Mile Marker Two

If you'll look out your window to the left you'll see we're coming up on Mile Marker Two. It was a year ago today that the test results from the breast biopsies came back and the initial diagnosis was confirmed: I had breast cancer. What in the world? I have breast cancer?! At thirty-nine and with no history of it on either side of my family, though Janis found out in her extensive studying on the subject that the majority of women diagnosed with breast cancer have no family history of the disease, this was quite a shock.

The radiologist who gave the initial diagnosis of cancer was an older man and, honestly, this is one of those times when you want someone who has been reading mammograms forever to be reading yours. As I like to say, the he hadn't just decided late in life, 'Hmm, what to do, what to do... Well, I could work at Wal-Mart this summer as a greeter, or, I could be a radiologist. I think I'll give radiology a whack'.

When I was given the images of the mammograms and the ultra-sound to bring to the appointment at the Mayo--- that's a mile marker for a later time--- and tried to see what it was that he saw that indicated it was cancer, I was ever-the-more thankful for his years of experience and sharp eye. I knew that of the five mammogram images there was on one image a spiculation, a spike-y, needle-like spot, that could been seen that indicated cancer. Dag-nab-it if it didn't take multiple looks through the images each time I showed it to someone to find that spot it was so subtle. Thank goodness there are people who make it their life's work to interpret these things!

You may recall that I had asked in the initial appointment with the radiologist two days earlier what he thought the lump was. His sharing his thoughts, that it was cancer, gave me the opportunity to shift my thinking and to decide that no matter what the final test results showed--- and I really, really hoped he was wrong--- but that no matter what happened only good and love was going to come from it.

That shift in my thinking- deciding for myself how this was going to go- was the most critical decision I made on this unexpected journey. I decided it was going to be a path filled with good and love. I chose to have a positive outlook. I said 'I can do it'.

It's a choice we all have each day. We each create our world with the eyes we choose to see it through.

It's not that there aren't crabby folks in my day (sometimes it's me), and that stupid, frustrating stuff doesn't happen, and that, at times, my belief in the grand goodness of life waivers more than I'd like. It's that, most days, I choose to see the world as a good place filled with good people doing their best to make their way through this lumpy, imperfect, beautiful, amazing world.

So parts of me have been removed, so I take more medication than I ever imagined I would, so I have to stretch my left arm to retain range of motion. So so so. So I'm here. With you. And that, my dear people, is a mighty fine place to be.

With love,
From the gal who believes the cup is (sometimes even more than) half full,
Karen

Mile marker one

If I hadn't written in my calendar I'm not sure I would've remembered it but it was a year ago today that, while I was getting dressed, I found a lump in my left breast. I remember thinking 'hmm, where did this come from?'. Just five weeks earlier I'd had one of the most thorough breast exams of my life. Nonetheless, I called my doctor and made an appointment to get the lump, which I was sure was some sort of a clogged something, looked at. And with that the begining of this unexpected journey began.

This anniversary has come up rather quickly in part because as I get older I find that time moves ever more quickly and, as you can understand between all the doctor's appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, surgery--- now surgeries (Oh lord, I did not want to be 'that girl who is always having surgery'! Of course having had only three surgeries in this lifetime doesn't technically meet the threshold of always. Sometimes, and I'm not saying that this is one of those times, the degree in Theater Arts is powdered up and paraded around a bit.), not to mention with work and regular life the year's been quite a blur.

Janis told me, when we were first navigating our way through the unfamiliar landscape of the diagnosis of cancer and I was concerned about what the future would hold, that the next months would pass quickly and then the anniversaries would come and come and come and that we would be there to mark their passing. And how right she was. I am so fortunate and so thankful to be here today with you, my dear family and freinds, to pass this mile marker in good health.

The recovery from surgery continues to go well. The scars and brusing are healing, I've weaned myself off the pain meds and the days are no longer spent in a state of perpetual naps. I'm not doing sit-ups yet but honestly I wasn't doing them before the surgery either.

There was only a little bump on the road when the nausea overtook me on Saturday night. Vomiting after abdominal surgery was really not on my list of 'things to do' and I thought we had made preparations to keep it from happening but the pills just weren't cutting it. So Mom and Dad, who were stalwart caregivers, and I spent Sunday in the ER with me getting pain meds and anti-nausea drugs intravenously and all of us taking naps in the very spacious and sterile room. Once the nausea was under control, all was well.

