Wonderful News!!!!!

I have some wonderful news to share!

Each year, City of Hope nominates and then selects two "exemplary" Bone Marrow Transplant survivors for the Press Conference at their annual "HCT Reunion - Celebration of Life" event. I just recently found out that I am one of the lucky two! There will be interviews and speeches but all that pales in comparison to the fact that City of Hope is flying out my donor ALL THE WAY FROM CHINA! My donor and I will meet face to face for the very first time in front of TV News cameras. I can't even imagine... meeting the man who gave me my life back and whose marrow is in my bones and whose very blood flows through my veins.

The event occurs in three weeks (Friday, April 25th) from 10am to 2pm on the City of Hope grounds. In addition to the press conference, there will be thousands of survivors and families in attendance. The event is like a picnic gone wild, with food, games, music and inspirational speeches from survivors and City of Hope doctors. It is a very positive, life-affirming experience. Imagine being surrounded by thousands of people who are grateful to be alive. :)

My parents are flying in from New York to meet Kent (my donor). A small entourage is already assembling who want to meet (and HUG!) the man who was my only hope.

These are photos from previous reunions. I like to think of this one as the grand finale, the final chapter, the end shot of a film. A Happy Hollywood ending to this Lifetime movie drama. I hope this will be my last appearance on TV as a "cancer survivor". (Frankly, if I were to be on TV again, I'd rather it be for other reasons!)


This is the moment we had been praying for all along.
Miracles DO happen.


Much Love,
Christine

Positively Negative

I had to undergo the big scary PET/CAT Scans the other day. It’s hard to believe that 20 months have passed since the transplant. There’s a period of nerves as the scan date approaches, and then noxious anxiety when waiting for the results. When you’re a patient, you know it’s bad if the doctor is giving you too much concern and attention. But when a doctor practically blows in and out of the room…

Here’s how it went:

Doc: (As he walks into the room) Negative. Negative. Negative.*
Me: Negative?
Doc: Everything’s negative.
Me: I’m still cancer free!
Doc: You’re as cancer free as the rest of us.
Me: “Yeeuuhh!”
[We hug]
Doc: (As he walks out of the room) Congratulations kid. You’re doing good.

- Winner for the shortest, sweetest doc appointment I’ve ever had! -


Much love,
Christine


*Negative is a good thing in cancerspeak. It means that your scans are clear. A “positive” means that something has positively shown up on your scans. That’s not good. When it comes to scans, it is the only time everyone wants to be viewed negatively. =)

PET/CT Scan Resuts

PET/CT Scan Results

My Bone Marrow Transplant specialist, Dr. Nade called to read the official report:

"There has been COMPLETE RESOLUTION of previously identified anterior mediastinal hypermetabolic tissue. There is no evidence of metabolically active neoplasm."

In other words, the tumors have completely vanished. Poof. Gone. The scans are 100% crystal clear.


My radiologist, Dr. Krazny said:

"There is no indication of cancer whatsoever."

Not one blip. Not even a speck. I'm as fresh as a newborn.


My oncologist, Dr. Piro showed me the scans. The images were a cool blue, a peaceful blue. A vast empty void of pure, unadulterated pristine health.

I am absolutely, completely, without-a-doubt, you-betcha-britches cancer-free.


After 20 months of uncertainty and heartache, this is beyond Miracle.


All my love,
Christine


P.S. More later. I need to sit down and catch my breath!

Francis Rex

Originally I was going to post a message I wrote the other day about how I celebrated my one-year BMT anniversary on July 5th. However another anniversary, a somber one that I feel is far more important to remember, is also upon us.

Friday July 13th 2007, will mark the anniversary of the day my brother, Francis Rex, lost his battle with Cancer. Seventeen years ago, on Friday July 13th 1990, I held his hand as it slowly went cold. I remember my mother didn't scream. She cowered over the hospital bed, exhausted and broken after five draining years, pleading with everyone in the room to please "Embrace him while he is still warm." I remember my father frozen and unreachable, his eyes scorched and sunken, staring at the white sheets that held his eldest son. I remember the nurses sobbing. And it was the doctor who had gone mad and was screaming, clenching hair in ripping fists, repeatedly shouting over and over and again, "He is in a better place now!" Shouting at no one, but instead, it seemed, to placate himself.

