From patient to survivor

Survivor (noun): One who continues to live after illness, accident or war. 

 "So when do I go from patient to survivor," I asked my oncologist earlier this month. It's a question that has consumed me since surgery in July. 

Clockwise from top left: Flowers sent to my work from my hubby and boys;
certificate of completion from radiation; bathroom is full of creams and gels;
champagne and balloon from my good pal and neighbor.

"Oh, Wendy, you were a survivor the first day you walked in here," she said. 

Love her optimism. It's one of the reasons I chose her as my oncologist. And of course she's right. There was never any question of survival in my mind. But I wanted to know at what point I refer to myself as a survivor. 

"I'd say as soon as you're done with your radiation," she said. 

Today is that day. Chemo, surgery and radiation are now in my rear-view mirror. I'm far from done with breast cancer. My tumor fed on estrogen. So for the next five years, I'll take a pill daily to block the estrogen and hopefully prevent any recurrence. Reconstruction will be next summer. It takes about six months for the skin to totally heal from radiation. And then we will resume the expansion process to prepare for reconstruction surgery sometime next summer. 

The journey has already been 13 months and I have survived. April and Anne Marie, my radiology techs, told me they had a special song for me today. And as I began my series of deep-breath holds one last time, I heard Elton John sing, "I'm Still Standing." Made me smile. 

Cancer stays with you. The physical reminders are many--mastectomy scars, chemo hair, fragile veins and a burned and blistering armpit from radiation. I'm managing with my assortment of gels and creams and hope to see improvement by the end of this week. 

But even when the physical reminders have healed and reconstruction is complete, cancer will remain a part of my psyche. The challenge is to not let the worry keep me from living. Treatment necessarily requires you to press the pause button on many aspects in life. 

Today,  I'm pushing play.

You are where you need to be ... just breathe

Radiation treatment has begun and it's the final stage of my cancer treatment. I'm in week two of a six-week course of treatments that last all of five to eight minutes. By October 10th, I'll be done. The countdown to completion is on.

Unlike chemotherapy or surgery, radiation cannot be seen or felt. It's a big ole mystery to me. So I ask questions. Its effects are cumulative, I'm told. Eventually, it will lead to fatigue and skin changes such as sunburn and possible blistering and peeling of skin. Beautiful. Can't wait. Right now, I don't feel much of anything.

Two techs--April and Anne Marie--line me up under the linear accelerator (LINAC for short). Sounds scary, I know, but it looks a little like other scans, only larger. But there's no comfy cushion on the table. I'm on a sheet on the hard table with my head resting in a clear plastic mold. They slide a leg rest under my knees, which helps me to relax. (Side note: I need one of those for home.) I grab onto the handlebars above my head and let my elbows drop to the trays positioned on either side.

In preparation for treatment, the techs tattooed tiny freckles on my chest and sides to ease with the lineup. I lay heavy on the table while they use the sheet to position me perfectly. With the mother of all remotes, they move me up and under the LINAC. "Turn your head slightly to the right." I always forget that part because I'm fascinated with watching the red and green lights. The red creates a target on my chest. The green looks like some kind of measurement device striped down the middle of my chest.

A cross is cut into the ceiling tile above me with red LED lights glowing from within. I asked what it's for and it's simply a center point for alignment. All the lights are cool and distracting. I want to turn my head, but I have to remember to keep it angled.

Because my tumor was on my left breast, the radiation oncologist was concerned about my heart being in the way of the radiation beams. "How long can you hold your breath?" he asked me. "I don't know. Pretty long, I guess. 30 seconds, maybe. Should I practice?" I'm nothing if not a good student.

He explained that when I hold my breath, my heart moves up and to the right away from the radiation beams. So each of the six angles begins with instructions over the intercom to, "Breathe in ... breathe out ... breathe in ... and hold."

An electrical buzzing sounds though I cannot see or feel anything.  I fight my body's urge to twitch while holding my breath. I close my eyes and find my zen. "And breathe." Phheeeewwwww.

