The "Big C" Challenge by Kati Markgraf

Today I'm grateful to be at Pohara, this tiny corner of the world i love above all else, the place the man I love asked me if I'd spend the rest of my life with him and where we married a few months later. After so many happy times we're here again, for the last time for a long time, and I'm sitting on the beach on my own saying goodbye to this place, when I right next to me I notice something that looks like once it might have been alive but is now dead and it reminds me of the massive tumor
that once was alive in my body so much, it's spooky. And it makes me think what a privileged situation it is to be sitting next to this cancerous tumours lookalike thing on the most beautiful beach, listening to the waves while waiting for breakfast at my most favourite cafe with the man I so dearly love. I'm alive. It's a gift that no one thought I'd have , this far after diagnosis, yet it is happening, I am alive. I am immensely grateful for this moment and eventhough I know we won't be coming back here for a long time, I also hope this is not the last time.

Looks like an innocent enough, end-of-year retail scene: the new year is coming, let's go and buy a new calendar. A yearly ritual most people take for granted, but for me it was the cause of a total public melt down same time last year. After the embarrassing incident it took me another couple of weeks to go back to the shop (in my sunglasses and a hat) and get a diary, in an effort to try and convince myself that it wasn't gonna be a total waste of money. And now here we are, practically at the end of 2016 and unless I walk under I double decker, it's safe to say I'll make it till the 31st of Dec, and thus would have used my diary to its full capacity. Needless to say, i am putting my faith in the future, in my future, so I have bought a new diary, and I am quietly hoping to be able to use every single page of it.

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It was a year ago today that I went to see the third doctor who told me to calm the f*** down, go home and chillex because there was nothing wrong with me. I went ahead nevertheless and had a private scan the same day, and the rest is history.

But this morning I went on a long walk with my son, because I still can. George Harrison is singing right into my ears and I can smell the spring flowers on the awesomely beautiful shores of Picton, the place I got well again and got to love. There's wind in my hair and sun on my face, future plans in my head, joy and love in my heart.

I know there will be more waiting rooms and more poking and tests (like tomorrow, eeeek ), but for now I put the last 12 months and everything in it behind me, let it all be where it belongs, in the past.

This is my blood. Those perfect wee balloons are the red blood cells, floating around. There are a lot of nice big T cells that I didn't have much of before, and massive big sparkling white blood cells with smiley faces, shining like neon lights. Perfect.

This is a big deal. Back in September last year my red blood cells were stuck together into long chains looking like snakes and they weren't floating anywhere fast. I had a few pale, small, damaged white cells and practically no T cells. Then the situation started to improve slowly, then bang, back to snakes again, which was a bit if a downer. So I was looking forward to seeing my lovely naturopath yesterday for another wee tune up and to see what my blood looks like now, after another 3 months of doing good things, taking good things and being happy again. Nowdays success is a picture liked this, and man, was I happy to see it!

Wether it's feeling happy again, full of energy and enthusiasm that is making the difference or all the greens and thousands of pills and potions I've been pouring down my neck, I'm not sure. And who cares. Something seems to be working and that's all that matters.

Pretty much everything I have to take tastes foul. The Budwig mixture of quark and linseed oil is disgusting. The apricot kernels are so bitter that each time I have to chew 15 of them, which is often, I have to psych myself up for it. Wheatgrass powder in water is also hard to stomach. So in the past months I've been experimenting with ways of making what I need to take a bit more palatable. This morning I have quark, linseed oil, apricot kernels, apricot kernel oil, wheatgrass, almond milk, walnuts, quince, grapefruit from the neighbour's tree, graviola, essiac tinture, iodine, zinc and chromium all together, and it's nearly drinkable. Now I just have to tackle the turmeric cooked with coconut oil and that's truly disgusting.

Now I have a legitimate excuse to stay in bed for an extra hour every day. I got this high tech pump for my leg with the lymphoedema. It's more for prevention than treatment, as I' m planning on having nice thin ballerina legs preferably on both sides for the next 39 years. Feels really nice, and all the extra reading I'll be able to do now while this thing is puffing away!

It must have been some kind of morbid curiosity back in October that made me request back the tumor and my other bits that got surgically removed during the operation. Then it took me 2 and a half months to get my s**t together and actually go and pick it all up in a nice brown paper bag.

I'd never seen a cancerous tumor before, and looking at one probably won't be my favorite passtime in the future, either, as they're not exactly pretty. As far as cancerous tumors go, this puppy was a well grown specimen, one that even an expert would get excited about, I'm sure. It needed 2 palms to hold it, and that's in its pitiful, shrunken pickled state.