Because of the pain meds I've been taking, I have had a lot of reading time this week and have just finished Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies, Some Thoughts on Faith" and have just begun "Plan B: Some More Thoughts on Faith". She defines traveling mercies as prayer of sorts which means 'Love the journey, God is with you, Come home safe and sound'. I believe that on this unexpected journey and in this life that this prayer has been true and it resonates with me especially today, on this anniversary.

In her books she begins each section with a poem. This one, which is by the beautiful sage Rumi, comes from the section in "Traveling Mercies" titled 'Shore and Ground' and holds within it the recipe for a beautiful life:

Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings.
Move within, but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. - Rumi

Thank you seems insufficient but bigger and more effusive words could not better express my gratitude to you for the love and support you have generously and tenderly wrapped around me. Thank you for walking with me on this unexpected journey. I intend to keep walking with peace and joy and beauty and am honored to have you by my side.

With love,
Karen

Quel fromage

Well, it's not exactly what I had planned but it is the best thing to do: my ovaries are going to be removed tomorrow morning, very early (who books these things? where's my publicist?) in a laproscopic procedure called an ooferectomy which I imagine to be based on the phonetic spelling of the French word for egg, oeuf. (Bad speller of the world untie!)

Why the sudden plan for surgery you ask? Well, it starts with enthusiastic ovaries which, on their own, are really very lovely. In fact, as Janis pointed out, it means that my body has come back from all the treatments! I was in the small percentage of women who get their periods back after having chemotherapy - how amazing is that?! However, with the cancer having been estrogen positive, keeping estrogen around is not a good idea and in fact is what we've been working to stop: I've been getting monthly implants of a drug to ensure I stayed in menopause.

I've been saying that word a lot lately, menopause, and it does make me feel older than I am. The average age for menopause is 51 so at 40 I'm a little ahead of the curve here. And this may be why I felt a little chompy when the checkout gal tonight asked 'Would you like paper or plastic, Ma'am?' and I thought really, rather than paper or plastic, I'd prefer not to be called Ma'am...

So, back to the upcoming surgery. It's certainly not something I had planned, another surgery just seven months after the last one, but it is the most prudent choice for the bigger picture of healthy living. I want to know that I've done everything possible to remain cancer free so I'm doing what needs to be done (thank you Sister Stella!).

That big ol' blanket of love is wrapped around me now. Thank you for all your good thoughts and prayers-

With much gratitude and love,
Karen

That damn race

She did it! She did it! She did it!

Janis did it: she ran that whole damn race! In her snazzy new Minuzos she zigged and zagged with her friend Ann, who drove from Madison to run with her, to complete the 3.2 mile course through the neighborhood around the Mall of America (I know, I didn't know there was one there either). It was a cold morning and the wind was unrelenting, certainly not ideal conditions for a first race (of many??!), but she did it anyway. She did it because she could. I am so proud of her!

We had a lovely contingency at the event: Billy and his friend completed the run, Amy, Mom and I walked the outdoor route and Ann's Mom did the indoor route (rather more sensible on such a cold day). In total, the number of pre-registered participants for the day was 40,000. Amazing.

My friend Maria and her sister walked as they do each year in honor of their Mom. Some walked with a list of names pinned to their backs of women they were walking in support of; others walked in memory of a loved one. There were groups of people dressed in matching outfits and carring placards to show support or to keep a memory alive.

If you're a cancer survivor you're given a special pink shirt and pink hat to wear. With each year of survival you get another pink ribbon to add to the hat. There were a number of women whose hat brims were full of ribbons, something very hopeful to see.

It was, however, overwhelming to see how many women had died. There were a number of family groups who were wearing t-shirts printed up with a photo of their loved one on the back. So while walking the route you're faced with the pictures of those who haven't survived. Young and old, moms and grandmas, sisters, friends- there they weren't. Since then that's been very much on my mind.


The weekend was a very full one indeed. It started with the six month post-surgery check-up at the Mayo on Thursday and Friday, our a cappella group's spring concert on Saturday, the walk on Sunday morning and the final spring concert on Sunday afternoon.

On that Thursday I had the first mammogram since the diagnosis last year. It felt a little like the first date after a bad date: the hopes for the current experience are colored by the last. 'Pleeeease, let him dress appropriately' or in this case 'please let it not hurt'. Thankfully, this was mostly true.

Whenever it's possible I ask to see the images. I'm right in the room when they're collecting them for goodness sake and it's very interesting to be able to see one's insides. During the mammogram I was reminded that there were seven metal clips left in the breast. Not to worry, I've been assured that it is medical grade metal and won't set off the alarm system at the airport.