The LINAC moves around me with batwing-like trays coming in close, showing red laser lights across my body and then slowly, smoothly flying out again. Each time, it's a different angle targeting the beam on what's called the "tumor bed." The large round accelerator uses a series of "fine, tungsten leaves" to shape the beam to the precise shape of the tumor bed. I can see and hear these leaves being adjusted in the accelerator, almost like the aperture on an SLR camera.

With each position, I hold my breath longer ... 10 seconds, 17 seconds, 22 seconds. And then I'm done. And I'm one step closer to being a cancer survivor instead of a patient.

If You Were Born Today, September 8:

If You Were Born Today, September 8:

You are not only creative, you are able to channel your vision into practical avenues of expression. You are not well-suited to routine work. Your mind is always busy, and if you’re not using it productively, you are given to worrying and overanalyzing. Some worrying is good–you are strong at organizing. Too much, and you fret over the small stuff. Overall, however, you are hopeful and fresh and have an unusual spin on life that intrigues others. You are hard-working, inventive, and talented. Your ideas are gold–you can turn a brainchild into something lucrative. Famous people born today: Pink, Peter Sellers, Patsy Cline, David Arquette, Martin Freeman, Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

Happy Birthday also to Ruby Bridge, Matthew Dellavedova, Bernie Sanders, Sid Caesar, David Carr and the Virgin Mary.

A year of living with cancer

My husband tried to get me to open up. We had a long weekend ahead of us to wait to learn the "official" results of my biopsy. It seemed I was doomed to have all diagnostics on Fridays when the delay in getting results would be excruciating.

I kept telling myself, "You can deal with anything once you know what it is."

But over the Labor Day Weekend in 2015, no amount of self-talk was working on my psyche. I knew I had breast cancer. I didn't yet know what kind or what stage. I knew I was facing surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. Though I did not yet know in what order. Very few people in my life knew what was happening at this point.

When you're inside your head and afraid, you feel utterly alone.

My three sons were away for the weekend. We had no plans and in retrospect, we should have crammed our weekend full of fun stuff. "Let's take a drive," my husband said. We wound up at the Rocky River Marina, watching boats gliding up and down the river. As we sat on a picnic table, I confessed that I felt alone.

While I was at my lowest emotional point, no tears would come.

I just kept cycling through a series of questions. How would the boys handle my weakness? How would my husband? Could I work? What if I couldn't? How would we pay the bills? Will I feel sick? Will I look sick? Will I die? How will my family go on without me?

Speaking the fear always makes it seem less scary.

"You have to tell people," my husband said. "Give them a chance to care for you." Of course he was right. Virgos have a tough time depending on people or even sharing their innermost thoughts. We like to go along as if everything is fine and under control. But I knew I would need the support and love of others to carry me through. So I sent my first email on Labor Day evening 2015:

 I need to share some news. I've been diagnosed with breast cancer.

There. I typed the words. It would become easier the more I said it, but that first time on September 7 was difficult. Everyone asks the obvious:

Did you find it yourself or on mammogram? Found it myself and had been ignoring for long time. I'll write about that another time. 

What kind and what stage is it? I have estrogen positive, ductal carcinoma. My opinion on stage was that I didn't care to know. It would have no bearing on how I would face this. 

What's the prognosis? Really?!!! This is not a question you ask someone who was recently diagnosed with cancer. Because here's my response: I'm gonna fight with everything I've got and I'm going to recover. What other prognosis is there?

 After 3 p.m. on Tuesday after Labor Day I was in my car in a downtown parking garage leaving a meeting. I called the surgeon's office to get the biopsy results.

"Name?"

"Wendy Hoke."

"Birthdate?"

"9.8.67"

"Wow, that's..."

"Today, yeah."

"Happy Birthday. OK, doctor will give you a call back."

The mid-morning sun filters through the trees
to illuminate this statue I see on my daily walks.