And my thoughts raced, raced as far as it could go, out of the room, away from this boy who could not possibly be my brother because my brother could not possibly be dead. My thoughts ran far away, back to when before he got sick. Back to BMX bikes and Rocket pops and Little League games. Back to summer and hopping across river stones, watermelon juice dripping on bent elbows, and silly giggles in the back of our big red station wagon. In our backyard pool we used to pretend "National Geographic". Rex would flop, swim and splash while I'd play Jacques Cousteau and follow his every move, describing in great detail this "strange new animal" to our enraptured TV audience.

In the years before he died, Rex and I would often stay up late talking. While other kids were gabbing about GI Joe, Donkey Kong and soccer camp, Rex and I would ask each other questions about God and life and what happens after we die. Back then, I was 14 and he was 12. He dreamed someday to become a pediatric oncologist and save the lives of other children with cancer. His wish was to be able to comfort a young patient like himself and give hope with his own story of survival… "So when one of them says `I'm scared' I can tell them I was scared too but look at me now, I'm cured."

In the days that my brother fought cancer, he never complained or revealed how scared he was. Rex held immense strength, profound wisdom and peace in his heart… all in the years before he turned 16. Because of our late night talks I thought I understood what he was feeling inside. But it was not until I got cancer that I truly understood and felt what fear and uncertainty really meant. To know the meaning of life is to know the meaning of death. My brother was so brave. There was no such thing as anti-nausea medications or any of the other medicines that help the patients of today. Back then, it was just raw, barbaric, vein-ripping chemotherapy. Compared to my brother, I had a cake walk.

Today I realized that for the first time, my brother will have been dead longer than he was alive. It's a mindF—k. Rex never had the life experiences we take for granted: his first kiss, driving a car, graduating from high school, being in love, a summer job… never mind the college experience or the joys that come after. My brother Marc shares the same Birthday as Rex, though Marc was born four years younger. May 17 has never been able to recapture the joy it once held. It is strange to think that you could ever be older than your older brother. Marc is now 29.

On one of our last late night talks, Rex and I realized that, because I was his marrow donor, a part of me would literally die with him if he lost his battle with cancer. We laughed but suddenly became very quiet. Then in deep earnest he said "If I die you have to promise me that you will live for the both of us."

People often ask me where I get my zest and passion for life: why I can be in any situation and have the time of my life: why I have all this energy, excitement, spontaneity, acceptance, affection, faith and love. It is because over 17 years ago I made a promise to a dying boy that his young life would not be lost in vain but would be remembered in every moment of mine. That is how I honor and remember my brother: By living this life as magnificently as possible and infecting everyone I come across with the magic, exhilaration and wisdom that Rex taught me.

My dear brother Rex, you remain forever alive in our hearts.

Love,
Christine


P.S. I wrote this several days ago but think it may be appropriate to
share now:



This life will end someday
But the planets will still continue their elliptical paths
And stars will implode and galaxies reborn
The ants will still find their way into honey
As ever, Love will be fought for
And broken hearts will slowly mend
And a stranger will save another man's soul.

This life will end someday
And on that day this soul will look back.
The consequences of its actions
will lift him up
or burden on him heavily.

This life will end someday
But not today.
So strike your path and find your way into honey
The galaxies will spin despite your misery or joy
Eternal life lies within us
Let Love save your soul.



Christine Pechera
July 3, 2007

I am in tears as I write this from home!! And still in a daze and overjoyed by this major turning point. We did it! To reiterate:

MRI Scan- Clear
CT Scan - No indication of disease.
PET Scan - No abnormal uptake.
Marrow – No indication of Lymphoma
Graft - Results pending
Prognosis - Promising

As I turned the key to my door, I was overwhelmed by the thought that I was truly lucky and blessed to be walking THIS threshold and not "the other". I entered and found my apartment stuffed with gifts and cards and photographs. I fell to my knees and cried and sent out love and thanks in all directions. Before long my neighbors came over with hugs and cookies.