The breast MRI was scheduled for Friday at 6:30am which is really quite early in the day for any activity. The Mayo doesn't even open until 6:30am so there were many other patients waiting to be let in. It was like we were at a theme park anxiously awaiting the gates to open and, when they finally did, we rushed in to be the first in line at our favorite rides.

One woman ran to the bank of elevators as if, when she arrived up at the appointment desk, she'd be denied access for being late. I can assure you I did not run.

The MRI emanates some very loud noises. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to experience it there's a low, constant background sound much like the hum of a bagpipe, some intermittent click-click-clicking and a higher whirring sound that even with ear plugs is hard to tune out. In spite of all that and the IV for injecting the contrast I was able to take a little nap. Clearly I'm getting acclimated to the world of medical testing. Well, that and the test was at 6:30am...

It was during the breast MRI last year that the enlarged nodes under the arm were identified. This time around there was a spot that needed further analysis. After the 9:45am appointment with Dr. P an ultrasound was scheduled. The images there still could not conclusively say whether the spot was scar tissue or something more annoying so a fine needle aspiration was ordered.

They were apologetic for having to do the additional testing so soon after the surgery but my motto has been and continues to be 'do what you need to do'. They called by the end of the day to say the preliminary tests- and now the final report confirms- that it was scar tissue.

Through the extra tests and the wait for the results I focused on remaining calm and used the meditation techniques I learned last year to focus on my breathing and the moment at hand: right now everything is fine. If there's something that needs to be dealt with I'll do it.

There were a few times that my head ran away with thoughts of the cancer, returned, and what that would mean: surgery, recuperation, more chemo, a worse prognosis. But again I would calm myself by focusing on my breath, on the moment. I was proud of myself for staying present.

At the time I didn't realize how exhausting it was to quell the fear and to remain focused. By the end of the day I was wiped out. I had planned to be back at work that afternoon to check in on a large project we were doing but with the extra tests we didn't get back into town until after 5pm and I think I just went to bed.

Aside from being quite busy with work and regular life, as regular as it can be now, I've been rather exhausted emotionally which is why I haven't posted anything in quite a while. I feel as if I'm balancing two worlds in my hands- the regular world and the changed one- and it's taking everything in me to do it.

As ever, thank you so much to all of you for your continued support. Please know that your thoughts and good wishes are a welcomed treat. A special thank you to all my families: to Kathy & Vic and Shirley & Jim for their lovely cards, to Ro & Jo for their spontaneity, to Char and Mary for lifting me up, to Mark & Shirley for their team effort of consistent calls and strong support.

Much love and peace,
Karen

Hitting a new stride

One morning in late June I got a phone call from Karen saying she was having a mammogram and they want to do a biopsy because they think they found cancer and could I come. I'm there.

After we leave the clinic, we sit in Karen’s car and attempt to process what we have been told. There are tears, frustration, confusion and disbelief. Phone calls are made. More uncertainty, anger and fear. Finally a quiet moment brought on by exhaustion. The younger sister turns to her big sister and moans, “Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!” The first of many laughs at cancer’s expense.

(That race, if you aren’t familiar, is the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It’s an annual 5K run/walk that is held all over the country with the money raised benefiting local breast cancer support services and research projects nationally.)

For the next six months more pressing concerns filled my mind and I forgot about the race. But sometime around Christmas I began to feel like I needed to do something. Yes, I’d been a support for Karen but that was something I wanted to do, something I couldn’t not do. For this, I needed to extend myself in making a difference.

“Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!”

My words kept resurfacing in my mind.

I said it as a joke at the time, but to be honest, there was some fear behind it. What do I know about this? What impact was this going to have on my sister's life? And on my life? Would I be one of those race participants who would need the special t-shirt that said “In Memory of”?

But why was I even considering it? I don’t run! I haven’t run since it was required in gym class for the Presidential Fitness Test. I struggle to breathe and my shins hurt. So why would I intentionally choose to run when no one has asked me to? Because it’s important and necessary. Because you’d have to work at it. Because you’d want to quit. Because it isn’t fun. Because it is a challenge. Because you need to do it.

Because you watched your sister face the unknown. Because she didn’t have a choice but to run and finish the race. Because it sure as hell wasn’t fun for her. Because you watched her come to you with a little wicker waste basket filled with a nest of her hair and ask for your help in removing the rest of it. Because you watched her embrace her new look and not feel bad about it. Because she kept having to give things up but kept finding things to take. Because she was forced to be resilient and manage lots of change and ambiguity when she prefers consistency. Because you watched her push herself through physical therapy to gain back her range of motion after surgery. Because you watched her do all sorts of things she didn’t want to do, but did with grace nonetheless. Because she ran the race for her life and finished boldly. Because if she can take on all of the challenges, changes and unpleasantness of cancer treatment, I can surely find a way to run 3.1 miles in a lead vest.

