I love dogs. The thing I love most about them is their unconditional love. Growing up, our family never owned a dog. We did have a few cats - until word got out in the feline world that one of my younger brothers liked to carry them about by their tails. After that, they never stayed around too long, and my parents gave up on trying to keep them - especially after learning that my brother was actually allergic to them. Probably a good thing...

I was always intrigued by the dogs in the neighborhood, but I never quite got the attachment my friends had to their canine pets. That is, until I owned one of my own. My husband had a beautiful tri-color basset hound named Elly Mae when we met. She and I became fast friends, and remained as such until the day she died. There were two more dogs after her - a chocolate lab named Laurie who wasn't with us for long, and another basset named Wally, who was very sweet, but possibly the dumbest dog on the planet. But it was Gypsy who stole my heart and endeared me to canines forever.

Gypsy was a beautiful lab mix who we adopted as a puppy. I was very sick at the time, and not at all up to training a rambunctious puppy, but I wasn't about to tell our daughter, Carleigh, NO when she begged for this dog. Training her was no picnic, but we learned very quickly that she was sent to us for a reason. One day, I was standing at the top of the stairs in our house, when I felt a seizure coming on. Gypsy was in another room upstairs, but sensed that something was wrong when my husband yelled from the bedroom to ask me if I was ok. She was only six months old at the time, but she came bounding out of the room and jumped the railing to the stairs - landing in front of me on the stairs and breaking my fall as I fell. It was like something out of a tear-jerker pet movie. And from that day on, Gypsy never let me out of her sight. She would either go into the bathroom with me, or lay on the floor outside until I came out. She would have to be in the same room with me when I was at home, and would go nuts trying to greet me when I came home. She sulked when I left, attacked me with kisses when I returned and looked after our whole family with tender loving care - including our cats.  She was a pain in the butt at times, but she taught me more about unconditional love than any human being could hope to. And she changed my mind about dogs. I am a forever fan of dogs because of Gypsy.

Fast forward to December of 2008. It was the week before Christmas and our family was in Charleston, SC, where our son, Zac, was playing in a holiday basketball tournament. Steve, Carleigh and I had time to kill before the championship game. The wind on Folly Beach was unbearably cold, so we decided to head over to the battery to photograph some of the incredible old homes there. Steve and Carleigh let me out and drove on down the street to find a parking place. I remember thinking how neat it was to see so many people out walking dogs that day. The majority of them were tourists, but you could definitely tell the ones who were not. Their dogs were mostly expensive pedigrees and the owners were dressed to the hilt - even for a dog walking excursion. As I snapped my last photo, I headed down the stairs from canal level to the street below, where Steve and Carleigh were still trying to find a place to park. As I took the first step down from the top of the stairs, I noticed a woman heading up the stairs with two large, perfectly groomed, pedigree dogs. I remember chuckling to myself because she was not walking them; THEY were walking HER. They seemed overjoyed to see me descending the stairs and rambunctiously ran towards me, tails wagging furiously. The problem is, they were a little over-exhuberant and their owner was more than a little aloof and passive. Before I knew what had happened, her crazy dogs had knocked me off my feet and I went tumbling down the concrete stairs. I slammed my left shin so hard into the edge of the bottom stair that I was certain I had broken my leg. My phone flew out of my hand onto the curb, and my brand new camera ended up in the road. I turned just in time to see the dogs' owner look down at me, turn up her nose and walk away. Nice.

Realizing immediately that I was in trouble, I crawled over to the street's edge, grabbed my phone and camera and called my husband. My leg was throbbing, and I remember pulling up the leg of my jeans and seeing a mild abrasion and HUGE hematoma. I was almost certain at that point that my leg was broken, but I wasn't about to go to the hospital and miss my son's championship game. So, I called my husband from my position on the pavement, had him help me to the car, and then we did what any respectable Parrothead (Jimmy Buffett fan) would do: We went to Margaritaville!

Seriously...I had my husband drive us to the Margaritaville store around the corner, where I hopped out of the care (literally...on one leg) and plopped myself into a giant adirondak chair inside that had a big, bright Parrot painted on it. (To this day, I seriously want one of those chairs). I then whipped out my credit card and began pointing to everything in the store that I wanted to purchase for Christmas gifts. I had the poor clerk jumping through hoops and longing for a margarita of her own in no time. Unfortunately, there is no restaurant attached to the store in Charleston, so that was out of the question. Too bad. The pain in my rapidly swelling leg was escalating, and I SO would have partaken of a pitcher of margaritas had it been readily available. Of course, there's no telling what I would have purchased afterwards, so maybe it was a blessing that I couldn't get my hands on a frozen concoction at that moment.