It's a weird thing, sitting with your tumor in your hand, the very thing that made such a good effort at killing you; yet there is some strange connection going on here. I don't hate it, if anything, I'm more fascinated than anything else. After all, not so long ago it was part of my body, grown by my body; I believe, in the beginning out of wisdom, if maybe a bit overzealous. In any case, there was a reason for it to grow.

And once again, I'm humbled by my body and the struggle it put up for me for so many years to keep me alive while I was totally oblivious to it all. It's nearly unbelievable that it managed to stop a massive big bu**er like this from growing other little mates elsewhere to keep him company, and made it stay solitary for so long. It was just sitting there silently for years, as if the plan wasn't really to kill me off after all, but to teach me a difficult lesson or two that I couldn't be taught any other way with that thick skull of mine.

And now that I've done this, I'm really pleased that I did, as much as I wasn't looking forward to it. It gives me some closure. I've seen it, and now I can try and start to release all the fear, trauma and sadness it caused. I can also thank it for all the goodness it brought into my life. And I guess I'm one of the lucky ones after all, who gets to hold her own cancerous tumor as opposed to a pathologist doing the same during my post mortem yelling out with excitement: " holy cow, look out that big whopper! " with me lying there all stiff and purple.

So now it's time to say goodbye to you, tumor, I'll bury you in up in the hills of Picton, one of the most beautiful places I know, you posh thing. Not many tumors up there, I don't think, so you can't complain. Rest in peace now and never return.

Yes, people often say the wrong thing. My favorite is " my uncle had the same cancer, he died very quickly". Or the other classic, " you'll be alright" after a long spill of how I'm not alright, in the middle of a feeling-sorry-for-myself bout. The ones I hate the most though are "it's not fair" or " f**k cancer".
I guess it's hard to know what to say to someone with a life threatening illness. I find that when in doubt, the best thing is to just listen and say nothing. Silence is gold.

A Cancer Survivor Designs The Cards She Wishes She'd Recieved From Friends and Family The emotional impact of the experience lingered, inspiring her to design a newly launched series of Empathy Cards.

If Only For A Second - You Need To Watch This http://www.utrend.tv/v/one-second/

This is the Christmas I wasn't supposed to see. Back in September it was a hard thing to hear,I must admit. But despite of all the bad predictions I am very much here, feeling better than ever.

Maybe this is exactly what I needed: to be with the people I love the most, to be with my family. My family lives dispersed around the globe but this Christmas we all got together in Budapest, where we grew up, where we know every corner, every bakery, every good cinema. Where we can speak the language without an accent and no one asks where we came from because we sound like everyone else, because we are home.

So now, being back here, seeing my children together again, seeing my nephew I haven't seen for over 10 years, means the world to me. Eating my mum's cooking and baking means the world to me. Seeing my daughter again after nearly a whole year means the world to me. And being able to share my beautiful and slightly crazy family with the man I love, means the world to me.

And of course in the circumstances I can't help but wonder at times, if this is gonna be my last Christmas. But if it is, then I am happy for this one to be the last one as this is the best one I've ever had, I think.

Today I've been finally reunited with my beautiful daughter. I haven't seen her for nearly a year and not so long ago I seriously didn't think I'd ever see her again. But now here we are, together again, in Starbucks again, and even though I am banned from coffee or anything Starbucks has to offer, I don't give a monkeys, I am just so bloody happy and grateful to see her again. The best Christmas present ever.

I wonder how long I'll be counting the months on each 20th. Yesterday I was still counting and I was thinking it's been exactly 2 months since my operation.

I thought that traveling to Paris and London would prove to be an absolute disaster and a waste of money, that I'd be spending most of the time in the hotel, exhausted and in pain, not able to do much. But we bought the tickets 8-9 months ago, and they couldn't be changed, so off we went. And I can't believe how much I was able to do. I walked as far and as fast as I normally would have, and without any pain. I was tired by the end of the day but not more than I would have normally been, after walking 20-25 kilometers and climbing a million steps. And my leg held up great, too. Not even a minuscule swelling or pain. I didn't have to wear my sexy lymphoedema tights, and even my wound, that despite of all my magic lotions and potions was reluctant to heal up to now, closed up in Paris and is now looking good. I just feel healthy and normal and strong again.

And I can't believe it's only been 2 months.