I’ve been ‘training’ for about a month now by mostly walking on the treadmill and trying to run for five to seven minutes each time. I am confident I could walk the 3.1 miles with no issues, but every time I try running for much longer it feels like someone is standing on my chest. Perhaps I am just not built for running. I didn’t go to the gym once last week.

Tonight I had wanted to go to an antique auction to bid on an accordion I had my eye on (don’t laugh), but I decided instead to buy myself some proper running shoes. Later, at the gym, I am thrilled to say that I ran for a mile! No boa constrictor. No lead vest. No one standing on my chest.

I found my breath.
I believed for the first time that I could actually do this.

I will do this.

The Race for the Cure is an event for everyone. There is a 5K run/walk, 5K wheelchair race, 1K walk and a kids’ fun run. And, for those who don’t want to/are unable to physically participate there is even a “Sleep In for the Cure” event.

My intention had been to enter individually, but I’m wondering if any of you would be interested in forming a team with me (The Piranhas?!) . The team can be composed of anyone participating in any of the events – even the Sleep In! We can set a fundraising goal for ourselves and see our progress charted online. You would have exactly two months from today to train!

The Race is on Sunday, May 11th. (Oh crikey… the run starts at 7:30 a.m. That may be a bigger challenge for me than running 5K! Ugh.) The walk begins at 9:00 a.m. Registration is $25 if you sign up by April 19th. For more information, click here.

If you are not in Minnesota and would like to participate, please check with your local Komen chapter for event information. Click here for a link.

A Wurlitzer accordion…

who wouldn't want one?

My new Mizuno Wave Riders...

(Mom, watch how fast I run!)

Valentine's Day

Here is a favorite quote that sums up my thoughts for the day:

"If you have love in your life it can make up for a great many things that you lack. If you don't have it, no matter what else there is, it's not enough." ~ Ann Landers

We each of us has the ability to share love abundantly. When we act in love and with love it's like oiling the Tin Man, what was frozen comes back to life. Be extravagant with love! Let today be the start of a year in which we lavish love on everyone, perhaps especially those folks that we feel least inclined to share it with.

I have learned by watching my friend Scott, who has a gift for connecting with people, that prickly people often just need a little extra kindness and love to open up. Now when I meet those folks I think of an artichoke and how in all those thick spiky outer leaves lies a tender heart to be discovered and I remind myself to give a little more.

"Kindness in the world creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love." ~ Lao Tsu


Sending you much kindness and love,
Karen

Last day photo

Here we are on the last day of radiation which was already two weeks ago now. Thanks to Wendy and Chuck for the beautiful sign and the balloons! Mom and Dad drove up for the event- they were there for the first treatment and wanted to be there for the last one as well. Janis and Kyle were there too, along with Wendy and Chuck (of the famed Casa del Ott) to complete the picture. It was really lovely to have my family there with me to mark this milestone.

I asked Mom to bring something for the staff, who had been so kind and helpful during this seven week daily gig, so she brought her delicious pumpkin bread with real butter to slather on it. Oh, tasty! The techs were all really excited to have fresh home-made baked goods for their afternoon break. It was a great way to say thank you to all those good folks and wrap up my time there.


Since the end of treatment it's been more challenging than I would've expected. There have been a number of entries I've started but haven't finished, though I will soon. I've been tired emotionally and spiritually and at times have been apprehensive about the future.

The 'treatment treadmill' has stopped, so now what? That's the million dollar question and boy could I put that money to good use. I'm doing the right things to take care of myself like connecting with friends, going to the gym, asking for help, continuing acupuncture and seeing my counselor. There are things to work through that I haven't had time to do yet... all part of the process.

It's like a tsunami, I think. The earthquake came in June, the tidal wave followed post-surgery and, now, there's the clean up to do. I've got my galoshes and slicker on and am ready with a shovel: I can do this.

A special thanks to Mom and Dad, Mark, Amy, Karen II, Lori, Shirley and Jim, Beck, Bethann and Laurie for their brilliant and buoyant messages this last week. Thank you for your good thoughts.

Look for an entry here soon about what radiation is like-

Only good things, Karen

Merry Christmas!