When my budget had been reached and exceeded (always a given if you let me loose at Margaritaville), my sweet husband helped me to the door and out to the car. He asked me one last time if I was sure I didn't need to go to the hospital. When I declined again, we sped off to the basketball tournament, where we located the tournament trainer, a large bag of ice and a cooler to prop my leg on. I situated myself in the corner of the stands, and watched my son's game. He and his teammates played their hearts out, but the home team won the game by a narrow margin. The fans were so rude and obnoxious and my let was so incredibly swollen and painful that I couldn't wait to get out of that gym. However, a quiet exit was not in the game plan. When a parent from the opposing team made the grave error of calling our team losers, a "Come to Jesus" meeting ensued in my little corner of the stands, with me officiating. I summoned over the tournament director and challenged the startled redneck woman to repeat her statement. She suddenly fell silent. Perhaps that had something to do with what I said to her before he arrived. I think I called her a her reality check via my frigid bag of melted ice, among other things. Even though I was injured, I'm sure I was quite intimidating. You don't want to mess with a 5'11", plus size angry mom. Trust me.

Eventually, the drama subsided and we were on our way back home - a nearly four hour drive. When we arrived at our house, it was obvious that I needed to get to the hospital. My left leg was nearly twice the size of the right one, had turned an awful shade of blue and was throbbing. So, off to the hospital I went. I was poked, prodded, x-rayed, scanned...you name it. When the emergency room physician finally came to my curtain with the results, I was pleasantly surprised: no break, bad contusion. I was given a pair of crutches and told to stay off of my leg for a few days. That was it. No prescription painkillers, but I was ok with that. I don't do particularly well with them, and I do have a rather high threshold for pain. Unfortunately, THAT would prove to work to my disadvantage in the coming days...

I made it through Christmas with my leg propped up, but returned to work immediately afterwards. I quickly got used to the pain and discovered that walking on my leg didn't even hurt - it just made it swell profusely. I begrudgingly continued to use the crutches, despite my aching underarms. I propped my leg on my desk, despite the unprofessionalism of that position. I did everything I was supposed to do, but the swelling wasn't going down. And two weeks after the accident, I noticed that there was fluid seeping from the abrasion where I had hit the stairs. I knew that wasn't good, so I went to the doctor. He immediately wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic, which I filled and took religiously. Nothing happened. Within a week, I was back in his office with a BB-sized hole in the middle of my shin. I was quickly referred to a wound-care specialist in a city nearby. When she stuck one of those long Q-tip things into the wound and it went all the way down to my bone, we were both surprised. When it didn't hurt at all, we were shocked. A wheelchair was ordered and I was whisked upstairs to be prepared for surgery.

I had no idea at the time just how dangerous the wound on my leg had become. All I could think about was missing work, my daughter's upcoming dance competition and our son's last high school basketball games. I thought I'd have a little surgery, recover quickly and be back about my business in no time. But that all changed, when I looked at my leg for the first time after surgery. There was a huge, gaping hole in it. I could see my femur. I'm not at all squeamish, but I must say...it was NASTY. And that was only the FIRST surgery! There were more to come...

I spent the better part of the next two months in the hospital, hooked up to a wound vac and IV antibiotics. One night, about two weeks into my stay, I woke up in extreme pain. I couldn't move any part of my body without it hurting. It took me forever to reach out for the call button to call a nurse into the room. Once I did, my room quickly became Grand Central Station. Within an hour, my entire care team was assembled in the hall outside my of my hospital room. And anyone who knows anything about emergencies knows that if your surgeon, infectious disease specialist and wound care specialist are all in the same place at the same time, and that time is somewhere around 1:00 AM - you are in some SERIOUS trouble. And so it was. I was whisked downstairs for an MRI, and then rushed back into surgery - my third surgery in two weeks. On the way in to be prepped, I asked the Infectious Disease Specialist to "lay it on the line" with me. And she did. Basically, they weren't trying to save my leg anymore. They were trying to save my life. I was forewarned that I could wake up without my leg. And though it was all so sudden, I was amazingly calm. I accepted the fact that we needed to do what we had to do to get me well.

When I awoke two hours later, I immediately glanced down at the foot of my bed and saw that I did, in fact, have two complete legs under the covers. I wiggled my toes and saw that they were both working. My leg hurt for the first time in two weeks, and I was extremely nauseous. But I was alive and my leg was attached to my body. The medical team made the decision to try one last antibiotic, and to drain the wound one last time. A second incision was made below the original wound and a larger area was cleaned out once again, down to the bone. In the next two weeks, the new antibiotic started doing the trick, and I started feeling much better. My leg started healing with the aid of the wound vac and drugs that were actually working. And I became very, very bored and restless. Anyone who knows me, knows that can be a HUGE problem. Trouble almost always ensues under those conditions. This time was no exception.

