A Complicated Relationship

Hope you enjoy reading my latest piece for The Huffington Post's Generation Why Series: "A Complicated Relationship." This essay personifies the cancer within me and focuses on the diseased relationship I have with this toxic lover that's got a stranglehold on me - the stuff of daytime television drama.

If it sounds familiar it's because it's born from a blog entry I wrote back in 2011, when recently out of my allogeneic stem cell transplant and learning what it was like to be in recovery, thinking that my cancer relationship was finally over. With this reworked piece, I honed in on our complicated relationship status and reworked it to focus on the continued stresses my lover brings.

As always, if you like it, please share it on your Facebook pages, "Like" it, Tweet it, comment here or on the Huffington Post page itself. I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading.

Q: Will I Live or Die? A: Yes.

I am going to die. You are going to die. Every single one of us is. No one is invincible. Death is the only real guarantee in life. It’s what we do with that reality that matters. It’s when tragedies like that in Aurora, Colorado happen that these existential questions come to light. It’s a time to contemplate and evaluate and appreciate the reality of life and death. As many were, I was deeply affected when I heard the news of this unthinkable act. What human cannot pause and think about what something like that means for their own lives and the world at large? It’s something far too important to turn our heads at.

For me, it brought up a lot of questions: Why them and not me? What’s it like to be gone in a shocking instant versus someone else that has a long-term terminal illness? Is one ever preferable over the other? What is worse for the victim? How about for those they leave behind?

Why am I, with a body that was full of lymphoma from nearly every lymph gland right through to my spleen, now not just surviving, but I believe thriving, while a six-year-old out for family night at the movies had her life cut short at the hands of an erratic and disturbed gunman. These questions are unanswerable.

7 States.13 Days. Back Home in One Happy Piece.

Taking it all in at Rainbow Vista, Valley of Fire, Nevada

This is one of those get-everyone-up-to-speed blogs to update my health and life status, as I know so many of you care and are wondering what is happening. Then, I will backfill chronologically with the huge backlog of blogging I have to do. So – like it or not – you’ll be reading a lot from me from now on. I have much to share and many stories ready to burst – about my cancer treatment and life otherwise.

I’m back home in Connecticut after slews of wonderful traveling. The trip out to see my sister in her Las Vegas, Nevada element finally happened after her living out there for a year and a half. That my parents and brother could be there too was an incredible bonus to be able to have that time as the Dubreuil family. The fact that it all tied in with a childhood friend’s wedding in Malibu and that Craig and I got to spend a weekend in Los Angeles with each other and several more of our Connecticut friends and Craig’s adopted second family since childhood? This was an even bigger stroke of serendipity. All worked out so well.

It was an incredible trip full of beauty of all kinds. Did I feel like a million bucks the whole time? No, of course not. But I live on a different wellness scale, and I was thrilled and proud and astonished and how well my body did with all the activity. The reason I went back and had a PET Scan on the Friday before I left on vacation was because I had three nights of soaking night sweats and was having a lot of chest discomfort. This prompted an emergency visit and scan though I had just returned home from New York City after completing radiation on that Wednesday. Because I was planning on going away the following week, we needed to assess what was going on. As I wrote in my last update, the PET Scan looked overall pretty good; the clean areas on my sacrum and spine no less than astonishing. It wasn’t consistent with how I was feeling.

Those feelings may have just been effects from the radiation and coming off a med. The radiation gave me extreme esophageal irritation to the point where even a glass of water hurt to swallow. I had never felt that before and my hope is that I misinterpreted that chest discomfort to be lymphoma creeping in at a rapid rate, because it’s not.

Not As Easy As It Looks

I haven't been able to write. I still don't know if I am able to write, but I'm going to give it a try. I'm not certain why it's been so difficult. I think it's a combination of not wanting to dole out difficult news to those that read this and of the memories that flood in every time I open this blog page. But this is my outlet and this is my honesty. I haven't been feeling "inspirational" or "heroic" or "positive." For really the first time, everything has caught up with me.

I have been living with focused blinders on and now am suddenly feeling all the punches from nearly three years all at once. I've gone at this with sheer determination and I know that what I am writing here will come as a surprise to many, but I am asking for your understanding and support. I know that this is not what always appears on the outside. But I believe that it is important for everyone dealing with their own medical issues and for those watching a loved one go through it to understand that we can't be smiling all the time and that it gets very tiring to hold it all together. I think that that's okay. But I don't think that it's easy to admit.