Wishing you all a beautiful Christmas... no matter where you are in your hair growth!

Let's go on with the show

First off, I would like to thank my dad for the beautiful letter he wrote for the blog. From the beginning of this unexpected journey I said that only good and love were going to come from this and, as you can read, that is true.

Secondly, I'd like to thank everyone who has written me in the last month. Since returning to work I haven't had as much time to respond to your each of your notes in a timely manner. Please know that you are in my thoughts and I will write you soon.

Thirdly, I'd like to thank the person who has sent me the mystery subscription to "Glamour" magazine. Each month I have been keeping up on the lastest fashion and make-up trends and doing my darndest to keep off the "Glamour Don't" pages.

And last but never least, I'd like to thank Janis for writing the last post for me. We've both had challenging weeks with the news and her willingness to step in has been most appreciated.

I didn't feel I was in a place to write as I've been going through some of stages of grief I had not yet passed through on this journey. The news of the last couple weeks has made for brief lay-overs in Sadness and Anger. They're not bad places to visit though the people are a little remote and the food is a bit bland, but I sure wouldn't want to live there.

Two weeks ago I had a whopper of a Thursday. The results of a baseline CT scan showed two unidentified spots, one on my lung and one on my liver, as well as an ovarian cyst. What the heck?! It was supposed to be a baseline and everyone knows that baseline means clear! At least, that was what I thought. Of course, baseline means where you're at right then but in my mind it meant we would just be seeing cool pictures of my heart and lungs.

And, just prior to that appointment, I'd found out that I fall into the category of 'high risk for recurrence'. What the heck, I say? What the heck?! That is not what I wanted to nor was ready to hear. I've done everything I've been told to do- how could that be high risk? Unfortunately, having eleven of twenty-one nodes involved is too many to fall into a lower risk category.

It has been a lot to process. Nothing about my life is high risk so why should this cancer be? I might just have to take up extreme sports to show this cancer who's the boss... ooh... hmmm, sports... that's never been my gig. Extreme vocals or theatrics would suit my strengths better. Oh yeah, here we go: with the help of my theatrical friends I could do a performance art piece that would leave this cancer begging for an intermission! And that never happens in performance art.

So, that news coupled with the spots on my lung and liver- two of the three places breast cancer likes to migrate to- was too much to take in for one day. In case anyone is wondering, yes, you can still get radiation treatment while you're crying. The radiation beam is so focused that it's not like standing in an electrical storm with an umbrella or golf club.

At this point in time my radiologist said he's not concerned about the spot on my lung as half the people in the Midwest, if they had a scan, would have a spot on their lung. Why, you ask? Because, as my dear friend Renee's family was fond of saying, there's a fungus among us! Up here on the the tundra there's a fungus that causes scar tissue to form, unbeknownst to those of us who live here, until we have a scan.

He also said that the spot on my liver looks, because of its color, benign. Both of these spots are so small that there is no other test that can be done to determine exactly what they are so, in three months, I will have another CT scan to monitor their progress. You can imagine that, adding to the breast scans that I will have regularly for the next five-plus years, another test every three months is not really high on my list of 'things to do'.

The one thing we were able to run another test for was the ovarian cyst. Two weeks ago I had an ultrasound which Jan and I found out that Thursday was inconclusive. So, to follow up that very afternoon they sent me for an abdominal MRI. Janis came back with me again the next day for those results which were also inconclusive.

At this point I'm feeling like I must be from Mars, or at least the cyst is from Mars, because they cannot identify it. What do you mean it can't be identified? All three three types of imaging that can be taken- CT, ultrasound and MRI- have been done and none of those can help identify it? Please repeat with me: What the heck?!

It seems to me that we're playing that child's card game where you keep looking for the sets: the guy with the beard and hat, the grandma with the glasses and bonnet, the kid with the freckles and beanie. Only in this deck it's all different kinds of cysts and mine doesn't have a match. Oh, who likes this stupid game anyway?!!

I say that because next the option to get the best look at it is to do it the old-fashioned way: to remove it. Where is Doctor Spock when you need him?! We've come to discover that ovaries aren't biopsied (you wouldn't want a trail of unidentified cells out and floating about freely in your abdomen), they're taken out. So that, potentially, mean another surgery when I'm done with radiation.

For those of you keeping up with the hair front, it is indeed growing back. In the two months since the last chemo treatment I have grown a downy soft three-quarters of an inch which thickly covers my head. People who see it comment on its unexpected shimmery fawn color as well as the lovely shape of my head. We'll try to get a photo up here soon so you can all see for yourselves.

