, But Probably Doesn't Exist

HELLO.  I hope you are all enjoying the Christmas season which I guess has already started even though it is not yet December.  I write this as I watch the SNL Christmas special on TV...I can only assume that we have moved Christmas to an earlier date.  So.  You are all invited to my Christmas Eve party on December 10th.

Anywho.  Now that I have gotten good news regarding my initial cancer, I have been busy diagnosing myself with other cancers.  It is extremely hard to go from having cancer and having doctors make a huge stink of every little ache and pain...to having a simple headache and taking some tylenol.  It's an extremely weird transition and even though I am 3 years out of chemo and 4 years a survivor, I--to this day--suffer about 2 cancers per week.

This week is brain cancer and lung cancer.  I have a cough.  So naturally there is a golf-ball-sized tumor on my lung.  Forget about the fact that just last week I had a chest xray and it was clear.  It developed over the weekend.  Cancer is sneaky like that.

And then, of course, there is the brain tumor I have as well.  Originally, I thought I had a deadly case of mastoiditis (thanks WebMD), but then I realized that it was only natural for my bone cancer to travel to my head a week after my blood tests and scans.  I will keep you updated on its progress.

In all seriousness folks, for a cancer survivor, every little ache and pain is absolutely terrifying.  Especially when we aren't surrounded by doctors and nurses on a daily basis to tell us whether or not our fears are justified.  I still haven't quite gotten it through my head that the internet is not the proper replacement for a doctor.  But then...I would be in a doctors office every day if I followed my health concerns.

It's sad.  It really is.  Last spring, after celebrating survivordom at the Young Adult Cancer Conference in Vegas, I came down with bronchitis.  I remember walking through the airport barely able to breathe...panicking, calling my dad, trying to find my car, thinking I needed to get myself to a hospital pronto.  I went to the school nurse, who sent me to the doctors that day.  The doctor was in the room for about 3 minutes.  He looked at my throat, listened to my raspy voice, and prescribed amoxicillin...AMOXICILLIN?  When he left the room...I was dumbfounded.  I had a lowgrade fever.  I NEEDED TO BE ADMITTED TO THE HOSPITAL IMMEDIATELY, RIGHT?  Shouldn't I be scanned?  Blood drawn?  Finger pricked?  SOMETHING?

And then I thought...this is a milestone.  I should be congratulating myself.  Congratulations on your first normal-person ailment post-chemo.  Normal people have aches and pains from everyday shit.  They get headaches, they get stomach aches.  They get gas (although, let it be said and understood that gas is pretty awful). To go from being admitted to the hospital with a fever of 99 to being sent home with a fever of 100.3 is a weird phenomenon.

The key is to trust your instincts.  If you have an ache and pain that is persistent...if something is seriously, seriously wrong with your body...it will tell you.  It will compel you to get help.  By the same token, you can't ignore it...that's how the trouble starts.  And, as it was with me, if you have a doctor who doesn't take your pain seriously and wants to send you to physical therapy for a bone tumor...you have to advocate for yourself.  Know that everyday aches and pains will happen, but don't ignore them when they refuse to be ignored.  YOU are the only one who truly knows and understands your own body, so just be wise and take care of it.

And, my fellow cancer survivors, bask in your achievement, in your survivorship, and enjoy the fact that you are here to experience those everyday maladies that are not brain tumors.  Or lung tumors.  Or mastoiditis.

And don't go on WebMD, or you might just diagnose yourself with prostate cancer, as I did last year.

Thank you, and goodnight!

Jesse

PS. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

Cancer and Chess...a Curious Combination???

 

Hello, hello, hello, my people.  I know it's been two weeks--I am sorry.  As predicted, those last two weeks of school before break were quite hectic.  We had our auditions for second semester shows, which are always stressful.  But...it ended quite well for me!  I found out shortly before I left that I will be playing the role of Florence in Chess!  Hurray! 

I am sosososososososooooooooooooooooo excited!  However, I didn't truly allow myself to get excited until after I got even greater news:

I am CANCER FREE as of yesterday!

 

On my first day of break, I trudged over to University Hospital, got an echo cardiogram, EKG, pelvic x-ray, chest x-ray, and lots of bloodwork, and most importantly a flu shot...and everything is GREAT! I am officially allowed to switch from being monitored every three months to EVERY SIX MONTHS, and it's almost time for me to be officially switched over to the survivor center!  The doc also went over some of the stats with us, and 90 percent of Ewings Sarcomas will have already recurred by the this point.  The curve for Ewings has a sort of "tail" as the doc calls it, where the chance of relapse sort of lingers at a low percentage for a few years...but regardless...I feel physically at my best, my kidneys are behaving for the time being, and I'm so thankful this Thanksgiving (I have trouble spelling Thanksgiving for some reason, like wtf?) 

 

Anywhoooo, after getting my clean bill of health, I just feel so wonderful!  It's Christmastime, I'm seeing my family, I'm cuddling with my puppy, and next semester I'll be performing in Chess with Point Park's Conservatory Theater Company!  When I saw my name on the list...I was overwhelmed.  I called my mom...and I could tell how excited she was, and then told me I didn't sound excited.  Which, of course, I was thrilled...I was just so afraid of repeating what happened senior year of high school...where I was cast as Charity in Sweet Charity, only to be diagnosed with cancer three weeks later.  I knew I had tests coming up, and while I wanted to let loose and celebrate, I felt like I still needed to keep my gameface on until this week when my tests were over.

 

When I began the drive home from Pittsburgh, I put on the Chess recording...and ten seconds into the prologue, I thought I was going to have to pull over.  I started crying right at the wheel, thinking about the girl sitting at home while everyone performed the musical, celebrated senior year, went to college without her...and then thinking about how far I've come...how wonderful it's going to feel to take the stage and sing...how I'm back doing what I love to do, and I'm healthy...

 

It truly goes to show you that no matter how low you feel...when you feel like you've hit rock bottom (and trust me, I have)...close your eyes, and remind yourself that eventually you will be in a better place, regardless of what that place is, or how you get there.  And that is a promise from me to you.

 

Happy Thanksgiving (sp?) Everyone!

Jesse

 





When It Rains, It Pours...and You're Like WTF?

So heyyooo.  I know everybody is aware of Hurricane Sandy, and the devastating effects it had on parts of NY and NJ.  It's a fairly simple procedure, rain and wind.  I don't need to go in depth--you've all seen the news.
 
Last night, as I often do (and by often, I mean---I NEVER EVER EVER TURN IT OFF), I was watching HLN.  I watch HLN in my sleep.  Literally.  It's on while I'm sleeping just in case I wake up in the middle of the night and need to pee and perhaps would like to hear some news.  It's an odd habit of mine.  On weekends they do HLN weekend mysteries where somebody gets killed and it's usually the ex-boyfriend or the husband who didn't get a prenup.  I find falling asleep to stories about serial killers soothing for some reason.  It gives me a sense of "thank god I'm safe in my bed and not getting killed by that serial killer."  I know it's strange but I don't consider myself typical.  I'm radioactive.  Ask my radiologist, he'll tell you.