Life has been very difficult over the past month. Things have been more difficult for me to handle than they have ever been. I've been dealing with a lot of anger, frustration, and feelings of defeat and helplessness. I'm uncertain and uncomfortable. I'm unfocused and unstable. I get very sad and very mad and very frustrated. I'm finding it much harder to pull out of the low places. I'm finding many less places of elation. I resent other people and get wildly jealous of their happiness and wish desperately to find my own again. I feel like I cry all the time, but at the wrong times.

I hate being on treatment again. I hate that I have no idea if it's working. I hate the feelings that the Hodgkin's disease is flaring up. I hate the fear of GvHD. The Revlimid has been primarily well tolerated except for tremendous fatigue; I am so tired all of the time but so anxiety ridden that I can't sleep in the way I need to be sleeping. My eyelashes have thinned again, nearly all of them that I worked so hard to re-grow after transplant have been showing up on cotton balls and on my pillow. I again have the eyes of a cancer patient and it's incredibly unnerving.

Worried Sick

I feel as if I’ve squandered away the past week. I completely bowed down to the tremendous anxiety and stress that today’s looming PET Scan was causing me. And after all of that fretting, my oncologist and I decided to postpone the scan – as well as my appointment with the transplant team – until next week. I contracted some kind of cold/flu and we do not want to risk a false positive reading on my scan results.

Whether I picked up a germy somewhere or I got myself sick with stress, I came down with a whopping sore throat, chills, feveryness, aches and tremendous fatigue this past weekend. I convinced myself that it was DoomsDay. I worried and worried and worried and worried about all the scenarios:

Conclusion A: I’d never recover from the virus I’d contracted and it would find a way to eat me alive

Conclusion B: Hodgkin’s Disease was flaring on the rise, for sure, so fast that my new immune system would never be able to catch it

Conclusion C: I re-broke my foot, as it was so achey, along with the rest of me. A piece of bone must have dislodged and was floating through me ready to nest in my brain and cause me to hemorrhage (so obvious)

All of these scenarios were evils that I manifested then couldn’t handle comprehending. I completely lost control and surrendered, basically digging myself a grave these past few days. I conceded defeat and moaned and groaned the days away just wishing I could get to today to have my damn PET Scan that would seal my fate. That is not like me, and I hated it.

By Bike and Boat I Go

My broken foot is now in an air cast that is worn with a sneaker allowing me more flexibility and more opportunity for sporty activities. Of course I latched onto this news with zeal.

After examining an X-Ray of my foot bone last week, my orthopedic doctor told me that I could start using a stationary bicycle while using the stirrup air cast for support.

“How about a real bike?” I asked him.

“Just don’t fall off,” he replied, warning that sometimes people find that their balance is shaky after being off of one foot for so long.

First (Re)Birthday

Today marks one year since my autologous stem cell transplant. It's incredible to think that a year has gone by and about how much has happened since May 18, 2010 – my Day Zero. This month also marked the two-year anniversary of my Hodgkin Lymphoma diagnosis: May 8, 2009.

I haven't been able to fully reflect on how much has been rebuilt, grown, and evolved since then as it's been an essentially continuous treatment ride since. But what I can reflect on and rejoice in is that I've survived and thrived and continue to live, and live fully, with this disease. I'm more appreciative and aware of everything and everyone around me and for that gift I am forever grateful.

However much overused, I think this is the perfect opportunity to post one of my favorite songs of all time. Who knew how much my pre-cancer affinity for Rent foreshadowed my real life and the themes that have arisen in it? I couldn't say it better myself, Mr. Larson.

Today - with my growing crown of ringlets, which I've come to adore (May 18, 2011):

Stem Cell Collection - 12 million stem cells harvested (March 2010):

Day Zero (May 18, 2010) receiving back my 6.5 million stem cells that would rebuild my immune system and allow my body to recover from the toxic chemo of the weeks before:

Autologous Stem Cell Transplant 10-day inpatient recovery (May 18-May 29, 2010):

The very beginning (recovering from my first lymph node biopsy, May 6, 2009):

Perceptions

I was listening to the introduction of Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture," a speech I've listened to many times in my pre-cancer life, but this time it made me burst out laughing. After he explains that he has approximately 10 tumors in his liver and his doctors told him that he has three to six months of good health left, he follows up with: "If I don't seem as depressed or morose as I should be ... sorry to disappoint you." He then proceeds to pump out one-handed and clap-between push ups and demonstrate that he's probably stronger than most anyone in the room. Unfortunately, he's since succumbed to his terminal cancer, but it's obvious that he blew away perceptions and expectations along his journey.