It continues to be an unexpected journey, this. And though at times my strength has diminished, my faith in the process has wavered and my trust is nowhere to be found I am continually astonished that offered, again and again, are reminders that my friends and family have strength, faith and trust enough to carry us through.

I hope in this season of hope and joy that you're able to find the peace that it offers as well. Wishing you a beautiful holiday-

Love, Karen

Proof Positive

From the beginning of this unplanned journey, Karen has said “Only good can come from this.” Prior to the surgery it seemed entirely plausible too. But there have been days since when it has been more challenging to believe this. Karen was having one of these days on Thursday when she asked me to write a blog entry this weekend. “I am not in the frame of mind to do it myself right now,” she said. Admittedly, I understood that frame of mind too, but I would do whatever I could to help my sister wage this war.

So I sat down this evening to write. I went to re-read Karen’s last post, but noticed instead that yesterday Dad quietly posted a comment to that post andI began reading there instead. By the time I reached the end, I knew who would be authoring this entry and once again had proof that “Only good can come from this.”

Anonymous said... December 07, 2007 4:00 PM

Hovering is not lurking. When one hovers, he holds the very large blanket of love. This very large blanket covers multitudes of people who come from all areas of the country. The blanket is heavy as well as being large. The blanket must continually be moved to ensure that it fully covers my beautiful daughter. This daughter is Karen Lynn Kelley. She is absolutely the best. This is a very proud parent, her father, who will give a glowing account of the journey.

A dad, a father, is a person who loves his family, especially his children. As a father, I have a very special spot for my girls. Girls represent many things that are the opposite of myself; i.e., soft, sweet, tender, dainty, pretty, good smelling, energetic, smart and lovable. I have come to gain a new and beautiful understanding of my daughter Karen. This new vision has opened my eyes to a side of Karen that I had failed to recognize. She has always had a smile that could light up a room and melt a glacier. This I know. What I am now realizing is that she has great strength, amazing in quantity and endurance. How could I not have known? I watched her grow and mature and yet my eyes must have been covered. Now I am able to see much better because I have taken the time to really listen and observe.

This awesome Karen knows how to always give her best. Never anything less that 110 per cent in all activities she undertakes. I watched her in the leading role in "The King and I" and it was amazing and beautiful....the pride and admiration was really there for me and so many others. Proof positive of ability combined with 110 per cent professional performance. This is the way she goes about life.

Another attribute that had come to my attention recently is Karen's unending concern for others. She will always ask friends how they are doing, what is going on in their lives and when they speak, she listens so intently and with much empathy. She always offers positive advice on situations presented to her by friends and family.

Karen has many talents. I did not know that she was such a good writer. I read the blog entries and am really impressed with her ability to put her thoughts into words. Awesome, just awesome! But this is only one area of her expertise. Karen is not the type of person to show up anyone else. In fact, she downplays her own talents. This is her style, and boy do I admire her for doing it "her way"! Karen has a certain way in dealing with people that elevates that person and brings out the very best in that person. Only positive people can elicit such responses in others.

And what about the strength of the bond between Karen and her sister, Janis. These two women contain so many skills, techniques, wisdom and respect that it is difficult to hide my pride in this pair of children. These daughters form a pair which is best described as inseparable. When watching them solve problems or order a basket or box of vegetables, it becomes very evident that this bond is the real thing. Nothing could make a father prouder or happier than to see how successful your daughters have become. Here is that pride again, justified, I'm sure.

Friends are so important and so priceless. All Karen's friends help in so many ways. Each friend helps me move that very large blanket of love around. You know who we are showering with love.

As we move forward on this journey, we have a lot to be thankful for: THE PLAN...it is the very best and it will be successful. THE MEDICAL TEAM...all of them are the very best. THE FAMILY...John, Margaret, Karen, Janis, Kyle all on the same page, all with a single goal in mind. We can do this! Who always uses this ditty and who first coined it---I guess you know! Karen. Her strength and commitment are unwavering. I never, ever knew about this side of her. She makes others around her so much stronger. She never gives less than her best and always brings out the best in anyone around her.

The voice of the family, friends and caring others in one loud, solid voice all say "we will kick this dirty little tumor into oblivion". Having the attitude that we will not let up until we prevail is the overpowering thought process that guarantees the best outcome.

Karen, you know where I stand, and with me are many, many others who so admire you and your strength and courage. Be assured you and I, we, will prevail and succeed.

With great love and admiration,

Your dad,

John Kelley