But anyhoooooooo I got off on a tangent.  I was watching/listening to HLN last night as I counted out my six thousand pills, and Dr. Drew was talking to a woman who's life was turned completely upside down by the hurricane.  She was talking about how she just wanted everything back.  Everything she had before the hurricane, she wanted back--even the mundane, or the troublesome things like her bills, and the less devastating issues that plagued her life before.  And she said that everyone needs to be prepared.  Which really rang true for me in a lot of ways.

I know I've talked in this blog before about invincibility.  How we all, especially the younger generations, at certain times in our life feel like we're going to live forever.  Like we're untouchable.  And this woman on TV made a lot of sense. 

Now, I know that she was probably talking more along the lines of being prepared for national disasters and the like.  But I guess I took it in a more general way.  We all need to be prepared--even when it feels like everything is going perfectly--for hard times.  Because we will all come across hard times, some more difficult than others.

I remember distinctly, when I first came home from the hospital after my emergency admittance which lead to my first chemotherapy.  I had been in the hospital for a little over a week.  One day of which had been Christmas.  And when I pulled into the driveway...the first thing I thought was, "a week ago I pulled in to this driveway, and was crying because I'd failed my road test.  Now look at me."  I entered my house, and everything was completely different, and yet nothing had changed.  I went up the stairs, and was shocked when I reached the top, because I was wheezing, out of breath, lightheaded--and a week ago I had just bounded up the stairs as a regular annoying teenager.  It was that moment that I realized I didn't have the strength to face my bedroom.  I wouldn't go in there. 

I stayed in my mother's room, or on the couch.  I would send other family members in my room to get things for me.  I mentally could not face the evidence that I had once been a snobby little teenager who brushed her hair, slept in that bed, opened those drawers, watched that television--who cared only about getting clearer skin and the lead in the musical at school.  It was probably about two and a half weeks before I would really set foot in that room.

I wish I could tell you how I felt when I finally did.  I don't remember a lot of it.  But I do remember picking up the little oboe figurine and card on my nightstand that my mom and dad had given me two weeks before my diagnosis, after the All-State Band concert.  The card said they were proud of me.

But I wasn't proud of me.  Because the girl I was before that diagnosis was ungrateful and took everything for granted.  She never once stopped to think about how lucky she was, or that she needed to cherish everything now.

After the hurricane, I'm sure there a thousands of people feeling that same way.  With that in mind, and the upcoming Thanksgiving Holiday, remind yourselves of how absolutely lucky and fortunate you are.  What you're forunate for.  Who you're fortunate to have.  And tell those people.

That, my good peeps, is how you prepare for harder times.  It's not about sitting around wondering when you're gonna get yours, or when everything is going to fall apart.  It's about knowing what you truly have in life, so that you can hold onto those things even more when times get tough.

Today is the three year anniversary of the day I finished chemo.  You can bet I know exaclty who and what I'm thankful for.  How about you?

<3
Jesse

PS. No post next week, all.  It's gonna be a longgggg few days!

Back With No Vengeance Whatsoever.

Sorry about the mini-hiatus there.  It was a crazy two weeks with midterms and what not, and it promises to only get crazier with the fast approaching second-semester auditions.  So.  I will try really hard to keep up with my blog but please understand if I miss a few here and there.

Life has been pretty good for the most part. I got to visit home for a bit, and then got busier than ever with work and school.  Not to mention Halloween really has me on edge.  You know how that goes.

There's another part of October that always tends to grind my gears (--PGriffin).  It's not so much that I don't understand the importance of breast cancer awareness month...it's more that I don't understand why no one seems to be aware that October is also liver cancer awareness month, and why--upon completion of the month of September--it was never mentioned that September is also:

• Childhood Cancer Awareness Month
• Gynecologic Cancer Awareness Month
• Hodgkin's Lymphoma Awareness Month 
• Leukemia Awareness Month
• Lymphoma Awareness Month
• Multiple Myeloma Awareness Month
• Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month
*Mesothelioma Awareness Day
• Thyroid Cancer Awareness Week

• Prostate Cancer Awareness Month

                                               

Hmm.  Something's wrong with this...Now don't get me wrong--I understand that breast cancer affects a great percentage of people.  I understand that it is a devastating cancer that has taken countless lives.  

But I can't help but acknowledge that if caught early, breast cancer is highly treatable now due to all the funding it's received...and maybe if we put the same amount of funding into all the other cancers...we might see a decrease in cancer fatalities.  

It also kills me that the motto for breast cancer awareness is "finding a cure for breast cancer."  This is where I get very upset.  If we are going to focus our attentions on breast cancer, can we at least make the motto "FINDING A CURE FOR CANCER"???? AS LIKE A GENERAL THING????  I dunno...as a courtesy to the millions of people with other cancers who would also like to see a cure?

I also have a problem--as a woman--with the way breast cancer awareness is portrayed.  Slogans like "save the boobies" or my personal favorite..."STOP THE WAR IN MY RACK"...it's like...ok really peeps?? This is disgusting.  I understand the attempt to be tongue-in-cheek...but then can't we just stick with "Fight like a girl"?  Breast cancer awareness is about helping women.  WOMEN.  IT'S ABOUT THE WOMAN.  Not her tits. 

If we go along with the current method of slogan creating, may I suggest:

for prostate cancer: SAVE THE ASSHOLES!

for ovarian cancer: SAVE THE EGG SACK!

and of course, for sarcomas: SAVE MY RIGHT TO BONE!!!

You see how disgusting this is?  I think everyone understands and cares about the need for cancer awareness without sexualizing it.  Call me a feminist?  I'm really not.  I just have respect for myself and for other women.

To conclude, I give you the following:

NOVEMBER: Pancreatic, Stomach, Lung/Mesothelioma, Carcinoid Cancer Awarness Month//Also National Family Caregivers Awareness Month (THANKS FAMILY!!!)

DECEMBER:  Christmas Awareness Month

JANUARY: Cervical Cancer Awareness Month

FEBRUARY: CANCER PREVENTION MONTH

MARCH: Colorectal and Kidney Cancer Awareness month/Jesse was born on the 25th and needs a present awareness month

APRIL: Head/Neck, Testicular, and Esophageal Cancer Awareness Month

MAY: Brain, Melanoma, and Skin Cancer Awareness Month

JUNE: 1st Sunday of the month is National Cancer Survivors Day!

JULY: Bladder and Sarcoma Awareness Month (what, what!)

Could everyone do me a favor and be aware of all cancers 365 days a year?

Love Yas,

Jesse

Remembering Nataline, and Why I'll Vote for Obama

This is a post where I get into politics---something I've avoided like the plague on this blog because I don't want to lose readers due to political affiliations.  I would like to start off by saying that I'm not one of those people who would stone Stacey Dash for tweeting her support for Romney or anything like that.  I'm liberal, I have my opinions, but I wouldn't go apeshit on someone for being conservative.

But I ask that regardless of what your political affiliation is, whether or not you follow or understand politics, you give this post a chance, and view the clip I'm posting.  This past March, my mother and I flew to Vegas for the OMG Young Adult Cancer Survivor Conference, and it was an eye-opening experience for several reasons.  I was able to really see how many other teens and twenty-somethings had their lives totally effed up by cancer.  I even met my West Coast twin: a girl from California who was diagnosed with Ewings' Sarcoma as a senior in high school, received the same chemotherapy regimen, and radiation as opposed to surgery (complete with the knit cap showing only her bangs, and big-framed glasses...so  surreal!)

