Dating tip #20: Never tell her she looks like her mom

Let me start with a brief update. I'm doing pretty well today, that is, I'm having a good DAY. My life is lived in 24 hour chunks right now, each day being different than the preceding. I had chemo last Tuesday, and the week went as expected; tired, nauseous, achy, blah blah blah. The plan, for now, is to slug down another dose of that poison next week, Monday the 12th, then rest up for a little vacation with the family. On the 25th I'll be packing up the Jeep, dropping the top, and heading down to Southern Shores North Carolina, to spend a week at the beach. I'll be driving down with my dad, and spending the week with my family, yup, my family, the Lamazza side, the endangered species. That should lead to some very interesting blogs. Stay tuned. When I return, some time during the first week of July, I'll be heading in for a PET scan. The scan should give us a good idea of how the chemo has worked. If all goes well, and I mean very well, the scan will show that there is no cancer left, and I will be done with chemo. Of course, this is not the outcome I expect. I'm pretty sure I'll have a couple more rounds in July, but I suppose anything is possible.

A couple of weeks ago I met with a new cardiologist. I had to present him with the saga that has been my life for the last couple of years. Among other medical queries, he asked if I was seeing a shrink. When I told him no, he asked if I wanted to. Again I said no.

This is not the first time someone has suggested therapy. My family and friends and other doctors have made similar inquiries in the past. The suggestions have not been born of any specific concern for my behavior. I have not shown signs of nor been significantly depressed. As I explained to the doctor, of course I have moments of being upset, and the occasional sleepless night (ok, sleepless weeks) but it's not been anything I couldn't handle. My mind, just as my body and this disease, is mine to deal with. I have a very strong sense of personal responsibility. I used to think I got this from my father, but the more I deal with him in his "retirement" years, the more I'm convinced it was my mother that instilled this particular belief in me. (love ya dad!)You get a cold; you take medicine and rest. You fall down and sprain your wrist; you get up and deal with the pain. You make a mistake; you fix it. You want to go out and have fun with your friends; you get a job and earn your way. You are accountable for your life! It is the saddest failure of humanity to shirk this responsibility, and this failure is the greatest detriment to society as a whole. Sadly, today, we are living in a world where personal responsibility is not cultivated or held in any esteem. Any dolt can instigate litigation for events they themselves have brought on. People are not held accountable for their actions because some horrible experience befell them when they were a child. It is acceptable, and even encouraged, to find external causes for internal problems. Even our government, when faced with incontrovertible facts that show they have made grievous mistakes, will not accept responsibility and instead use fear tactics and political doublespeak to quell the raging masses. But I digress.

My family has always been big on talking. Ok, we're Sicilian, so we've always been big on talking LOUDLY. My mother and I talked about almost everything. The night after my uncle Tony died, I was about 13, I had a very long conversation with mom. We talked about the myriad of emotions washing over my family at the time. We were sad, we were angry, we were mournful, we were confused. She said that it was ok to have all these emotions and that the best way to deal with them was to talk to those we love, but that it was of the utmost importance that we did actually deal with them. When my grandmother died, my mother's mother, I talked to my dad about it. This was the first time I remembered seeing my father truly upset about the loss of a loved one. When my aunt JoAnne died, my mother's sister, I talked to her husband and daughter. We even went to a grief counseling meeting. While I've always been very close to Charly, and have shared a lot with her, this was definitely a first for me and my uncle Bill. When my mother died (as I've written previously, the Lamazzas are a dying breed) I talked to my sister, my father, and my very close friends Chris and Pete and Sean and... When I was working EMS, there were many instances when the job took a hit on my psyche. Sometimes, after a particularly bad MCI, different agencies would offer counseling, particularly after 9/11. My comrades and I often gathered for group therapy at the Park Tavern Psychological Retreat and Mental Hospital and worked through our issues with the aid of medicinal ales,occasionall nudity, and rhytmlesss dancing upon tables. After that happy-go-lucky gastroenterologist came bounding into my hospital room and smilingly pronounced "so! you have cancer!" I got right on the phone and called Dave (for those who need reminding, he had cancer when he was a youngin as well). Since then, I've been talking to anyone who would listen, and thankfully there have been many of you. This is how I have taken responsibility for my mental well being. I post this blog, I get drunk and make my British friends cry, I whine breathlessly to friends on the phone, I throw around my opinion about how people should live with cancer on a few message boards, and I lay my head on my sisters lap and whine that I can't do this any more. This is my therapy. I do not mean to imply that therapy is not a valid and beneficial exercise. I know that for many people it is a very powerful way to help maintain their lives. I am simply saying that I have my method, for my life, to manage my pain. There may come a time when I think it is all too overwhelming, and perhaps I should see a shrink, but I'm sure I'll talk to someone about it first.