I am savoring every little moment and inhaling each and every sweet/bitter/sour/salty taste on my tongue. Everything is fascinating and beautiful. The pitch-black silhouette of palm trees against a blue-orange sky, the hazel eyes of the check-out clerk at Trader Joe's, the thick aroma of Korean-tofu soup, the glowing faces of friends and the sound of my family laughing again. TC came to visit tonight and gave me my first homecoming gift: A solid-body mahogany electric guitar complete with Marshal amp and all the trimmings! Woo-hoo!

Though I no longer will be a resident at City of Hope, I am still a patient. The recovery phase can be slow and the doctors will be monitoring my condition weekly. But at this very moment my body is free and crystal clear and it just feels DELICIOUS.

I would not be here writing this had not a complete stranger on the other side of the world agreed to donate his marrow to another complete stranger on the other side of the world. Though he was only a partial-match, he was my one and only hope. If he had refused to donate, I would have not lived through the summer. His gift of life made him my hero. I am not allowed to know his identity for the first year of the transplant, but I am allowed to send one single letter. After one year,
if he agrees, we will meet.

Though the donation center said that I could only send one letter to this hero of ours, they didn't limit to how long it could be. ;) Each member of my family plans to contribute to this great Thank-You letter and we decided to open it up to anyone who wants to be a part of it. If you'd like to thank this man for saving my life, please e-mail the message to me and I will paste it in along with my words. Or send a card or letter by snail-mail and I'll personally wrap together the bundle of love and mail it in one big package. I won't open sealed letters. We will post selected open letters and thanks anonymously on the website so that others can see what a single person, in a single act, can do to make a difference in this world. Hopefully it will inspire others to do the same.

After my last e-mail, I was sent this quote about "Providence" and just had to share:

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have
dreamt would have come his way. "
-William Hutchison Murray


Fear just isn't worth it.

Much much love,
Christine

P.S. My mother will finally go home on the 13th and from there, I'm flying solo. I am still in a weakened and vulnerable state so I'm going to be asking for alot of help.

In the meanwhile, my first big outing will be this Friday, November 10 at the NuArt in Santa Monica for the opening of F**K (a documentary I had a hand in co-producing before the relapse). There will be screenings at 5, 7:30 and 10pm, and Q&A afterwards with director Steve Anderson at the 5pm and 7:30. I plan to attend the 7:30 screening. Even if you cannot make it on Friday, the film will be playing all weekend and until November 16th, including matinees. For the NuArt calendar schedule, please visit: http:// www.landmarktheatres.com/Market/LosAngeles/LosAngeles_Frameset.htm

It's good to be back.

Day 66 (76 days in hospital) - Notes from the Edge of Life

This weekend all our thoughts are on the lives lost on September 11, 2001. And for the families who have kept the spirits of their loved ones alive each day since. As a native New Yorker, I hope we can all take a few moments of silence in remembrance and in honor.

Two nights ago, a tangerine moon rose over Los Angeles. I sat writing at the campus Bistro, as the last visitors silently filed out of the hospital. A patient waved from a window on the 5th floor, adjusting his mask before rolling out of sight, his I.V. poles in tow. Every night on campus, the air becomes thick with dreams, fear, faith, prayers, anxiety and existentialism. Sitting outside the hospital was like being next to a six-story sub-woofer, thundering the tearful, almost manic thoughts of all the souls inside fighting to stay alive.

I wished I could have lit a beacon and shined it into every room, to burn away any troubling thoughts and bring peace into hearts, including my own. Suddenly I felt a comforting hand upon me. It was Uncertainty, and she graced me with a smile of assurance. 'What will be will be and know that only good can come of this. It is not the challenges that enter life that define us, but how we live through them. Be brave. No matter what trauma or challenge you face, don't let it break your spirit because it is the only part of you that lives on.'