It was truly a learning experience to see this demographic of people come together to celebrate what we've achieved at such a young age, and share our struggles (both during treatment and currently).

But perhaps the most eye-opening aspect of the conference for me was the closing speech by Wendell Potter.  Wendell Potter is a former insurance company worker, who was head of communications at a top health insurance agency until 2008, when he left the business to speak out against it.
 
After cancer, I knew my future as far as healthcare was...uncertain to say the least.  But when Wendell Potter spoke about his reasons for leaving the business...specifically about a girl named Nataline Sarkisyan...I was downright scared, sad, and angry...Below is his speech at the summit.  I ask that you guys watch from 22:22 through 27:30..but by all means watch as much as you want.  It's very important to me, and to anyone with less than perfect health.

Nataline's story hit me hard...it made me so angry that her life was ultimately in the hands of an out-for-profit insurance company...OUR SYSTEM FAILED HER.  THE PRE-OBAMACARE HEALTH INSURANCE INDUSTRY FAILED SO, SO MANY PEOPLE, AND WILL CONTINUE TO SCREW PEOPLE OVER IF A DRASTIC CHANGE IS NOT MADE.  

I know I can't afford for Obamacare to be repealed.  If I relapse...when I need my kidney transplant...when I try to get my own insurance...what the f**k is going to happen to me?

I can honestly tell you that I'm voting for Obama because I'm downright scared.  It's not so much that I love everything Obama says or does (clearly not after last week's debate), or that I hate everything Mitt Romney stands for.  It's that I am absolutely terrified of what will happen to me if our healthcare system is not changed.  Everyone, everyone, everyone should be able to get proper healthcare.  

Nataline Sarkisyan should be alive today...and I really realized that I could easily be in the same boat.  There were several times when the insurance company got in the way of me getting a certain drug that would have made treatment easier.  There were times when I was in pain because we needed clearance from the insurance company before they could administer the drugs..all of these instances are minor compared to the denial of Nataline's liver transplant, but still...there has got to be a change.

And this is why no one could possibly convince me not to vote for Obama.  He knows that the healthcare system pre-reform is an abomination, and is doing everything he can to help the underdogs like me...like my twin in California...like Nataline.

The Sarkisyan family has started a foundation in Nataline's name in order to honor Nataline and raise awareness about healthcare reform.  Please check it out:
http://natalinesarkisyan.com/

Thanks for reading, peeps.  This is important to me, as I hope it is important to you.  If you're interested in Wendell Potter and his take on everything, check out his book Deadly Spin.  

Also.  If you feel the need to start a heated debate all over my comments section...that is fine.  But please know that this post is about raising awareness, not arguing...so I will not respond to any political debating on this post (here or on facebook).  Thanks.

Know the issues, and VOTE.

Jesse

"Free as my hair..." Thanks, Lady G.

    Once upon a time, there was a bald bitch named Jesse.  She got that way because of a C-word (both meanings are applicable).  One day she woke up in the hospital, looked down at her pillow and saw clumps of hair on her pillow, and said, "Oh Jesus, well that certainly is depressing."
   Thus she decided it was time to pull a Britney, and shave that shit off.  So across the hall she went with her dad and an electric razor.  It was a sad day, but as everyone had told her so many times..."it's just hair...it grows back."

"It's just hair...it grows back."  Hmmmm.  Pardon me, peeps, but are you F**KING KIDDING ME?????????????????????

DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES TO GROW A FREAKING HEAD OF HAIR????? A LONG TIME, BEYOTCHES.

Hair is a sensitive issue for people who have had cancer and lost their hair.  Many people make light of it, and make ignorant statements like the above.  But what they are not realizing is that hair is representative of identity, and to have it taken away...it's really quite traumatic.

I mean, it essentially gives you a new identity.  The identity of: "person with cancer"  "poor thing"  or the ever-popular "sucks to be her."  Once I lost my hair...I was "one of them."  

And that's when I really embraced hair as a means of expression.  It's why I got so many wigs along the way.  I'm sure you all remember 'The Ladies of Ewing's Sarcoma"  (and if you don't, here's my shameless plug where I tell you to look at my July postings)...I made the decision that I was not bald...I was simply a blank palette, that could be decorated any way I so choose.  Hair is art, if you let it be.

So yes, bald bitch Jesse got some spunky wigs and wore them with pride.  And then one day, the doctors and the annoying step-doctors (AKA med students who come in and nod in agreement with the doctors) told Jesse that she didn't have to be a big, bald, bodacious, blubbering, bully, bone-cancer bitch anymore (HOWS THAT FOR ALLITERATION, PEEPS), and set her free into the real world where you don't have to go to the hospital for a fever of 99.5.

And after 3 months, she had an entire 3 centimeters of hair. BECAUSE IT'S JUST HAIR, AND IT GROWS BACK RIGHT??????  Although it was becoming itchy, hot, and irritating to wear wigs over a thin layer of hair all the time...Jesse could not embrace her three centimeters of hair.

A few months later, her hair was 2 inches long...and people began to say, "why Jesse, you're hair is so lovely even at that short length, why don't you stop wearing wigs???"  She heard this comment daily from her peers, and wanted to agree with them...but she always came back to her wigs.  Always.

She said to herself one day.."Bitch.  What the eff is your problem.  Everyone likes your short hair, so why don't you???"  And the answer was simple: because it is not me.

I'm gonna talk in first person now, because I'm getting a migraine from trying to phrase things in third person.  Anyway, I don't feel like myself with short hair.  I had long, beautiful, thick brown hair before I lost it, and so I feel more like myself with longer hair.  I've tried changing the color...changing the style...I have a really cute bob that is great for some...but I just don't feel like me.

So I've realized fairly recently that it is becoming more and more trendy for hair to be ever-changing, different, and artistic.  Lady Gaga, (regardless of what some may think of her) is one of the gutsiest, most inspiring artists of our time, and paved the way for wigs to become a form of fashion.  Nicki Minaj, Katy Perry...so many people in popular culture use their hair as a way of expressing who they are, without limiting themselves to what's grown on their head.

 And I am not going to either.  I've decided that the thin, wispy hair that cancer is giving me (FYI, after 3 years off chemo, I'm still waiting for my hair to grow longer than my chin...BUT IT GROWS BACK RIGHT??????) is not good enough for me.  I'm gonna do whatever the hell I want with my hair...so I do.  I wear long extensions a lot, and sometimes I wear my hair in a bob with just a few shorter pieces to add volume...no matter what, I make sure I leave the house feeling beautiful.  Some people ask me why I don't just wear my real hair 24/7...and the answer is this:  I don't wear my hair for you.  I don't wear my hair so that you will like it.  I don't wear my hair to impress you.  I don't give a flying you-know-what how you feel about my hair.  I only care about what makes me feel beautiful..and what feels like me.

Before I depart, I will now depict some examples of people expressing themselves via their hair:

                                   'I like cupcakes and pink shit, is that so wrong?'

                                  'I'm not an extremely irritating child-star anymore'

                                                  'I'm crazy, please help me.'