As it turned out the results weren't ready until the next day. The lab was delayed because of the Monday holiday. But once I had the official results, I was relieved and then anxious to get started on treatment. I would have a series of scans--bone, heart, PET, CT--all to confirm it had not spread anywhere else and that my heart was healthy enough to get blasted with chemo.

"Wendy, you cannot hold your breath in the scan and hope it doesn't find cancer," my mom, a 17-year survivor of non-Hodgkins Lymphoma advised. "Go into the scanner, close your eyes, give it up to God and let the machines do their job."

So while I would not sleep the night before these tests, I did as my mom so wisely counseled. A good friend had given me bracelets, one with the Virgin Mary and the other a Shamrock. As my hands were clasped above my head, I would hold the charms and recite the Hail Mary. It helped to calm me down and I'm sure it kept my blood pressure normal.

On the morning of Wednesday, September 30th, I got a call from my oncologist saying the cancer had not spread and in a change of plans she wanted to get chemo started that day. I was at work, heading into a management meeting....literally standing in the hallway when I got the call. In retrospect, it was a good thing. I didn't have time to think or worry. I just said, OK.

"Before we begin, I need you to sign this consent to treat form," my oncologist said.

I read it over and the box was checked, "I consent to this treatment to cure my cancer." (bold is mine)
"Cure? We use that word?" I asked. She nodded. "It's an aggressive treatment plan, but yes."

"I'll gladly sign that and I'd like a copy for my records."

It's a year of your life and then it's over or so goes the traditional thinking. But my cancer was stage 3 and nothing about my treatment was traditional. I started with chemo and thought I'd have surgery after. Instead, I was put on Tamoxifen to help further shrink the tumor. I had mastectomy six weeks ago and tomorrow I head back to work AND begin radiation, my final stage of treatment.

We're at the year mark and the active treatment end is in sight. But I'll be on anti-estrogen medication for five years. And the process of reconstruction following mastectomy probably won't happen until next summer. But as my plastic surgeon said the day after surgery:

"Once you finish with radiation, you can start to reclaim your life."

I'm not waiting until after radiation. I reclaimed my life once I realized what was at stake a year ago. I notice things more acutely -- colors, smells, sounds. I smile easily, which is something I've always done. I give hugs freely. And I count every day as a blessing.

Time is a precious gift, no matter how you get it

The idea of a sabbatical has always been appealing to me--a paid leave to rest, travel, research, study. Education and religious orders understand the value, but the rest of our society is not so enlightened. Now in week 5 of my medical leave, I am grateful for the mental and technological break from a job that can easily consume.
In the weeks leading up to my leave, which granted is a result of having cancer and needing surgery not because I chose to use up all my PTO for my mental health, I prepped everyone for my need to be undisturbed by the daily stuff of work. And they have been incredibly awesome and respectful of that need. For that I am truly thankful. I'll be all the better for it when I return.

Here's what I've discovered in the intervening weeks.

1. WE have to set expectations and boundaries around our availability even in a 24/7 world.
2. Time to think is one of the most precious of gifts.
3. Nothing clears the head like a brisk walk.
4. People want to help. Let them.
5. It is possible to find time to read for pleasure.
6. The sun is a balm for many maladies.
7. Coffee in a pretty mug does tastes better than in a paper cup.
8. The smell of fresh basil in the garden makes my mouth water.
9. Flip flops > heels.
10. I wake up at 7:30 a.m. without an alarm.

So the trick for me is to remember these things when I no longer have the luxury of time. To remember what recharges my creative battery. Because perhaps the greatest realization is that I need to stay connected to my creative self. It's such an enormous part of my being, that I'm not fully myself if I don't create.

I would never go so far as to call cancer a gift, but what it has given me is perspective. So I've been playing around with ideas for essays, blog posts and, who knows, maybe even a book.

I just need to make sure--as the author Liz Gilbert says--that fear is not in the driver's seat of my creative bus.