The next night, I sat between two great California pines overlooking the sculpture garden, thinking about my brother Francis Rex, who I like to think as watching from above. "Another New Day" by Stereolab from the album "In Between" randomly played next on the ipod. "How fitting", I thought. And how lucky am I, are we, to be alive and here at this moment. Our turn on the ride. Our chance to leave a mark, whether through sweeping worldwide changes or through loving one heart. How lucky are we to be given a chance to express whatever we want, in whatever form, and to share all of it with others. Our one chance to create light… or darkness. Our forefathers knew well that true happiness was not found in the goal, but in the pursuit.

We received news today, news so good that I am exhausted from the joy. Now that's a good place to be… Joy is good, but to be exhausted from joy is the ultimate of blessings. We got the results back from the latest `graft' test. As you all know, it was looking dicey there for a while because my marrow seemed to be fighting the donor's marrow. The transplant was chimeric, part-old marrow, part-donor marrow. Not good. It was creating all these troubling complications. But the test today read "100% donor marrow". It's official. The donor marrow has GRAFTED. This is a very good sign and a great sigh of relief. My doctor was jumping up and down and her assistant shouted "Woo-Hooooooo!!!" I felt like Miss America. I was one of the lucky few. Of course the rest of the day was spent calling immediate family, with lots of tears and "I love you" racing back and forth between wires and satellites.

I'm so thankful to be alive. Now our hopes and prayers focus on the donor's marrow happily and quickly setting up shop. It's all about reconstructing a brand new immune system and rebuilding the blood, from scratch. We've turned onto a promising road, but a long one. Well, I've always embraced adventure.

In the greater of things that illness can teach, is the lesson that what truly matters is not whether you live or die. Your body may survive but your soul may be broken. While we all want to live long and meaningful lives, the journey is more about keeping your soul intact and alive, not necessarily your body. Your spirit is what will be remembered and is the legacy that will be passed onto the future.

September 11 is Monday.

Much love,
Christine

Trasnplant Day 27, (36 days in the hospital)

Tuesday, August 1, Day 27 (36) .

Halleluiah! I'm online! A tech came into my room this afternoon and said "Congratulations, you have DSL!". Good timing, because it's only now that I feel strong enough to sit, focus, read and type, for a few minutes at a time, at least. There is still a long way to go but I am so thankful to have made it this far into the transplant. It's been a rough ride, but I'm SLOWLY getting better with each passing day.

Picture a boundary of a 15-foot radius surrounding your humble bed. Now imagine not going beyond that boundary for almost an entire summer. Yet, within that circle you experience one of the most remote and arduous of journeys, with 90% of the time not extending beyond center. It's been 36 days since the heavy doors of this hushed, sterile ward sealed off the aromatic chatter and pungent textures of the outside world. And each day has been draped with uncertainty, with Hope clinging to the yards with long arms.

The effulgence of life is so real here because death lingers so close. It would be too easy to describe the experience as "surreal", but the world inside the heavy doors does bear closer to a disjointed dream or stuff of placid nightmares. Except for the one hour when you are "unhooked" in order to take a shower, your heart is literally tethered to a pair of six (or seven?) foot long vertical poles on rolling casters, via catheter tubing from your chest. This is also known as the "IV tree", whence hangs a buffet of chemotherapy, narcotics, nutrient support, antibiotics, antifungals, antivirals, and antirejection drugs.

Nurses and long-term patients share a special dark humor with each other to help cope with the daily activity of holding on. One of the running jokes is that you are "married" to the "IV Tree" for your entire stay. As a result, some people have taken to christening their trees with special names. Men, especially those under 40, call their trees the "mother-in-law" or simply "in-law". Women tend to be more whimsical, with "Antonio Banderas" or "George Clooney" being the popular guys to have by your side 24/7 while facing each day.

And with each day it is the tiny goals, the littlest of accomplishments that bring applause and tears: Going 24 hours without needing narcotic pain medication; Feeling well enough to raise your arms above your head; Regaining the ability to swallow food. Less than a week ago, I tested my strength and stamina by trying to stand in the shower. When I was finally able to stand for the entire five minutes, the nurse clapped and cheered and then sheepishly pumped her light-blue, non-latex glove in the air.