                                  'Why wouldn't I tie my hair in a giant, lopsided bow?'



Until next time my friends,
Jesse


"I'll die living just as free as my hair."  ---Lady Gaga

Jackie, Oh<----It's a play on words.

Hey peeps sorry for the delay.  I'm very sorry if I totes messed up your weekly schedule.  Like if right between "eat dinner" and "watch Two and A Half Men", you have "read Jesse Pardee's blog and laugh at all the hilarious things she has to say" I'm sure I really messed up your Wednesday routine.  But shit happens.
  Anywho, someone told me that yesterday was sibling day, and I was like, wtf, how perfect for this week's post...too bad it has to be a late post, but then yahoo answers told me that that information was incorrect and that sibling day is actually in April.  Wow, bad grammar.
   Regardless.  I am going to write a little bit about my sister...or rather...first I am going to share something she wrote.  She sent this to me a couple weeks ago; it's something she wrote for english. And you know, call me a big ole puss but I really got all choked up.  Jackie gave me permission to share it here:

Jackie Pardee          <--------------------I even included the heading.                                                                                                                                   P. 4 English

9/17/12                                                                                                                                                       Hughes Assignment

                Some say that sixteen years of age is not enough time to really experience something life changing. That may be true for many sixteen year olds, but not for me. Granted, that can be considered a good thing, because I wouldn't wish my families experience on anyone. To witness what I witnessed at age thirteen, is probably more intense, emotional, and "life changing" than many people witness in a lifetime.

                It all started during the winter of my seventh grade year. I was sitting in my eighth period reading class, and I remember it like it was yesterday. The phone rang and they told me to go the main office. I figured my mom was calling to pick me up for some appointment I have forgotton about, or bring me my lunch, or to bring me my basketball shoes that I left at home, seeing as though I am probably one of the most forgetful people you'll ever meet. Instead my dad was on the phone, telling me that he, my mother, and sister were in the hospital and my sister had been brought to the emergency room. I figured she'd be fine and I better get focused for practice, cause nothing bad could happen to us, right?

                It wasn't until I got another call that night at the varsity hockey game , in the bathroom stall all alone, that my life changed forever. My mom called to tell me that my sister had bone cancer on her pelvis and that she would probably start chemotherapy the next night, on Christmas eve. I couldn't think of anything but Christmas, and I will never forgive myself for being so ignorant and selfish given the circumstances. But I soon understood the seriousness of the situation and knew I had to be there for my sister.

                My sister! She certainly wasn't thinking of Christmas. How could you when you knew you were about to have extreme amounts of seemingly endless poison dripped into your system that was going to do nothing but make you vomit, bald, and basically give up your senior year of highschool. Throughout the next year she gave up so much, and put forth all of the fight she had in her. She battled day in and day out with her cancer until one year later, she came out on top and victorious.

                I watched my sister fight and feel weak for so long that I just wanted nothing more than to switch places with her. However, deep down, I knew that my sister wouldn't want that. If it had to happen to someone in our family, I know she would nominate herself because she wouldn't want to watch any of us go through it, as much as we didn't want to watch her. I met many genuinely good people that year, from the nurses to other patients, and to a little girl named Peyton that stands next to my sister in my list of heros. Nothing can describe the wave of sadness and emotional damage that followed us around everywhere that year, but I can't help but thinking that meeting these people was a blessing.

                Clearly, I wouldn't wish that awful diagnoses on anyone. But what I do wish for, is that everyone have some sort of experience that makes them feel as blessed as I do. That terrible year is my life changing experience, but having the honor and pleasure of knowing a person and warrior like my sister is a life changing experience everyday I spend with her.

    ----Now let me tell you: my sister and I love eachother very much, but there's sort of like...this unspoken agreement that it never be said aloud...simply understood.  We're not the type of sisters to hug it out or say 'I love you' all the time, but we don't need to.  We just know.

    Now let me say that I want to totally and completely reverse Jackie's entire essay.  It's gonna be all emotional and shit, but it's important that everyone know the massive amount of respect I have for Jackie.

   During that entire disgusting year, Jackie carried the burden of being the girl with the sick sister.  All of her teachers had had me before, so she got questioned constantly about me from them, and really...any family friend, acquaintance, or person Jackie encountered asked about how Jesse was doing.

    It was all about me.  Is Jesse comfortable?  Is Jesse getting better?  Does Jesse have all her prescriptions?  Does she have a fever?  Should she go to the hospital?  Does she need food?  A blood transfusion?  Platelets?  What are her blood counts????

   Jesus, even I was sick of it.  Our neighbors who are good friends of the family would sit in the bleachers at all her games because Mom and Dad had to be with Jesse.  Jackie probably felt like she faded into the background completely...

   But Jackie never let on how angry or sad or confused she was about everything going on.  She would bring her backpack stuffed with books and binders to the hospital, and sit in the cramped room to visit me.  If I was in a shitty mood, which I often was, she would talk to the nurses or sit in the day room and play cards with my 3 year-old roommate, who cheated like it was nobody's business.  

   Jackie is a true hero to me, just as I am to her.  It's wonderful to know that I have a sister who will stand by my side through thick and thin, no matter what.  And I know...I know how badly she wanted to switch places with me...just as she knows how much I wouldn't want her to.  

   She put up with a lot of shit.  I remember screaming at her one time because I needed complete silence while my dad gave me one of my injections, and she was trying to tell my mom something about her day. Yeah, I was a peach like that.  I know she felt enormous guilt...like 'why Jesse and not me?'  I know she heard me tell my mom and dad that I wish I could just be Jackie.  That I didn't want to exist anymore...that I just wanted to be Jackie.  Because Jackie had long pretty hair, and Jackie got to go to school, and Jackie went to parties...but I know now that Jackie didn't have it so easy either.  Jackie felt genuine pain for what her family was going through, and for what the families around us were going through.

   I find it so interesting that she talked about how angry she was about Christmas...and how guilty she felt that it was her top concern...because I remember feeling the same way.  Never mind the cancer...I was ruining Christmas.  It's a guilt I feel to this day...it was my grandmother's last Christmas before she passed...and I often feel like I robbed my entire family and extended family of having that last perfect holiday season with her.  I remember how Jackie kept asking when we would have our "Christmas re-do", as my family put it...

   I don't think we ever really got to it.  I know my whole family feels a little blue when the holiday season starts to gear up...but for me at least...once Christmas morning 2010 arrived and I was cancer free, sitting around the Christmas tree and not the hospital bed...it made the holiday all the more sweet.  I actually love Christmas now, for that reason.  It gets a little emotional for me on the 23rd and the few days leading up to it.  But when my family is all together on Christmas eve and Christmas morning...we are all so f**king grateful.

   It's a bond Jackie and I will have for the rest of our lives...how wonderful moments like that are when you know how perfectly awful they could be.

   Jackie never freaking ceases to amaze me either.  She seems almost excited to give me a kidney one day, as it's predicted I'll need one.  She has made it known that she is first in line to give me one.  I hope she knows that if my body wasn't a deserted cancer-fest, I would give her a freaking kidney too, or anything else she needed.  I love my sister very much.  I think it's important for cancer survivors and their companions not to relish in the pain of the experience, but find joy in the lessons and bonding it brought with it.