Cancer, a Moonshot and Vice President Joe Biden

Happy Fourth of July, everyone! Catching my breath after a crazy week and busy weekend. I had the opportunity to participate in the Cleveland Cancer Moonshot Summit on Wednesday. Here's a link to the discussion. http://www.ideastream.org/cancermoonshot
As a follow-up to the Summit, Vice President Biden came to Cleveland on Thursday to offer his support for our efforts and to learn more about cancer screenings in under-served communities. I was invited both by his office and by the summit organizers at the Case Comprehensive Cancer Center. 

So I arrived at the Langston Hughes Family Health Center without really knowing what to expect. I was given a wristband and told I would be getting a photo with the Vice President. I was also told there was a seat with my name on it. Inside, I found my seat and checked with Secret Service to make sure it was OK to Tweet. (It was.) And then we waited. About an hour later, a young staffer got those of us getting our photos taken organized and lined up.

As they began organizing the line and double-checking names, pronunciations and titles, I started to wonder if maybe I wasn't on the list after all. Finally, after Dr. Stan Gerson (who was introducing the Veep) and Dr. Brian Bolwell, they told me I was last. And I was being introduced by someone from Biden's office.

So we waited some more and then I caught a glimpse of him coming into the room where photos were being taken. The line moved quickly and after Dr. Bolwell walked away, I looked at the Vice President and he knew who I was right away. I got a big hug (several, actually) and he asked how I was feeling.

I've interviewed a former President and done my share of high-profile interviews, but I'll be the first to admit that I completely geeked out meeting Joe Biden. Can't wait to see what the official photo looks like, hopefully my mouth isn't open too big. :)
 
After his remarks, he came along the rope line, where I was located and I got one more hug before he left for interviews. I talked to a lot of people afterward who asked if I knew the Vice President. I wouldn't say I know him, but I certainly felt that he knows well the struggle of all cancer patients.

The conversations that resulted from the Summit are encouraging. There's a lot of talk about technology, streamlining the underbrush of regulations and improving access to care for all. From what I saw here in Cleveland, we have the right people in the room.

I know there are naysayers, but what this effort means to me is hope. And for cancer patients, hope is everything.

On that note, my surgery is finally scheduled for July 27th.

The stranger in the mirror

I can't speak for the male cancer experience, but as a woman, when your hair begins to fall out in clumps due to chemo, there's nothing anyone can say that makes that OK. It's traumatic and you look in the mirror wondering who the sickly stranger is reflected back.

Like so many things with cancer treatment (for example, bone pain), it is something to be endured. So be gentle to those who are in the midst. They have lost something (albeit temporarily) that has been part of of their identity all of their lives. No matter what anyone says, it feels like a loss (of beauty, health, identity, etc.).

Big hugs to the cancer sisterhood. You will get through this.

If your birthday is today...

This year, you open up to new possibilities; you can manifest much of what you desire. Creativity marks your days, actions and words. Others simply enjoy working with you. Those in your personal life enjoy you more than ever. If you are attached, defer to your sweetie and remain sensitive to him or her. You could become quite me-oriented. A fellow Virgo can be like you used to be--nit-picky and critical.

VIRGO **** A New Moon in your sign allows a new beginning wherever you would like it. Charm, ingenuity and energy all mix to help you along. A partner who doesn't always get you wants to be helpful and tries at any costs. Tonight: Others respond to your wishes.

Seeing things differently

Reading "The Artist's Way Every Day: A Year of Creative Living," by Julia Cameron and found resonance in a portion of the entry for August 28th. Been meaning to share because I think it so aptly applies to writing.

"The creative journey is characterized not by a muzzy and hazy retreat from reality but by the continual sorting and reordering and structuring of reality into new forms and new relationships. As artists, we 'see things differently.' In part, this is because we are looking."

Life–at warp speed

It's the last day of school, a cause for celebration of the impending freedom that comes with summer. Yet I'm feeling the pull of life zipping me along at lightning speed. Isn't there any way to slow down this ship?