Sitting in Sumner beach, saying good-bye to the New Zealand shores for the next few weeks. I am doing another thing I didn't think I would be able to do: going back to Europe with Darryl and Rob to spend the Christmas with my beautiful family. There was a time a couple of months ago when I didn't think I'd be able to travel again or that I'd even live to see Christmas. But I feel, I know that those times are well and truly behind me now. I've been dreaming of sitting on a plane in Christchurch next to Darryl, waiting to take off to go home, to introduce him to my family and show him the scenes of my childhood, and today's that day I've been dreaming of.

A couple of months ago I was told to get my daughter home from Europe ASAP, as at the time it loooked llike we didn't have much time left to spend together. I was desperately trying to get her back home but I couldn't . And now in a few days' time I will see her again after nearly a whole year. We will be doing all the girlie things we usually do, we'll have coffee and go shopping and I am happy and grateful for that more than I can say in words.

Sitting here on the beach this cold morning I'm thinking of all the things I wasn't supposed to have time to do yet I am doing against all odds, and I feel grateful to the universe and all the people who helped me feel healthy and strong again.

Lessons I'm learning . No 1.

Dum vivimus , vivamus

Those Romans, they knew a thing or two about life.

How many times do we put off joy, adventure, peace, creativity, having a baby, allowing ourselves to be happy or whatever else is really important until the "right " time ? Until we paid off the mortgage, established our carrier, the kids grew up, we got a better job or a nicer partner. How many times do we say, I'll just put my head down for the next 10 years, work my ass off, and then... then I'll be finally happy. And so we just keep delaying doing what we always wanted, doing the things that fire us up, because the goal posts always change. There's always something else to do first, always another excuse before we can finally let ourselves enjoy our lives and be really present.

But the day invariably comes when we wake up and realise that life has changed and things took a 180 degree turn, and it's no longer under our control if we are gonna be able to do those precious things we always dreamt of. We have simply ran out of time.

I know , I have been guilty of putting off life until that magic moment when suddenly everything falls into place in my around me. I have been guilty of not taking even a day off for 3 and a half years to catch up on my finances. I have been guilty of telling my kids I'd make it up to them next Christmas or birthday for missing this one. But now I am forced to take stock, and I realise that I can well and truly no longer afford to put things off anymore , I can no longer wait till next year. The things I want to do I have to do now, the things I want to say, I have to say now.

So instead of telling my loved ones what they mean to me until they behave in a certain way that I like more, I tell them now. Instead of going home to Europe to see my friends and family next year, I will go next week. Instead of waiting to do art until god knows when, I'll do it today. Instead of sayimg no, I'll say yes. And I'll marvel at this year's Californian poppies now, in case next year doesn't happen. I'll stop the car and take the time and effort to go down to the dried up river bed now to just sit there, surrounded by a river of yellow flowers.

From now on I will collect memories instead of time, moments that matter. Moments that, if I do have to go, will give me and those I leave behind, comfort and something to remember.

Early September, when all this s**tty business started, my wonderful naturopath took some blood from me and looked at it under a microscope then rolled his eyes up into his head. My red blood cells were stuck together in groups of 30-40, looking like long sausages. No lymphocytes, and only 2 damaged, very pale and small white blood cells in the sample and a lot of stringy thingy-mingies, suggesting liver distress . My immune system was on the floor. I started on some beautiful gentle herbs to support my immune system and liver, and 3 weeks later the picture was a lot better. The stringy things were gone, my red blood cells were only stuck together in clumps of 3-4 and I even had a couple of still small, but faintly shiny and healthier looking white cells.

And..... a couple of days ago I went and had another blood test, and this time my beautiful, round red blood cells were all floating individually. I had some nice looking lymphocytes and platelets and quite a few gorgeous big fat white blood cells patrolling around, glowing like neon lights. So now my blood looks perfect, we could even put a picture in a medical text book, saying there, suckers, this is what normal blood should look like.

I never thought that one day I'd be this happy about seeing my red blood cells happily bouncing around under the microscope, but boy, I was! Something I always took for granted is now a reason for celebration and a fresh new hair cut!

This is for all those people who shared their special healing powers with me. Who selflessly gave me their time and healing energy, often at the drop off a hat, and sometimes even without knowing me previously. Some of these people heal the body, some of them the mind, some the soul.

They all shared my belief that there's another way for me to heal, outside of the conventional medical model and respected my strong views on the options I wanted to take for myself, and in their own special way supported me through the last 2-3 months, and still do. They all gave me precious time and put their faith in me.

This is for you, Márta Maloschik, Wayne, Ishtar, Xandra, Richard and Mary. I am so grateful for everything you've done for me and are continuing to do. I am grateful for encouraging me to do what I think is best for my recovery and treating me normal for a change, not like someone who's just about to die. Thank you for the long talks and long messages, and most of all, thank you for all the positivity you gave me at a time when there wasn't much of that stuff around, otherwise.