Thanks for being a kick-ass bitch, Jackie.  

                          Jackie and Jesse 2009...The year from hell that taught us well.

Be grateful for the loved ones in your life.

Love,

Jesse

A Deadly Post

   Heyyyy.  As my friend Linda pointed out, it's Wednesday, so I should probably do some sort of post where I say some things and cross my fingers that it's coherent and somewhat interesting.  It's been hard to think of something to talk about because I haven't fully recovered from Seth Macfarlane's performance on SNL.  Mmmm.  Love me some Seth Macfarlane.
   But then I realized that Sunday marks the 3 year anniversary of the day my friend Robin died of leukemia, and as my mom pointed out, today is the 14th anniversary of my Grandpa's passing from colon cancer.  So there's a lot of...I dunno...death on the brain???  Yum that sounds awesome.  But yeah...September is a really depressing month.
   Just the other day, I heard someone talking about how we're all afraid of dying.  And when he said that, I realized he was wrong.  If you asked me whether I was afraid of dying, I can 100% without hesitation tell you 'no'.  I am not afraid of dying.  I mean, how could I be?  I feel like I was forced to deal with the concept, and it's one of the very few benefits to having cancer. I came to terms with death, and it's a huge weight off my shoulders.  It's just death.  People have been doing it for years.
   When I was going through treatment, my cousin would visit me quite often, and bring me books and DVDs and stuff to do in my downtime...which was all the time.  One of the books she brought me was "Crazy, Sexy Cancer Survivor" by Kris Carr, and there was a chapter in it called "Dirt Naps".  Sounds kind of harsh, but her words about death always stuck with me: "You are at a party with your friends and family, and you are all really happy...You then open a different door to an area of the house...removed from the party.  Now you can no longer hear your friends and family--but you know they are all still there, still in the house, still with you.  Instead of hearing their laughter, you can now feel it.  In fact, no matter where you go in the house, you feel their presence.  You know that even though your physical relationship to them has changed, your energetic connection has not.

   This last room is the universal God soup.  The place where the saint tells us we're home; welcome to the new party. Jesus hands us butterfly wings, Buddha offers a bowl of rice and peas, and Elvis gyrates in white socks and sequins, offending no one." 

   For some reason, it clicked with me.  Kind of hokey, but comforting. It made me realize that I'm a very spiritual person.  I don't really believe in religion, but I believe in the spirit.  I believe that the spirit is an entirely different component, completely separate from the body.  I believe in spiritualism.

   I had an 85% cure rate, and while that was very hopeful, there was 15% unaccounted for.  I had to tell myself and accept that there was a 15% chance that I was going to die from this cancer.  There still is. I could die very soon. Die.  Be dead.  No looking back, no second chances, no more Snooki.  At some point, in order to keep my sanity, I told myself that I was going to have to be okay with that.  

   OKAY WITH THAT?  Okay with the fact that you're going die?  It's hard to do.  I guess what it came down to for me, especially after my friend Heather passed away, was whether I believed that all of these children, all of these innocent children who were dying of disease in front of me...could I really believe that all of their short lives, all of their suffering was for nothing?  Was to become a hole in the ground? To simply cease to exist?

   The answer is no.  I don't believe it.  I don't believe that there is nothing awaiting us in the end.  You read those stories about people who've been on the brink of death...seeing the light...seeing those who've passed before us...they talk about how beautiful it is, how utterly breath-taking it is...I believe it.  

   And that was my thinking...this was how I accepted my fate...and really the fate of everyone.  Would I love to live a hundred years?  Sure.  If I had a recurrence, and was told I had a month to live...so be it.  I'm not saying it would be easy for me to live out that last month knowing it was my last few weeks with the people I loved...but I can honestly say that there would be no fear.  None.  I truly think something wonderful is going to happen...it's almost kind of exciting, in a weird, twisted, don't-worry-I'm-not-going-to-kill-myself kind of way.

   For all you atheists out there, shaking your heads and what not...maybe you're right.  Maybe there's nothing.  Maybe we'll all be holes in the ground.  But I still have the advantage.  Because I'll be living my life right through that very last moment with the hope of something new.  And if I'm wrong...who cares?  I'll be dead!

   I'm not afraid of death.  Some people don't believe me, and think that in the back of my mind, there's still fear there.  But I don't think so.  I think people would be a lot less up-tight if we all came to terms with death.  It's a trend we'll all follow eventually, something we'll all tweet about from the great beyond.  I embrace it, and it really makes my life all the more enriching.  Instead of "Rest in Peace", I see "See you on the other side"...wherever that may be.

I sure as hell hope I don't find out anytime soon.

Hope you enjoyed thinking about your impending doom, 

Jesse

Grief Over Grilled Cheese

     So it appears that Monday is not going to work as far as posting goes--wayyyy too much going on that night.  Wednesday is the new day peeps, so yeah, I know you all sit in front of your screens on the edge of your seat until I post, but try to relax and keep calm until Wednesday nights now.
   I wasn't sure if I was going to talk about this today, because it makes me sound very pitiful.   But I've vowed to be honest with this blog, and for me to paint this picture of me being this strong, confident, well-adjusted survivor is just sooo far from the truth.  Well...it's just not the only truth.
   I like to think of myself that way--I recognize the strength that I've had to show, and the confidence it takes in order to be a somewhat well-adjusted cancer survivor back among the "normal people."
   But on Sunday--and I don't even remember what prompted this random pity party I threw for myself--I sat in Panera Bread with my boyfriend, and all of a sudden began sobbing into my grilled cheese sandwich.  It was one of those times where it all just hit me...
    The only thing I can truly remember saying was "when will it be easier?  It should be easier!"  And while the kick-ass, gung-ho cancer bitch inside me is disgusted with this display of self-pity...I just couldn't help it...I saw glimpses of my past, and then glimpses of my future...and I don't foresee my life ever having that "normalcy" that we all search for.
   There's this part of me inside that is still so, so, so angry.  As if all of this just happened yesterday.  I am so angry because I'm different.  I'm angry that I don't have those wonderful high school memories...yes, I was not diagnosed until senior year...but the gravity of cancer just hung a black cloud over those entire four years.  I don't have the memories of being a senior in high school: my senior ball memories are speckled with shots (of neupogen, not vodka), nausea, and jealousy of the girls who got to sit and have their hair done, have their makeup done.
   I don't have the graduation memories of sitting with my class and celebrating as each person crossed the stage...I sat in the back, away from all the germs, and waited there for my turn, and listened to the thunderous applause that people gave me...not because they liked me so much, but because I had cancer.    I will forever be, in all of their memories, not the girl with the big voice and the Broadway dreams, but the girl who got cancer senior year...and oh, yeah she could sing, too.
   Oh, but the pity party doesn't end here.
   As all the memories of what I don't have flooded me while I sat in Panera eating my sandwich, I also was plagued by the questions of the future.  The questions I never would have had to ask had it not been for cancer: When will I need that inevitable kidney transplant?  Will I be denied health insurance because of my pre-existing condition? (Vote Obama)  Will I have children of my own?  Who will choose to spend the rest of their life with me, knowing that they will have to help me through the struggles that these questions will surely bring?  Just how much higher is my risk of developing breast cancer than the average person?  Is a recurrence of Ewings Sarcoma just down the road?  And where the hell is the long, thick brown hair I had before I took the razor to it?
   And as all these questions and memories plagued me and my grilled cheese, I thought 'why the f**k should I STILL carry this burden???"  I paid my dues to the cancer world, and the land of the sick.  I PAID MY DUES.  WHY SHOULDN'T I GET TO LIVE LIKE EVERYONE ELSE NOW???  Don't I f**king deserve it???
   Thus I reached the peak of The Great Panera Pity Party of 2012.  And I re-realized something I'd acknowledged several times before.  One of the biggest reasons I hate people feeling sorry for me, is because I already feel so sorry for myself.  I picture that bald version of myself, with her medicine pole, and her black and blue legs...and I want to cry for her.  I pity her, just as I would pity a helpless puppy on the side of the road.
   And this disgusts me.  And I'm forced the take all of those horrible questions and memories, and balance them against the biggest, most crucial fact:  I'm here.  And I'm grateful, I truly am...but I have a problem with that whole assumption that cancer survivors must have this wonderful outlook on life, and must be grateful every single day...because most of the cancer survivors I know are pissed.  This entire post has been about how pissed I am, still.  Pissed and angry.  That in itself is a burden.
    It's hard being pissed and angry, especially when everyone expects you to be nothing but grateful and happy all the time.  But it's just not realistic.
   Don't get me wrong.  I'm here.  And I'm so, so happy to be here.  I had a moment of real gratitude to counter the grilled cheese meltdown on, when I was doing barre in ballet class yesterday..  A moment where I thought: I am dancing seven and a half hours a week, not totally sucking at it, and we thought I might not dance again at all.  I did my left split for the first time the other day, after 2 years of wondering if my left hip would ever recover enough to gain flexibility.  There are many moments when I am really, really grateful.
   But unfortunately, there are many more moments of being pissed and angry.  And they may or may not happen over a grilled cheese sandwich.  I guess that makes me human.  I guess that's life.
    And at least I'm living it.