As of today, I am officially the mom of a senior in high school. What an exciting time for him! And yet he's also adjusting to the new world order. Last weekend he began work at his first job as a dishwasher at the Winking Lizard in Avon. We paid a visit to the bank to open up his first checking account now that he gets direct deposit (now that's a change from when I was a kid).

He listened carefully as the bank manager explained online banking, receiving his updates via text, his options with respect to new banking regulations (we opted to have his debit card declined when over the balance rather than suffer the cost of overdraft fees) and the responsibilities that come with a first checking account.

As we walked out of the bank, I told him he was a big boy now. He was suddenly very quiet. I asked what was wrong and he replied, "Life is suddenly moving very fast."

Wow! Yes. It. Is.

Ryan turns 18 in November, time to register to vote and for the draft. He's making decisions about his future--what career to pursue, what college to attend, whether or not to pursue playing football in college.

He's our first, so for better or worse, he's our guinea pig. Hopefully, we haven't done too badly by him. I know that I couldn't be more proud to be his mom. But in the quiet moments of the day I ponder pushing the pause button on life. Actually, it doesn't even have to stop, but I wish it could slow down. I just want to marinate for a while.


Another sign of the speed of life

Today, my parents are off on a month-long trip out West. They are both officially retired. My dad retired a year ago, but my mom just retired from MetroHealth on Wednesday. After years of angst about the security of their golden years, she has embraced the freedom. She called me Wednesday night, as giddy as a young girl at the prospects ahead. I couldn't be happier for them.

Safe journey, Mom and Dad.

My new mantra

"We cannot do great things on this earth. We can only do small things with great love." -- Mother Theresa

Wise words from a Roman poet

"Take rest; a field that has rested gives a beautiful crop." -- Ovid

Delicious distractions

What a gorgeous day! I have so many chores to accomplish that I'm afraid it's pleasures are going to slip by. While my hubby tackles the yard, cleans the deck and gets the patio furniture out, I'm working on the inside of the house. Sometimes you find pleasures in the mundane tasks of a Saturday.

Several months after I starting working outside of the house, my middle son convinced me to give up the room that had been my home office for 12 years so he could have a room of his own. The work stuff has long been sorted and organized and is stored in the basement, but my books...my wonderful books that served as a source of daily inspiration, have been piled in stacks in the corner of my bedroom ever since.

They are awaiting a new home, a new bookshelf or some other place of honor. So with the mellow sounds of James Taylor serenading me on my iPod, I decide to tackle spring cleaning my bedroom. Only I made the first mistake of cracking open a volume I haven't looked at in a while.

And for the past hour I've been deliciously distracted.

This first book I opened was given to me during a time of transition in my career by a dear friend who had inscribed it with such a moving sentiment that it caused a lump in my throat to re-read today. I haven't seen those words in years, but they were about my increasingly confident writing voice--nourishing words at a time when I needed them most. And still so satisfying to my writing soul.

And then there are my books on writing with post-it flags, marking favorite passages. I found this one in Stephen King's book, "On Writing."

"This isn't a popularity contest, it's not the moral Olympics, and it's not church. But it's writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can't or won't, it's time for you to close the book and do something else.
Wash the car, maybe."

Though I've not reviewed books in some time, I'm still on publisher mailing lists and so some of the more interesting titles to arrive, I've added to the stack to check out at some point. Among the titles are "The Wisdom of Your Dreams," "Faith Interrupted" and "Thanks, But This Isn't For Us: A (Sort of) Compassionate Guide to Why Your Writing is Being Rejected."

Good stuff, but now it's back to dusting.

Playing with poetry

Poetry has always terrified me: Not the reading of, but the writing of poetry. It is writing stripped bear of anything except the most essential. The austerity of it intimidates a writer of prose such as myself.

And yet I am drawn to its simplicity, to its power and to its raw emotion. Maybe my capacity to be pithy, to get to the essence of an idea, is increasing as I age. I think more and speak less. After reading some poetry of late, I conducted a little brainstorming exercise for myself.