People – friends, family and medical staff alike – constantly say to me: "Well, you look great," or if it's over the phone, "Well, you sound good." And I always wonder what their expectations were. Then I realize that on paper, yes, it makes sense that for what I have going on in my body and how aggressive this cancer and this treatment is, I should look like an ashen walking corpse, but that is simply not the case.

Despite how widespread cancer is in the world, there seems to still be such a stigma around the word that elicits a lot of fear and mental images of people spending every waking moment vomiting, weak and morose dangling from their last thread of life. When in fact, so many people are living, yes, living with cancer. Living despite the disease in their body.

Anytime I'm in a crowd at a sports game or the mall or at a play, I am always wondering how many other cancer survivors/fighters there are surrounding me that I would never be able to pinpoint. We don't all look alike. We don't all feel the same way. The word "cancer" is just far too general to describe the intricacies and uniqueness of the different forms that it can take. There is no one picture of what a cancer patient is supposed to look like.

That's the funny thing about cancer. It can wreck havoc internally but not show anything outwardly. How can I fault anyone for not knowing what to say when they see me for the first time in a long time? Or, when I drop the cancer bomb because they have no idea what's been happening in my life. There is no "right" thing to say.

Saying anything is better than saying nothing at all, even if it's just saying: "I just don't know what to say." To again quote Randy Pausch, as his father always told him: "When there is an elephant in the room, introduce it." I try to be sure to acquaint people with my elephant when I can see they are struggling with whether or not to acknowledge the figurative animal for fear of upsetting me. It doesn't upset me. I know it's there and I appreciate when people express their empathy and support. But pity? Now that's something I don't appreciate.

I laugh because despite how curious it is for me to hear, I catch myself saying to other patients: "Well, you look fantastic!" all the time, because you know what? It's true. And maybe it sounds trite and maybe it can be perceived that it's discounting what they're going through, but I think any cancer patient can benefit from a little ego boost, especially when we are hurting so badly on the inside. No matter what might be happening biologically, the spirit still shines through brightly. That is something that can't be overtaken by sunken eyes and pale skin. Sometimes it takes someone else to point that out.

I read an excerpt by writer and performer Jenny Allen, author of the one-woman play: "I Got Sick Then I Got Better." She was also a patient at Sloan-Kettering and was featured in the hospital newsletter. I don't agree with everything she says, but I think it's refreshing and extremely brave for her to speak about what it was like for her to hear the sometimes profound, sometimes odd things people chose to say to her and about her resulting reactions, which totally depended on her mood that day – something I can completely relate to. Talk about acknowledging the elephant in the room.

Cancer patients aren't just the feeble, bald, hopeless beings that Lifetime movies are made of. We're still people. We're still living. And yes, damn right, we can still look damn good.

Rehab

Like Lindsay Lohan or Tiger Woods I have been – and continue to be – in rehab. Though my rehab isn't as glamorous as crack or sex addiction. Just another cancer patient trying to get my body and my life back to a less tumultuous state. And it's a self-inflicted rehab so no ankle bracelet needed to alert the authorities if I get off track.

Every day has been a little bit better than the last, which is encouraging for sure.

My taste buds have really made a comeback. I had wild mushroom, spinach, goat cheese and pine nut stuffed poblano peppers last night and was melting at the party of flavors. It's wondrous not to have everything taste like Metamucil – or like nothing at all. The appetite is getting there as well. Still small, but it's nice to know the feeling of hunger again. With the start of the summer season also started our first season as part of a crop share with a local farm. The CSA allows us to have access to a bag full of fresh fruits and veggies every week, plus access to pick-your-own herbs, flowers and more veggies. I'm psyched for the local, chemical-free nutrition.

My legs were covered in raised flesh-colored bumps which made my skin feel as if it were covered in fish eggs but now a week after they popped up they seem to have subsided. However, they have moved to my face. When I run my hand over my cheeks and nose it brings back shudders of my horrible middle school acne days. The bumps are at times itchy and a bit red but I think more noticeable to me than the outside world – at least that's what they tell me. But I'm assured that they will move on out just as they did from my legs. If that's the worst that my body is reacting after what happened to it, I'll take it!