Love,
Jesse
PS. Mad props to my boyfriend, Matthew, for surviving The Great Panera Pity Party of 2012!!!  Thanks for just nodding and smiling until the end!!!

PPS. Congrats to my friend, Mike Mort, on winning the Cindy Award at the Make-A-Wish Ball.  Can't think of anyone more deserving!  Check out his blog!

Who You Gonna Call?? Not me, 'cuz I'm scared as shit.

The stores have Halloween stuff up now.  Like when you go to the drugstore and you're trying to pick up your potassium pills and there's this little skeleton dude singing 'Puttin on the Ritz', next to a pumpkin head singing 'Thriller', next to a hand in a bowl that pops out at you whenever you move near it...and I'm like...yeah, this is a public place and I'd rather not shit my pants in front of the pharmacist.

I don't like Halloween.  And while I am well aware that Halloween doesn't happen for another two months, it seems that the retail business is unaware...or doesn't care.  Probably the latter.  

Now, I know you're probably like...Jesse, shut up, you're not afraid of Halloween.

BUT I AM.  You know what that shit is, right?  It's that day when spirit activity is said to be at its highest, and the legend was that you like...dress up like scary shit for some reason or another on the day of the dead and...you know, I really don't know.  But if I was dead, which I am not....but if I was...I wouldn't want people dressing up scary, and being like.....ohhh I'm a ghost or a zombie or a vampire or a mummy...I'd be like...are you mocking me?  Seriously?  I'm dead, it's my day, and you're mocking me.  Let's have some respect.  I'm gonna go all Ichabod Crane on your ass.

And then there's people who do the opposite, and dress like playboy bunnies, sexy nurses, and all that slutty stuff...and if I'm dead, I'm like....THIS IS MY DAY, AND I HAVE TO LOOK AT YOUR ASS?  And like...SIR, ARE YOU REALLY WEARING A COSTUME THAT SAYS YOU'RE A MAMMOGRAM SPECIALIST????  And then I would be like...why did I come here?  I'm going back to my respective haunted house because everyone has ruined my Halloween by being all disrespectful.

In all seriousness though, Halloween makes me uneasy.  First of all, I am a believer in the paranormal.  Wholeheartedly. I think the spirit world is a real thing.  Who are we to think that our realm is the only one???  Have you seen Long Island Medium???  Anyhooo, I always have this eerie feeling during October...I don't know how to explain it. Like there's freaking ghosts watching me eat my lunchables and brush my teeth. And I've never liked being scared.  I can watch scary movies and all that shit, but if you think I'm gonna laugh because you decided to jump out at me in a Michael Myers mask, I'm probably not gonna talk to you for awhile.  It's very traumatic for me.

I remember trick-or-treating when I was ten years old, dressed as Britney Spears, and I went to two houses...and then I was like....I'm done.  I am DONE.  The vibes are weird out here, I'm too old for this, mischief is happening, and I just want to curl up on the couch and sleep til this day is over.

I spent one Halloween in the hospital.  And boy that was a treat (or a trick???  No, no, the cancer was not a trick...or a treat...anyways...)  I had volunteers banging down my door, like "heyyy, the other bald kids are trick-or-treating around the ward, would you like to join???"  Oh, HELL NO...I'm 18 years old, it's the day of the dead, I've had a little too much "death" on the brain lately, and the last thing I want to do is stand my ass up, put a raggedy hospital sheet over my head, and lug my pole around begging for candy from rich oncologists and then throwing it all up later when you pump me full of Ifosfamide.  But hey, that's just me.  And I think that this blog has established one thing overall:  I have severe, severe issues, and I'm probably going to spend lots of money on therapy.

So this whole Halloween business...I just...I know it's fun and people eat candy and shit, and that's all fine and dandy.  But it's just...I dunno...be careful...don't FUNK with spirits...they'll get'cha.  When I die, I'm gonna be watching all these peeps on Halloween from some tree...being like "really, people?  Really?"  It's my freaking day and you're running around in a costume, looking like a fool.  I'll bet the spirits are laughing at us.  They're probably like...Oh, Mitt Romney and your thirty-seven houses...how droll.

I know it's a little early for a Halloween post, but hey, don't tell me.  Tell freaking Rite-Aid.

Much Love,
Jesse

School Year Resolutions, Yo.

Yeah, this post is gonna be another list.  I can't crank out gems every week, folks, I got places to be, people to see, and diet pepsi cravings to tame.  (TWO WEEKS!)

So since the diet pepsi thing has been working out somewhat, I decided to give up a few more vices.  Some more reluctantly than others.  Here are the top 5, and try not to hate me too much for this lame post.  It's the first week of classes and I already feel stressed out, but now that we've hit 2121 views, I figured I should remain faithful to this blog.  And I am so grateful that you read it ;)

Here we go.

1.  I vow to stop licking the salt off the bottom of the plate when I eat at a restaurant.  It's not so much that I lick the plate...per say...it's more that I drown food in salt (hey, I have low blood pressure), so that after I eat the food I may lick my FINGER and then obtain the salt via phalanges (and for all of you people judging...I have nothing to say.  I love it.  I love salt.  You pee in the shower, I lick salt off my fingers from the bottom of the plate).
     Alas, I will stop this, because I know it is frowned upon.  So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt.  Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt.