You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that?

And I said,
Where do I put it down?
- Anne Carson

Photo via purringtons

Humans are strong creatures. We possess a mental strength that keeps us going in a stressful situation. We keep going and fighting on, day by day, doing what needs to be done. Sometimes I can't believe just how much people are able to put up with, simply because they have to. When there's no choice, we just put our heads down, jolly well get our s**ts together and get on with it, and we are so good at it. It's not until all of a sudden the stress is over that the wheels often fall off.

The operation was just over 4 weeks ago now, and I can't believe how well I am recovering. Even the lymphoedema that was supposed to take 4-6 months to just even start to subside is practically all gone and it only took 3 weeks. I am back on the motorbike again and as of today I'm also reunited with my dear sewing machine.

Yet, it feels that my wheels, if not totally fallen off , but are kinda half hanging off. The enormity of my situation is just hitting me now. Maybe because it was all so sudden. Maybe because of the sheer speed with which everything happened once I discovered the lump in my stomach. Maybe because I never expected this diagnosis in the first place. Who knows, perhaps I felt that my lifestyle made me bulletproof an all. But then all of a sudden millions of tests and appointments came and so did the pain. Pain I never experienced before, and a lot of it. And by the time I found myself in the operating theatre, my head was buzzing, and I still didn't quite understand what the hell I was even doing there.

And now everything my doctors told me, everything that at the time I managed to so efficiently ignore, is echoing back to me again. Digging my head in the sand and going into denial was the only way I knew how to make it through at the time, the only way I knew how not to fall apart and give up on myself. But now I can hear all those things again, and I'm transported back into that little clinic room, waiting for more bad news,while clutching Darryl's hand. I can hear my prognosis, how long I'm supposed to, or rather not supposed to be alive for.

It only hits me now what a big deal it is that despite of everyone but one surgeon thinking I was a lost cause, the operation was a success. It only hits me now that this operation could have easily killed me and very quickly so, if not for the professor's amazing skills. I just realise how major this operation actually was and how much of my body I lost in the process. And it hits me now - wether I want to admit it or not- , just how much uncertainty there is still about my future, and that there always be. That this cancer and me, we will always have to live together from now on. I will always have to be vigilant, always looking over my shoulders.

And probably it's not even such a bad thing, after all. I will be probably healthier than I had ever been before all this started . Maybe I will live a more conscious life than I would have without cancer. Maybe I'll say yes more than I say no. And maybe I won't be thinking that there's time to waste before I say certain things to certain people and do the things I always dreamt about doing. I won't think that I can afford to miss another Christmas or birthday of a loved one thinking there will be plenty more. Because I now know that there might not be. This could be the last one, the last opportunity we get to celebrate, to watch telly cuddled up under the duvet, to play cards, to go and see Europe. So this time now needs to be warm and fuzzy and full of love. We need to create memories now because life is, indeed, too bloody short.

I always knew that I'd be back to normal the moment I could swing my leg over the motorbike and not want to jump off it at every pot hole, and that moment is now!

These are my über sexy pins. There are 2 important things here:

1: they're no longer covered in thick black hair
2: they are of equal size.

I know it's something we all take for granted; a girl has two legs, let them be relatively symmetrical, for goodness sake, is that too much to ask for?

But of course, one funky side effect of cancer treatment that involves the removal of or radiation of lymph nodes, is the dreaded and often debilitating (and somewhat disfiguring) lymphoedema. It happens when the lymph fluid all of a sudden has no lymph nodes to go to to be processed and sent on its way into the torso and kidneys for elimination. So it just sits patiently where the lymph nodes used to be, and just sits and sits there, waiting, in case it was just a big joke and the lymph nodes magically reappear after all.

After surgery there's an acute phase of lymphoedema (read: your groin- or armpit- blows up like a frikkin balloon), which lasts for 4-6 months. During this time the whole leg can swell up to the size of a tree trunk, hence the need for some sexy and very tight stockings on the affected side. During this time the even simplest things are hard or downright impossible to do, such as sitting, walking, standing, bending down, etc etc.

After the acute phase the body tends to find alternative routes for the fluid towards other lymph nodes and for most people the swelling subsides to varying degrees. However, lymphoedema is a life-long, often painful condition that requires life-long self care.

I lost 40 lymph nodes (bu**er), and of course, as expected, I blew up right and proper and had a large, hard grapefruit stuck in my groin that needed to be drained just over a week ago (not nice). I diligently do all my daily exercises (and more), elevate my chops 3 times a day, and do the special massage several times a day, all crying in pain.