I've been going to yoga, hiking, walking and even had a day of kayaking. I'm taking it slow and being patient, but I don't let a day go by where I don't push my body to do something to get it back into shape. It spent way to much time atrophying in a hospital bed. Yoga class is hard for sure, but I really enjoy being back at the studio. I like having the instructor there to adjust me as needed and to be surrounded by others with a similar mindset in such an encouraging and welcoming atmosphere. I'm at once amazed at how much strength and flexibility I lost over the past few months and at what my body is still capable of and the strength it held onto. I can walk for miles on end on flat ground without a problem. My endurance remains but it's the uphills and quick exertions that are tough. But as I said, every day gets a little bit easier. I will be running the 5K in the Hartford Marathon in October ... if not an earlier race.

I still need a daily nap, but the nap duration requirements have lessened. An hour is ideal and the pass-out point usually happens around 3pm. That's when I hit the wall. I wake up several times throughout the night and look forward to an unbroken sleep some day.

Overall, I'm just listening to what my body needs and trying to comply ... though pushing it past its limitations at times as well.

The timing of this rehab period couldn't have been better if I planned my cancer relapse myself. The weather is beautiful this time of year and the sun and warmth and thunderstorms and passing showers are nothing less than cathartic. So is time with Sammy the wonder dog, always good for a loving snuggle or a raucous romp through the woods. Craig is wrapping up school next week and will have a couple weeks off before his summer gig so we can spend time healing/enjoying life together.

The plan is for me to ease back into work after the July 4th holiday. I'm really looking forward to getting back and to restoring my sense of purpose while being part of the greater community. It'll also be nice to feel like an accomplished adult again rather than a sick little kid.

Now if my hair, eyelashes and eyebrows would start growing back then at least I wouldn't look like a cancer patient anymore, but I won't be escaping that anytime soon. I'm as hairless as the Pistons' Charlie Villanueva, but not nearly as good with a basketball.

Aftermath

It's the time of year where the news programs are filled with "year in review" segments, predictions for the future, look-backs and all. I have a lot to reflect on this year but in a different way. I've been thinking more and more about the things that I was doing just before I was diagnosed and it really just baffles me. Just a couple months before, we were in Miami living the life at a wedding. Literally, the week before I was admitted to the hospital I was running with Sammy full tilt on a hot day through the neighborhood. No matter how much I reflect, it still just doesn't make sense and I suppose it probably never will.

The oddest thing is this whole transition from patient to survivor. I use the "survivor" term loosely as I'm still not completely out of the woods. I've been feeling a lot of fullness in my chest and having the occasional pains still. That led to an echocardiogram, which was all clear -heart's still strong - and now I go in for another PET-CT Scan on Monday - two weeks earlier than scheduled. Hopefully this will finally be an all-clear and I can get this constant physical reminder that is my port o-u-t out!

But I digress ... . What's so different about being "post-chemo" is that I no longer have that "eye on the prize" goal. There was always that light at the end of the tunnel - the 12th treatment - when I knew it would be over. However, now that I'm past that, I realize that it's not over and that it probably never will be. It's the issues that arise during survivorship that no one really talks about. I didn't get any preperation about the long-term effects. I suppose that's because every oncologist has enough bad news to dish out to you having to explain to you the fact that you not only have cancer, but you have to go through hell to treat it - nevermind telling you that your body and mind will never be the same. That would have been way too much to process at the beginning of all of this - inevitable system overload.

But now, that drive, that hope, that ultimate goal has faded because there is no longer an endpoint. I will forever be wondering if the cancer will remanifest itself. I will forever live with the long-term havoc wrecked on my body. I was listening to The Stupid Cancer Show this week. The episode was focused on "Who the Hell is Hodgkin?" A lot of discussion was centered around how high the Hodgkin cure rates are, but how toxic the treatment is. I posed a question in the chat room to the show's guest oncologist telling him that I had 6 cycles of ABVD and asking him about the long-term effects I could expect from it. He gave it to me straight - fertility problems, neuropathy issues (I still can't feel my lower leg), chronic fatigue, predisposition to other cancers, hormonal imbalances ... the list went on.