2.  I will not stay up late refreshing the facebook page for no particular reason.  I really have no reason to keep checking.  But I just...I care.  I just care about everyone on facebook.  I need to know what you had for lunch today.  I need to see your new haircut.  Your new puppy.  The scrape that you got when you were taking out the trash the other day.  I just care.
   Alas, I will stop this, because I know I must sleep.  So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, and stay up refreshing facebook.  Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt and facebook refreshing.

3.  I vow to stop trying to imagine what everyone looks like bald.  I seriously do it.  Sometimes the moment I meet someone.  I'm just so curious now...I must picture it.  But I really need to stop...because some people cannot pull it off...and for those that can't pull it off...well, those are the ones that I will forever picture bald.  It's a problem.  If you've met me...I know what you would look like bald.  And if you're bald, I imagine you with hair. It's as simple as that.
    Alas, I will stop this, because I know it's irrational.  So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, and picture everyone bald.  Good riddance to you, godforsaken salt, facebook, and baldness-picturing!

4.  I will not leave the flat iron on.  That's pretty simple, folks.  Nothing else to really say about that.  Except I don't want to burn anything down, and who can blame me for that?  It's just that...this whole chemo brain thing...I just forget...
   ALAS!!!  I will stop this, because I know it will result in death and destruction.  So no more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, picture everyone bald, or leave the flat iron on.  Good riddance to you godforsaken salt, facebook, baldness-picturing, and fire-safety hazards.


5.  Lastly...I vow to stop standing on my bed with my arms in the air, singing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" for all of my imaginary descamisados.
   Alas, I am lying.  I will never stop pretending to be Eva Peron. 

In conclusion:
No more will Jesse eat straight up salt, stay up late refreshing facebook, picture everyone bald, leave the flat iron on, or answer to anything but Eva.  



What's new Buenos Aires,
Jesse

PS:  If you have a chance, check out my friend Mike's new blog!!!!  PREACH IT MIKE!

On Some Real Shit...

Hellooooo peeps.  Hope you're all enjoying your last bit of summer and all that jazz.  I have, in fact, not had any diet soda for one whole week.  It's a BIG ASS DEAL.  Like for real.  WTF.  I don't know how I did it.  I'm very proud of myself.  We'll see if I can keep it up.

Anyhoooo,  I know a lot of people are going back to college, or just starting college (this post is probably even more important for those of you), and I hate to be the Debbie Downer of the internet, and mack on all your righteous shots, beer pong, and sex-havin', black-outin', rootin' tootin' good times...but I'm going to anyway.

First things first, I am not Mother Theresa.  I know we are all completely shocked and taken aback by this realization, but alas...it's true.  I'm no saint.  I don't want it to sound like I'm being a total hypocrite, because I'm not perfect.  But please, please, please...read this post, and take heed.

I always wonder how I appear to everyone at school.  I don't really "party"  (insert last name joke hereeee, pat yourselves on the back for being the first to think of it), and if I do go to a party, I don't usually drink.  And if I do drink...I am proud to say I have never, ever, ever gotten myself to the point where I don't remember what happened, can't keep myself together, am throwing up, or pass out.  I don't care how square I seem, or how lame, or whatever.  But I refuse to do that to my body, and I'll tell you exactly why--

I vividly remember the first time I sat in the day clinic at University Hospital.  My hair was still intact, I was wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing to school just two weeks prior (even though I was swimming in them now that I'd been losing weight), and I guess all in all things hadn't sunk in quite yet.  It still wasn't real.  I sat between my parents on a green bench with blue polka dots, and made mental note of how tacky this place was decorated and how I was now fearfully afraid of apple juice (that's another story).

All of a sudden I looked up to see a skinny girl in a maroon-and black wool cap being wheeled out from the treatment room.  (Note: I am not making up these descriptions---I literally remember everything about these days).  Anyway, the girl was clearly bald underneath the cap, and she had tired eyes (a combination of exhaustion and no eyelashes or eyebrows).  I stared at her for several seconds, and I remember just drinking in the entire picture: a scrawny, bald girl in a wheelchair, looking exhausted and frail from treatment.  It finally sank in that this was going to be me in a matter of weeks.

I remember I started crying, and my dad asked me what was wrong.  I nodded in her direction. He asked me what about her.  'She looks so sad,' I recall saying.  My dad looked confused, and whispered back, 'she doesn't look so sad to me.'

Truth is, she wasn't.  She was never sad, or afraid, or crying, or bitchy---all of the things that I most definitely was.  Her name was Heather, she had been battling a brain tumor for just about a year now, and she was not afraid.

At least never in front of me, or my family...or really anyone else I spoke to who ever saw her.  I got to know her during my next treatment when we became roommates.  When she came into the room, I remember being nervous...still startled by my initial impression.  But Heather was totally chill.  She sat doing puzzles in her hospital bed.  Her dad cracked jokes all the time, and her mom did everything to make sure that not only Heather was comfortable, but also tried to make my family comfortable.

The first afternoon we shared in that room together...I had a little hissy fit over something that in retrospect was very foolish.  It was time to face the fact that I was most likely going to need to drop out of the musical at school...and I pitched a tantrum of epic proportions--complete with shouting, screaming, and all the kicking I could muster with practically no muscle in my legs anymore.  That also happened to be the day that my mom and dad took me across the hall to the little washroom to shave my head--an experience that I'm not quite ready to face up to yet, as I still to this day have nightmares about it.

I remember putting on my first wig in the washroom, drying the tears, and telling my parents that I didn't think I could face Heather after the afternoon of hell I had put her through.  But I gathered myself, and headed over to Heather's side of the room.

"Hi, I'm Jesse...and I'm so sorry you had to listen to all of that..."  Heather laughed, and said it was no trouble.  In her eyes, I could tell she totally understood.  It was this day that Heather, a fifteen year old girl who I didn't really know a lot about, became my hero.  

I learned that day that Heather wasn't having chemotherapy anymore...she was here to harvest stem cells for a stem cell transplant that would keep her in the hospital for 30 days.  It would be a grueling month for her--she would need to be isolated from everyone, and anyone who entered her room would be required to wear this crazy germ-free outfit.  They weren't sure when they would be able to begin her stem cell transplant--it all depended on how long the harvesting process took.  Heather left that evening, and to be honest, it is the last lucid memory I have about that round of treatment.  I ended up with a blood infection that kept me in the hospital for about 3 weeks, and I was so depressed and tired that I mostly slept.

But I remember the day I was finally told I could go home...it was the day Heather was coming in to begin the prep for her stem cell transplant.  I can't remember exactly what they had to do before she started, but I know she moved into the bed next to me, and her mother put up a calender on the cabinet door, so they could begin crossing out each day of the 30.  I had come full circle--beginning that cycle of treatment with Heather, and ending it with Heather.  I expected her to be a little more nervous, with the big transplant approaching...but I couldn't ask her about it because she was playing Wii tennis with our other roommate (who was 3), out in the day room.  Heather never, ever faltered.