4 days ago the lump went from the size of a genetically modified, large grapefruit to a mandarin, yesterday it was only an anemic little satsuma, and today it's like a tiny walnut. It's not even visible anymore, which means that my very clever body has already worked out a solution for this whole lymphoedema problem.

And I'm just so stoked, not only because the pain has greatly subsided, but also because despite of everything else, it looks like I'm just not getting the Zen message here and I'm still just the same superficial, vain woman I always was, who would rather not have to walk on an elephant leg of they'd a choice. And as a celebration, I quickly shaved them (both), even though I'm not allowed, but I won't tell the doctor about that one. I'll just play stupid as per normal.

This is for my dear, and definitely funniest friend, Zoli, who gave me so much support in the past couple of months, and a few surprises, too, along the way.

I've known Zoli since. ...hmmm... a very long time, we'll, let's not go there. Ever since I didn't teach him to speak English. Apparently. I'm now told the problem was that we were having too much tea and not enough English. Anyway, Zoli is one of my dearest friends with a beautiful heart, and I am proud that he considers me to be his friend, too.

On the morning of the surgery I woke up to a beautiful FB post about me that was initiated by Zoli with the intent to get some kind hearted people to meditate/pray for me during the operation. By the time I woke up, over 300 people were thinking of me and sending me loving, healing energy. At that point I started crying, and I cried all the way into theatre, by which time more than 2000 people were thinking of me. It was one of the most overwhelming experiences of my life, in a positive way. I never experienced this kind of support before. I was battling with my own little personal drama, and all of a sudden I felt love coming from thousands of people, and I didn't feel on my own anymore.

Somehow Zoli can always put my mind at rest and more than that, make me laugh, even when I'm covered in snot, feeling sorry for myself, waa waa waa. He's willing to put up with my crap for an hour or three, in the middle of the night when i can't sleep. I love his wisdom, his matter-of-factness and how he just refuses to feel sorry for me (thanks for that). He seems to have faith in my strength and ability to make it thorough this rather messy stage of my life, which actually gives me strength. What can I say, he's just absolutely awesome.
Thank you for being in my life, Zoli. I love you heaps and heaps.

Oh, yay, I've been gagging to be able to do some yoga again, and finally today I did. I planned an ambitious 10 minute session, but I only managed 5, and even that with a few tears. Who thought that tree pose can hurt so much? Still, it's a start and wild horses won't keep me away from my yoga mat anymore!

It's kinda handy to have a near-guru yogi as one's sister, who researches specific poses for lymphoedema, then goes ahead and makes a video for me an all, and posts it on YouTube under "yoga for my sister" . So I guess I am now practically famous, as I am THE sister! 9 views so far, we're going viral! Thank you, Gabi!

Please share, and give a little, if you can. I used to work with Cheryl in Auckland, and I think she's really brave to appear on Sunday, fighting for something that us kiwis should be able to access for free, just like our neighbors over the ditch.

Givealittle - Cause - Help Give Cheryl a Chance to Beat Stage 4 Melanoma! Cheryl needs $200,000 to go on the breakthrough immunotherapy drug Pembrolizumab to treat her stage 4 terminal melanoma. Givealittle is the place to donate and fundraise for causes and charities online.

This is for my beautiful friend, Adriana, a real vision with her big black curly hair (cow) her funky glasses and her floaty dresses. She's like a storm, a force of nature to reckon with. She comes and talks fast in her lovely Spanish accent (I am allowed to say that as I have an even stronger one), and always finds something reassuring to say.
She called and texted me every day, and still does, just to make sure I'm not having a wee wobbly .

Adriana's the best midwife I know, the most caring and enthusiastic one around, and I admire her for her total commitment for her work and women and her seemingly endless energy - God only knows where she gets it from, but she's definitely not allowed to retire until my daughter has had all her babies.

Adriana adopted Robbie while we were in Christchurch for surgery, gave him a loving home, fed him and talked to him when Rob was really anxious about me and treated him like her own. She was his mother when I couldn't be there for him, and I am so grateful for that, because that allowed Rob to have some normality in his life in a very abnormal situation.

It's not a big secret that I don't particularly like kids in general past the crawling stage, but I do love Adriana 's three beautiful girls, Thalia, Ariel and Zara. Together they kept our pets alive, kept them fed and watered and happy. I know that this whole thing would have been really difficult if not impossible without the support of Adriana and her whole family. Muchas gracias, chiquitas!