I love showering. Though the private bathroom is just five feet from my bed, the shower is only time I can "escape" from the bland heavy air of the hospital ward. The faucets turn, the hot water flows down, I close my eyes and suddenly I am covered in Plumeria lather in an outdoor shower on Maui; I am kayaking sea caves in the Meditterean; I am dancing in Virginia rain.

Four days ago, I was finally allowed to leave my room, covered in mask, gloves and isolation gown. I took a short walk in the morning and starting yesterday, I take another short walk in the evening. There are many stories in this hallway. Some tragic, some inspiring. There was the 3-year old girl and her mother who waved to me through the window. A year and a half ago the little toddler was fighting for her life . Three times her mother was told that her little girl would not make it through the night. Now the little girl smiles with cherubic cheeks, healthy.

There is also Rodrigo, who had a transplant 28 years ago and now works as a BMT nurse to help others make it through.

Okay, there goes my energy... need to doze off for now. 27 Days Down. 73 more days to go before I can leave the hospital.

I can't believe it's August. Sending much much much love.

xo,
Christine

the night before transplant - fireworks

the night before the transplant i am sending love out in all directions from my bed.

from my window tonight, I could see the entire horizon ablaze with fireworks. Some
just a few blocks from the hospital and a great sea of hundreds of sparks and colors miles and miles and miles into the distance. It was the most spectacular July 4th I've ever seen because I was able to watch dozens of big fire shows simulatneously along with tons of backyard parties!

Watching the shooting stars and colorful explosions, I just felt... just knew... that everything was going to be okay. Yes, I'm a little scared and a little anxious, but I'm just filling myself with love and gratitude and faith to make it through the next 24 hours.

So, sending sparks and fireworks to everyone from my heart to yours. I will be praying all night tonight. Praying that a year from now we will be watching fireworks together. And that 50 years from now we'll still be craning our necks to the sky to shout out "oooh" and "aaah".

much love,
Christine

Don't Give Up - Little Jacob

Hi everyone. I posted this on the savechristine.com website the other day and have cut/paste it here. (see below)

Real quick about visiting: NOW is the good time. You can come into the room provided you wash hands and wear mask and gloves. Next Wednesday, the day of the transplant, I will be in a bad state. It is the two to four weeks following the transplant that will be the most critical. I may be in and out of conciousness but a familiar face is always welcome. If things go well, 4-6 weeks after the transplant, I can start having visitors inside the room again. Things change day by day. The best thing is to read the posts or call ahead.

xo,
Christine

-------------
www.savechristine.com

It is Tuesday Night, June 27, 2006. Last week I got the final word. We could not wait any longer for a miracle match. Time had run out. The window was closing fast. I needed to have my transplant NOW, but even with all our efforts and hard work, we never did find a miracle match. The closest potential the doctors could find was a partial donor with mismatches. And he was not even in the National Registry. He literally lives on the other side of the world. Donating marrow is a very simple procedure with only slight soreness for the donor. However, for the patient, a bone marrow transplant is a devastating procedure, very risky and full of complications. Using an unrelated donor with mismatches is a tremendous gamble beyond the already known risks. Unfortunately if that is the only option you are given to live, you have to take it.

I am now in the hospital being conditioned for this high-risk transplant, my only hope for survival. Yesterday they drained 60% of my B+ blood and replaced it with O+ blood. The donor's blood type is O+. In Bone Marrow Transplantation, blood type does not matter because the patient releases her own blood type and adopts the donor's blood type in its place. I am now B- but by next week I will be O+. Replacing the blood ahead of time makes the transition a little easier and the transplant more likely to succeed.

I started chemotherapy last night and will continue throughout the week. My blood counts will probably be down to zero by this Monday. Saturday I will get a major dose of Melphalan, a heavy-duty chemotherapy to sledgehammer the cancer with one last big chemo wallop. That will be followed by a few days of anti-rejection transplant drugs. If things are well, I undergo the bone marrow transplant on Wednesday, July 5. The next three weeks will be the most critical; as we pray and hope that the marrow grafts and healthy new blood cells replace the unhealthy ones. I pray that my body does not reject the donor's stem cells (marrow) and that his stem cells (marrow) do not reject my body. If things stay under control, I will remain in the hospital for 100+ days. More than half of those days will be spent in isolation.