Heather was in the hospital for a long time.  I followed her caring bridge page faithfully, and for a while it seemed like things were going well.  She came back up to 7H again, which is obviously better than ICU.  But her liver was severely diseased after her body's ultimate fight.  Despite the completion of a stem cell transplant, prior chemo/radiation, and the positive energy of thousands...Heather passed away from liver failure.

I remember exactly where I was when I found out that Heather died.  I remember what I was doing.  I remember what I ate.  I remember it all.  Because that day, I felt like giving up.  I didn't want to be a survivor if Heather didn't get to be one, too.  She was buried on my 18th birthday, March 25th, 2009.

The months went on, and my spirits got better...until all of my peers started going off to college while I still sat with a needle in my chest and a freezing cold bald head.  I began to hear stories of drunken obliteration.  Blacking out.  Drunk driving.  People getting kicked off campus for being shwasted all the time...and the worst part was...these people were broadcasting it all over facebook like it was something to be proud of.  Yes, you are the absolute shit for throwing up all over someone's lap, blacking out, and getting your stomach pumped in the emergency room.  The best times of your life, right?

I tried to write it off in my mind as everyone just having the college experience.  But then I thought of Heather.  Heather, who battled for a year and a half against a cancer that she did nothing to deserve.  Heather, who turned 16 in the ICU on a ventilator.  Heather, who was diagnosed at 14, never had a drink in her life, and died of liver failure.  

And all these proud, drunken idiots are obliterating their livers and being fucking proud of it?

It really makes me sick.  People wonder why I don't go out and party more, or drink my college nights away...and the truth is I can't let myself.  Not after knowing Heather, and her struggle, and how close she was to getting her life back--and how she lost it because of liver disease.  I know some of you may be thinking that this is a pretty outrageous reason to keep myself tame, and that I'm a total nut job for preaching to you like this.  But I just want everyone to realize that four years of obliteration isn't worth the damage you're doing to your body.  It's easy for people who have never been really sick to take their health for granted.  I know I sure did.  We all think we're invincible until the universe shows us that we're not.  I think of Heather a lot.  She basically gave me that first shred of hope that I needed to light a fire under my ass to fight the big fight.  I don't think--even if she'd lived 100 years, and I tried to explain every day--she could ever know the impact that she had on my life. I'll never forget her, and I'll always talk about her.  'I will read all her dreams to the stars'.  (A little Spring Awakening anyone??)

So be careful.  By all means, go out, have some drinks, get a little drunk and send some crazy-ass texts, make some dumb phone calls.  But please know when enough is enough.

Rest in peace, beautiful Heather.  I am forever in your debt.*

Jesse

A Love Affair

I am having a love affair.

To anyone who knows me...it's no secret...I am addicted to diet coke/diet pepsi.  Either one.  I love them.  Some people snort cocaine, some smoke a pack a day, and some like to obliterate themselves with alcohol (to each his own).  I don't partake in smoking, drug use, and even at 21, barely ever drink alcohol.  But I cannot stop drinking diet soda...

As a kid, I drank lots of regular soda, and when I went to the doctor at age 10 and was told I was ten pounds more than I should be, she told me to substitute regular soda with diet.  I took her advice, and ran.  I told myself it was okay because it was zero calories and yada yada yada, all those things suckers say.  By high school, I was pounding those big avalanche size drinks that are legit called 'avalanche' that you buy at Hess...I was drinking one or two of them per day.   But who the hell cared right??? NO CALORIES IT'S A MIRACLE.

When I think about it, it's kind of funny in a twisted-deadly-in-your-face-told-you-so sort of way.  I remember a show I did back in 2005, there was a soda machine in the room next to our rehearsal space, and I was in heaven.  I put all my change in a little pocket of my purse and went to town.  Everyone in the cast was older than me, and they would all tease me, saying that the diet coke was gonna give me cancer...but I would just shrug it off...I do what I want...you know.

So now it's approximately 3 years later...and I am, in fact, diagnosed with cancer.  WTF, right???  I remember laying in the hospital bed, the oncologist sitting beside me...I just looked up at him and asked him straight up, "Is this happening because I drank too much diet soda???"  The doc just sort of gave me this look...and said, "Don't be stupid."

Okay, so I sort of felt better.  I mean, he himself was drinking diet coke, and he told me that it doesn't give you cancer...

BUT GUESS WHAT ELSE?????  The chemo drugs....they did this funny thing to the taste of soda...I just...legit...couldn't taste it.  It tasted kind of like...when you're swimming in the ocean (WHICH IS TERRIFYING DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEAD PEOPLE ARE PROBS IN THE OCEAN????) and you get plunged under water by a wave.  You're taken off guard, so you end up inhaling ocean water and it tastes like...salty, but there's also some sand mixed in there and possibly some pee???  Yeah...that's what soda tasted like.

PERFECT RIGHT (apart from the nausea, baldness, needles, blood, throw up, bruises, shots, constipation, opposite of constipation, pity glances, and horsepills)????????????????  Wrong.  It was not, in fact, a solution to the problem.  Because Jesse is an old dog, and can't learn new tricks.  I totally misused that phrase.  Anywho.  I was too addicted to soda.  SO.  I grew accustomed to the one soda that sort of tasted like soda: Dr. Pepper  (also the only doctor that didn't ask me if I'd pooped in the past 24 hours.)  And when I started putting on weight from a combination drinking too much of him, and laying around in bed for months on end...I didn't give a shit because I was already bald so who really cares???? .. I'd stopped trying to impress the other bald children with my dashing good looks a long timeeeee ago.

When treatment ended, I was put on this crazy, zainy drug that had some sort of name like arogshfdkjlcxhkmcyclene.  And it totally made me not crave food.  SO.  I looked good, and still got to drink as much Dr. Pepper as I wanted.  

But as my recovery progressed, I didn't need rseioptueriopHWEOPADBEJIOBFKDJCAPSLOCKcyclene anymore...and I'm not gonna say I was fat...but I was...not...skinny.

AND AT MUSICAL THEATER SCHOOL...well let's just say...the pressure is on to be skinty skinty skinty.  So who was there for me???

That sexy old devil...diet pepsi.

So long story made somewhat shorter...I'm addicted to diet soda.  Badly.  And while I've been reassured over and over again that it doesn't give you cancer...I know that it has no nutritional value, and can actually lead to food cravings, making you even fatter.  With my fragile health history, and barely-hanging-in-there kidneys...I know it's time for a change.  I've known for a long time, but never knew how to go about quitting my special friend.

But with this blog...and all of the support and love its garnered...I decided this is how I'm going to do it.  I am going to quit diet pepsi publicly.  So if I fail...you will all think I'm a big puss.  And I don't want to fail...because I'm not a big puss.  I'm a f*c*i*g warrior.  My tat says so.

So each week when I post, I will do a small little summary of my progress.  And there will be progress because I don't want to let my blog-readers down.  I mean, I beat the shit out of cancer...this should be easy, right???? I know it won't be.  But I also know it's going to help me out a lot in the long run.

Here we go dear blog readers.  After I post this to the page, I'm going to pour myself a farewell glass of my poison...and then it's curtains for coke.

Here goes nothing!

Jesse

PS.  OMG THE SPICE GIRLS WAS MY FAVORITE OLYMPIC EVENT!!!