That's the thing about being a young adult cancer survivor. I'm not 80 years old and cured. I am only 27 and I thankfully have many, many decades of life to live still. But you don't hear a lot about how the hell you're supposed to handle all of these effects as you keep on living. There is so much positive and so much that I am grateful for, but at the same time I've also found myself getting very frustrated and very emotional at times. Like getting a cast off after many weeks of healing, I guess I naiively thought that I'd be able to walk away from this and get on with my life. Instead, this is my new reality and I need to set new goals with that reality in mind.

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but I do believe that this time of year gives a good excuse for a fresh start. Right now the flakes are falling peacefully outside our windows and the ground is blanketed in pure white - everything is clear, raw, fresh and new. And that's how I want to enter 2010. Nothing like a bout with cancer to realize the precious, delicate nature of life and to really get to know and appreciate yourself. I am so eager to do a million different things that it's overwhelming at times. I know now more than ever that you only get one shot at life and one shot at making a difference and a postive mark in this world. I refuse to be ever be content with simply existing. Yes, I am grateful to be alive, but for me that's not enough.

There is absolutely nothing that I can do to reverse what the chemo has done to my body. But what I can do is not let it take me down, to not use it as an excuse, but rather as an added motivator to make the most out of every moment of this life. I'm going to keep on living despite the effects. I'm going to defy the odds and start a family. I'm going to be physically and mentally stronger than ever and I'm not going to be afraid. Every day I know I'll always have those questions in the back of my mind: Is this just a headache? Does this cough mean my chest is again swollen with cancerous lymph nodes? But rather than letting it control me, I need to accept it, awknowledge it and learn to deal with it. My life as of late isn't all Care Bears and rainbows, but it is sure as hell is better than the alternative.

Selective Memory

I've been feeling pretty good. And the better I feel, I realize how badly I felt for a long time. It's amazing how your mind and body can just compensate and make the most of the situation no matter how much you're hurting. I guess that's how I got to be at such an advanced stage of cancer ... .

It definitely feels good to feel good. However, I certainly wouldn't say I'm 100%. I still get pretty tired at the end of every day and don't have my full pep back. Turns out it could take up to a year for that to happen. Other than that, I just get some occasional chest pain and a lot of chest tightness.

Nonetheless, everything still works. We went on a very, long hike today and once my heart rate leveled off I was fine and very proud of myself. I've had to do a full eyebrow shaping and am back to shaving my legs and underarms (the one negative in all of this)! My hair is now fully covering my head. So much so that tomorrow I'm going into work without the customary head scarf I've been wearing for so many months. You can still see my scalp a bit as it is very thin, but there are no more obvious bald patches. I can't believe how fast it has all grown back. It really seemed like one day eyebrows and hair just reappeared. It's not red and it's not curly like Shirley Temple as many warned it would be. But it is very dark and I love it. I suppose that this is in fact my natural color. I guess I didn't really expect it to grow back with vanilla blonde highlights.

I've been working a normal schedule and keeping up with the busy schedule of holiday parties, shopping, snow shoveling, Christmas tree trimming and everything else that comes with this season. It's very hard to even remember when I couldn't do these simple things.

But it all came rushing back when I had a follow-up appointment at the cancer center this week. I suppose this is what's going to happen for the rest of my life while I'm constantly watched for any signs of cancer coming back. Hopefully it will get a little easier as time goes on.

As soon as I walked into the waiting room it brought my right back to my treatment days. Vulnerable. scared. uneasy. lots of anxiety. But I was able to recognize the fact that this time I was there as one of the post-chemo survivors I had always seen bopping in for quick check-ups, hugging and catching up with the nurses. And that's exactly what I did. It was great to see the team even though doing so meant I had to get my finger pricked and my port stuck.

It was most surreal to see my oncologist. I got all welled up sitting there in his room waiting. I could literally feel all the emotions swirling back throughout me. I thought I was going to lose it and just start crying as I remembered my own journey and watched so many others pass by the door at various stages of their own. But I held it together and just felt so incredibly grateful to be there painless and with a clear head.

Dr. Dailey sat down right next to me in his little exam room in the Hartford center and he asked about my post-chemo progress. He felt my lymph nodes on my neck and collar bone, under my arms. All signs point to the all-clear. But even so, he still wants to do one more PET-CT Scan before removing my port. Sigh. January 15 is the big day. If the scan is completely clear then we schedule a port removal surgery and I'll then be followed with a CT-Scan every six months. We talked about planning a pregnancy around my scans (very romantic) as I can't be exposed to radiation while pregnant. He advises that we wait until at least next January to start thinking of trying to build a family to be sure that my body is strong enough and all the toxins are out of my system. It all sounds like a great plan.