I titled this day's journal "Don't Give Up", not for me, but for everyone. For everyone who has coordinated a marrow drive, put up posters, knocked on doors and drove across town to volunteer. For every person who has sent out an e-mail, handed out flyers, stuffed envelopes and gave up so much of their own time to make a difference. To each person who has donated to the foundation, signed up on "Christine's Army", signed up on the marrow registry and persuaded their family and friends to join as well.

I say "Don't give up" because even if it may be too late for me to find my miracle match, it is not too late for others. There are still not enough Filipinos and minorities on the registry. Our job is not yet done. Visit aadp.org and asianmarrow.org to see the countless stories of other Asians desperately searching for their miracle match. Signing people up on the marrow registry should become regular community practice like bake sales and blood drives. It does not matter what your minority or ethnic background is. Make it a part of you. Deep within, each one of us has the power to save a life. But your potential will never be tapped unless you sign up!

Martin Luther King once had a dream that children of every nation would walk together someday in peace. I have a dream that cancer patients of every ethnicity will one day have an equal chance to walk together in health. But this revolution doesn't happen with walks on Washington or sit-down protests. This dream starts with a phone call or a mouse click. And it can only happen with you. It is you yourself who decides whether to make a difference or to walk away. Sign up on the registry. A Patient's face on a website may look calm and distant, but in reality she is desperately fearful of never finding a match. She is dying, and searching for the one person who holds her key to life. And the only person who can give that life, who is the key, will forever be lost until he/she signs up in the marrow registry.

I wrote this in my journal last May:

Today we signed 108 people onto the Registry at St. Denis Catholic Church in Diamond Bar. I met Peter and his son, Jacob, who just turned two and is battling a rare blood disease called XLP. He is in need of a donor. Little Jacob was the sweetest angel of a boy. His smile evidenced the innocence of any knowledge of his own health condition.

His father, dressed all in black with a teardrop tattooed near his eye, stood like a tough East L.A. gangster, but when we talked his spirit was fatherly and soft. His voice was calm with the serenity of acceptance. The profound love he had for his son made the air around him thick with emotion. Most children with XLP do not survive beyond sixteen months. Little Jacob has beaten the odds and outlived expectations. His father, Peter, watched his son climb chairs, eat Hershey Kisses and run laughing and squealing across the church courtyard.

"I believe that God trusted me with his little angel" Peter said "to take care of him while he is here to accomplish his heavenly mission on earth. I believe that Jacob is here to save other people's lives by signing up more Hispanics on to the marrow Registry."

This father's devotion and love for this tiny little soul was thunderous and echoed the threatening storm clouds above. Jacob chased a foam baseball with his friend, Mateo. He was happy and completely unaware of the watchful eyes of this great man whom God chose to be his father, the one man strong enough to carry this blessed, yet heavy weight.

You may be the miracle little Jacob is searching for.


Don't give up. This is just the beginning. The fight is not over yet.

Much Much Love,
Christine

A Much Lived Life

Hi everyone. I actually wrote this in my journal yesterday. I hesitated at first to share it, but after I completed the second half, I felt that I should. It's a beautiful day out today. I hope you all get to take advantage of it. -CP

----------

This morning I woke up with despair looming over me. Fear circled round my bed. Death reached out and grabbed my heart with thick icy fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. "I am still alive" I thought, "You don't have me yet".

I took another deep breath and focused on light and love. I was alone. I thought of God. Another breath. "Love" and breathed deep again. A warm fire emerged from deep within my heart. A gold light enveloped me. "I am alive." Fear, Death and Despair slowly transmuted into Faith, Hope and Trust. The experience was almost alchemic. Perhaps this is what is meant by the Philosopher's Stone. By prayer, being aware of the preciousness of life and allowing love to flow, you can turn lead into gold.

I felt safe at that moment. And then I gently wondered, how many tomorrows do I have left?