I played around with free association with words about things I love or things that move me in life and in fiction. There's no real rhyme or reason to these thoughts. I just wrote them as they came to mind. I've penned only one poem in my life, something so deeply personal that I will likely never share it.

But if I were to write regularly, I would write about rain...spring rain, and long, slow kisses in the rain. I'd write about the smell of old books imbued with the spice of worn leather, dusty paper and pipe tobacco. I'd write about words and their capacity to move me.

Water, plenty of images about water, alternately gentle and rushing, conjuring images of power and emotion and tranquility and touch. And tender, fleshy tomatoes and creamy mozzarella and looks across crowded rooms that focus desire like a laser, causing hearts to pound and bodies to tremble.

I'd write about sand and sounds of foreign lands and the luminous nature of love that envelopes the heart, mind, body and soul, and how light is reflected differently on surfaces, from blue glows to shimmering whiteness.

Though I'm not sure it will result in poetry, this exercise has certainly awakened my mind on this gloomy Saturday morning. Perhaps some of these images will find their way into poetry, perhaps in other writing.

Sleep and writing

"My trouble is insomnia. If I had always slept properly, I'd never have written a line." -- Louis-Ferdinand Celine

April is...

"April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." -- T.S. Eliot

Natalie Merchant's enchanting music

I'm dating myself now, but there was a time when the 10,000 Maniacs was part of my life's soundtrack, a cassette regularly popped into my car stereo for driving music.

Natalie Merchant, lead singer of the Maniacs, has released a new album of children's music called Leave Your Sleep that I found absolutely enchanting to listen to at 6:15 this morning. Her eclectic collection of tunes is set to classic poetry from a variety of nations. The King of China's Daughter is a song that has stuck with me all day and reminds me so strongly of my niece Natalie. Here is the text of the poem.

The King Of China's Daughter

The king of China's daughter
So beautiful to see
With her face like yellow water, left
Her nutmeg tree.

Her little rope for skipping
She kissed and gave it me
Made of painted notes of singing-birds
Among the fields of tea.

I skipped across the nutmeg grove
I skipped across the sea;
But neither sun or moon, my dear,
Has yet caught me.

Music has always been a special language for my niece that I don't fully understand. As a child on the autism spectrum, she has profound insights that are expressed in unusual ways. She describes songs by color, just as she describes people as colors. I'm yellow she always tells me with a big smile. :)

I wonder if she would call this "a blue song." Think I'll buy it for her and see what says.

Tread softly...

A beauty from one of my favorite poets.

"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths [...] I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

-- William Butler Yeats, "The Wind Among the Reeds"

Recalibration

As we quietly slip out of our vacation rental and into the blackness of the early morning, I’m a little melancholy at the thought of vacation coming to a close so quickly. The morning seems to reflect my mood. As we make our way across the bay bridge, there’s a sliver of a moon reflected on the water’s surface, only its edges and reflection are both blurred by morning fog.

My mind feels foggy, partly from the lack of caffeine but also due to its aimless wandering. Eventually my thoughts turn toward the realization that while I am sad to see my vacation come to an end, it also marks a beginning…a recalibration of sorts.

As we drive northward, the knot of tension magically reappears between my neck and left shoulder blade. My tendency to become consumed by my work has GOT to change. After having spent a week waking with the sun, sipping my coffee, reading, walking, playing with my family and yes even writing again, I realize how out of balance I had become.

My life has always been a quest for balance. The search for balance in living a creative life is why I started this blog six years ago. Why is it so difficult to find equilibrium? To find that blissful place between consumption and ambivalence?

As the sun rises above Alabama skies and we wander the back roads of U.S. 331, my thoughts turn to the past two years, how life has changed mostly for the good, but with some serious adjustments.