Then it was in to see the nurse to have my port flushed. Since it's not being used, I need to come in every month to get some saline and special concoction pumped through it to ensure there are no chances of clotting or build up of fibrous tissue within or around it. So it was another deep breath and needle jab ... hopefully I'll only have to go through that one more time.

After that appointment it's been back to holiday happenings, and I'm very much looking forward to Christmas and Hannukah with the fam. So much to be grateful for this year ... the gifts of the season take on a whole new light. Like all the cards and commercials say, I really am looking forward to a happy and healthy 2010.

Transition

I plucked my first out-of-place eyebrow hair.

I filed away the last of the blood count reports floating around our office.

I threw out the leftover steroids.

I took down the calendar which held the lists of doctor appointments and documented how I felt each day.

I twisted my hair around my finger. Well, half-way around.

I crumpled up the hand-written notes from my mom with directions of when and how much of which medicines to take each day.

I'm transitioning from cancer patient to cancer survivor. In fact, this past couple of weeks, I've really forced myself to forget about the "C" word altogether. I think I've really been squelching it all, excited to be feeling better and getting back into my old routines. However, no matter what, I know that this experience will forever be a part of me and I don't want to forget it. I think I just wanted to tuck it away in my back pocket for a little while. Now, I'm ready to reexamine it all and see how I can use it to better my life and the lives of others. I'm going back to figuring out that still unanswered question of why the hell this happened to me ... .

I'm waiting for the big flood of emotions or whatever is supposed to happen when I actually realize everything that I, and those around me, went through. Right now it just seems like it was a little bump in the road, a chapter that is now closed. It's hard to even recreate what my mind and body felt like. I remember people telling me that would happen back when I was first diagnosed. Telling me that one day this cancer experience will be just a little blip in my life and that I'll have so many bigger and better adventures that will overshadow it. I found that hard to believe at the time, just as it was hard to believe that I'd ever reach the 12th treatment. But now that I'm here, I realize that the world keeps moving and that there's a whole lot of life still ahead of me.

Even though I don't think about it constantly as I used to, I am still frequently reminded. Of course, there's the givens. The lady lump is still in my chest. It seems that the skin discolorations on my body are permanent, and oh ya, I still don't have enough hair to cover my head. But there's also the unexpected reminders.

Last night we were out at a tavern enjoying some beers and a live band with friends. I go to the bathroom and this 60ish-year-old woman with long, peroxide bleached blond hair, teased bangs and L.E.I bellbottom jeans starts to explain to me why she has a heart painted on her face (her grandson), keeps talking to me while I'm in the stall, and after I'm done washing my hands and she's done drawing on her Barbie pink lip liner, reaches her hand out to shake mine and introduces herself.

"I'm Karin," I replied, wiping my hands on my jeans and shaking her hand.

Her eyes widened.

"That's my sister's name ... ," she said.

I nod and mumble back something about 'what a coincidence' and make my way to the bathroom door.

"She just died of cancer," she said and I spun back around.

I hesitated at first, not knowing what to say, then blurted out: "I just beat cancer. I just finished six months of chemotherapy." As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to take them back. I couldn't believe how mortifyingly insensitive I was, but her reaction completely surprised me.

She grabbed me in her arms and pulled me in for a tight hug. I was immediately engulfed in the scents of Aquanet hairspray and gag inducing flowery perfume.

"What? Oh my God. God bless you, child," she choked, going on and on and on. "That's amazing! Oh, that's amazing!" She kept kissing me on the cheek - several times. I'm just awkwardly smiling back thinking, I am in a bathroom, with other people doing their business in the stalls listening to this. I thought I was just going to take a leak and I end up sending this woman over the emotional edge.

"I'm sorry about your sister," I said back.

She just replied with more sighs of happiness and more awkward touching. She squeezed my hand and we reentered the bar. I plopped back down at our table and immediately recounted my bathroom experience. Then I watched as this dolled-up Grandma headed to the dance floor to slink around to the beat and rub up against her much younger looking boy toy and I smiled.

It's like I'm now forever part of this secret society. For those who have been through it or watched someone very close to them go through it, you have this instant rapport and understanding. That's something that I feel very lucky for - to have the capacity to form these instant human connections. So quickly comfortable that several smooches in the ladies room at a divey bar are perfectly appropriate.