Mom went back home to New York to rest and recharge her batteries. It has been so hard for her and I am glad that she is getting a bit of a respite. Monday, is a day of doctor appointments and I will get an update on the search for a donor. I will likely have scans in a week or so to see if the current chemotherapy is working… possibly buying a little more time.

I spend each day in gratitude, in quiet contemplation. Conversations are open and run deep. I savor the taste of a fresh crisp apple. I breathe in the pungent aroma of jasmine in the early morning. A tree is at its most wondrous when you walk underneath it and look up. The faces of my friends are so beautiful. Hugs are held longer and tighter. The sky looks different these days. I am reminded that the sun always shines even when you can't see it.

Very soon the dice are going to roll, weighted with the odds against us. I am still praying for a miracle. When facing hardship and/or death, you can try to run away or you can face it. Live not in denial, but in defiance. I think of Stephen Hawking and what he has accomplished despite the ravaged body he was given. Can you imagine the challenges of his everyday? And yet he inspires us by how he lives DESPITE them. It is not the external situation that matters but the inner being.



A Much Lived Life

If you were told you had less than 10 years to live, what would you do?
Would you mourn the lost years of the life you thought you could have had,
Or would you finally live the life you always dreamed of?

If you were told you had less than five years to live,
Would you spend your months in grief and anger,
Or live 50 years worth of life in five?

If you were told you had less than a year to live,
Would you isolate and be consumed with the sorrow of your impending death,
Or would you reach out, make a difference while you still can, take advantage of
every sunrise, making every moment, every word, every touch and every relationship
meaningful, pure, loving and fully alive?

If you were told you only had one month to live,
Would you curse and weep and lament your fate,
Or would you spend those last precious days sharing love with your family and friends,
remembering and laughing at the memories of your crazy beautiful luscious life,
thus creating new memories for your loved ones to cherish and carry on in their hearts?

If you were told you only had one day left to live,
Would you look back at your life in regret,
Or would you look back with peace?

The truth is, each one of us will die someday. And it doesn't matter if that day will happen tomorrow or in 50 years.
The question is: What will you do with the time you have left?
It is not too late.

It's not how long you live that matters, but how much.
And the biggest moments in life are the little ones.

With love,
Christine

Just survived nasty MRSA

Hi everyone,

It's Sunday night and I am typing this from my hospital bed. It has
been quite a frightening week for all of us, hasn't it?. A reminder
that life can be sudden and unpredictable. A reminder that nothing is
certain. A reminder that we are just visiting. I was having a
lovely French dinner with a friend, and two hours later, I am in the
emergency room shaking uncontrollably from a serious infection. (no,
it was not food poisoning, but something related to the stress of the
last few weeks in combo with the chemo)

Tomorrow my doctors are going to reassess my condition. So far things
look "encouraging".

Sitting here in this sterile room, connected to an IV, wearing a
tent-sized hospital gown, and typing this post, brings with it an
eerie deja vu which is both familiar and disorienting. In the last
three years we have all watched each other grow, get married, have
children, and reach places in our lives we dreamed of, or better yet,
couldn't have dreamt better. It brings me so much joy to see everyone
living with such passion and zeal for life. For today. For the now.
And i do hope that this episode, once it passes, wil be an acute
lesson for all of us of how precious this life is and how blessed we are.

I have to admit, I was really scared for a few days there. This time
it was you guys who pulled me through. I am hoping to get some good
news tomorrow and will keep all posted as soon as I hear.

On top of everything else, my Mom and I have a Photo Shoot tomorrow
that cannot be rescheduled (I'm happy the photographer can come to
us). We have been honored to stand up as the Poster mother and
daughter for a special Mother's Day marrow initiative. Also in this
week's "Philippine News" , a photo of just my head almost takes up 1/3
of the cover page. The caption reads " Purple streaked-haired
Christine: fighting for time". Out of all the adjectives in the
world, in this situation, the reporter describes me as
"purple-streaked". I had to laugh. Ain't life grand?

God bless, my friends. And let's celebrate the new day.

love,
Christine