I returned to full-time work outside of the home (I qualify this because I’ve never really stopped working full-time) and while I managed a good balance at first, I’ve been consistently putting in 60-hour weeks for the past eight months. As the months ticked by, my view became myopic, only allowing me to get through the next task, the next meeting. I found myself thinking, “If only I can get through X, I’ll be able to breath easier.”

But what I’ve realized this week is that the work will always be there, as evidenced by my endlessly buzzing Blackberry, which I managed for the most part to ignore for the week. People will always have needs and requests of me because it's the nature of the position I now hold. I need to better manage my expectations of myself, to pace myself. I’ve got to set boundaries—AND stick to them.

So I’m going to start this week with small changes.

I’m already up early most mornings so I’m going to exercise three of those mornings. I'm too tired when I get home at 7 no matter how good my intentions are at the start of the day. I’m going to leave my office at 5 every day because I miss having dinner with my family. And I’m going to return to writing…some of it may appear here, but because I'm writing more for me, more will appear in my private journals. We'll see where it leads.

My oldest son turns 18 this year. We’re looking at colleges and getting him ready for his next big adventure. I want to enjoy every minute of that experience.

Finally, I’m going to find the time to better enjoy the people in my life—my family, friends and those people who have meant so much to me over the years. Maybe this time, I’ll be able to make the recalibration stick.

In memoriam

Although I'm feeling quite rusty on the blogging front, I'm moved to post a mini celebration of a life that filled some, including me, with equal parts laughter and aggravation.

Terry Harper was the executive director of the Society of Professional Journalists. He died on Wednesday from a recurrent, malignant brain tumor. I'm sure he wouldn't want to be remembered for his SPJ work. First and foremost, he was husband and father to Lee Ann, Dale and Jace. His family is what filled him with joy. My prayers are with them through this difficult time.

We chatted often of our families and compared notes on what the boys were doing or not doing and how we were faring as parents. Our last conversation was difficult. I was leaving SPJ and he was just starting treatment for his brain tumor. But rather than dwell on that, I am smiling as I remember him.

That's because Terry's gift was laughter. Not only could he make others laugh, but his own robust guffaw was enough to drive anyone--literally--to tears.



He could be incredibly immature, as I learned on our trip to Korea in November 2004 and as my photos show. I will never, ever be able to hear the word plenary again, without his imitation of our Asian hosts pronouncing it, "Prenary."



But he made the trip a blast. To say Terry embraced karaoke would be an understatement. One of the first nights in Seoul, in what was a depressingly quiet hotel bar, Terry got up and bellowed, "My Way," in a manner that would make Old Blue Eyes himself smile from above.


He brought an entire ballroom of journalists, from across the world to its collective feet, cheering wildly with a spot-on rendition of Wild Cherry's, "Play That Funky Music."





Terry had a flair for the dramatic. His face could contort on a dime. Watching him attempt to sit cross-legged at a traditional Korean dinner was downright comical. He was little heavy, had on a bulky sweater and was sweating profusely while trying to get into position. I laughed heartily at the sight.

After many shots and on a long bus ride back from the southern part of the country to Seoul, our favorite Aussie journalist started telling jokes. I won't attempt to retell the tale because it definitely falls in the "you had to be there" category, but our Aussie friend's delivery of the story about a dog on a plane was hysterical and Terry was wheezing and crying and only added to the humor of the story because he was completely unglued. Makes me smile nearly five years later to remember how much he enjoyed that joke.

I don't know how much Terry suffered in the end. I haven't spoken to him in two years. My hope is that it wasn't painful. In true Terry fashion, he wrote his final words here. And while it is touching and beautifully written (something he did well despite his lack of being a journalist), he also used his gift--his humor.

His passing filled me with great sadness. But then I smile. Because somewhere in heaven, Terry Harper is telling God a joke about a kerfuffle involving a dog on a plane in his best Aussie accent. I like to think he's warming up the crowd before he takes a shot of Maker's Mark and launches into, "My Way."


(This photo of Terry performing, "My Way" is shaky because I was laughing so hard.)