The nursing staff was just amazing during my stay; they'd often stop in just to talk to me when I was bored, had my fill of television and had no visitors. But there was one nurse at night who just rubbed me the wrong way. She was nice, but older and "by the book". She'd enter my room in the wee hours of the morning with a flashlight that she'd shine in my eyes, inevitably waking me every time she did it. And suffice it to say, I wasn't terribly thrilled about being awakened. One night during my "I'm bored as hell" phase, I decided to fix her. I told her that I needed more warm blankets. She scurried out to get them, leaving her flashlight on my bed. And, well...that flashlight made its way UNDER the bed. Nurse Dixie returned and immediately noticed that it was missing. I, of course, played the dumb, groggy, drugged-up patient and claimed innocence in knowing the flashlight's fate. Dixie was frantic. She looked everywhere, except under my bed. I even had her convinced that she may have left it in another patient's room. As soon as she left to investigate, three young nurses came in, laughing their butts off. They KNEW what I'd done. All they wanted to know is what I had done with it. I just shrugged and grinned.

In the next week, I continued to heal enough to earn a discharge to our home, with home nurse care. The next couple of months were spent hauling a portable wound vac wherever I went, and self-administering IV antibiotics. But I continued to heal, laugh and make the best of things. People would tell me that I was courageous and an inspiration to them. My Infectious Disease doctor told me at my first post-hospital visit that I never should have made it out of the hospital; she called me a miracle child. But I knew deep down inside that I was brought through that harrowing experience for a reason - something much bigger than me. A year and a half later, I was diagnosed with cancer. Our children were both home at the time. I calmly explained to them that there was nothing to worry about; I was going to be ok. I then called my husband and three closest friends to tell them all the same thing. And I truly believed what I was saying.

Now I'm two and half years into this journey. It has been a tough one, too. There have been surgeries, treatments, losses due to the cancer (jobs, insurance, our home, a car, our children's college funds and more). I've experienced physical and emotional pain that I could never imagine prior to this experience. But you know what? I've made it through every challenge thus far. In a funny way, I believe those two dogs did me a favor in Charleston. Because, even though that fall lead to a life-threatening situation that cost us so much, it prepared me for a bigger challenge. I believe that I'm handling this one better than most because of what I went through in 2009. And just like I felt in 2009, I believe that I'm making it through this because God has a bigger plan for me. I NEED to go through this in order to fulfill that plan. I already know what it is to. It started last year with the Facebook cancer support page I co-founded with my friend Mike last.  We founded the group to help cancer fighters, survivors and caregivers. But I believe with all of my heart that I am destined to take this to the next level; to do more for these people. And I don't believe that I could be as successful at that task without knowing firsthand what it's like to go through a medical nightmare like I have. So, every time this hurts like hell, every time I cry myself to sleep or wake up in the middle of the night with those dreaded feeling of isolation and desperation, every time I have to scramble to find money to keep the lights on...I remind myself that this is ALL happening for a reason. I'm finding out what and who priorities need to be. I'm learning does and does not make me a priority. I'm learning, that despite the situation my family is in, we are immensely blessed. We have seen the best and the worst of human nature at work during the past few years, but one thing is crystal clear to us: we are LOVED. And I, because of what I've been through, have more love and compassion in my heart. I look at things with a whole new perspective. I am a better person for having experienced all of this. Not perfect, but better. I WILL use this experience to help people for the rest of my life. Life is about living...wide open, full throttle, helping each other along the way. Like those crazy-ass dogs who knocked me down the stairs a few years ago, I have to push forward with enthusiasm in order to reach my destiny. I'm not sure I would have seen that in the same light until I found myself crumpled at the bottom of a concrete staircase that December morning back in 2008. I know I didn't then. But that helped prepare me for this, and this is preparing me for more. So, I guess, in a weird way, I should say:

Thank you, Dogs. Thank you so very much. 

Today started off bad. REALLY bad. Actually, things have been quite tough for a while, but I don't talk about it to great length anymore. I much prefer dealing with the tough stuff in private with my closest friends and family, laughing my way through it all. But sometimes, that just doesn't work.

I have been battling serious health issues for a while now. In 2003, I became very ill. No one knew why. My stomach was constantly upset and distended. I developed neuropathy in one of my legs and both hands. I had migraine headaches and seizures. My joints hurt constantly, I lost most of my hair and I was putting on weight for no apparent reason. Test after test was run, and when my doctors couldn't figure out what the problem was, I was labeled as a depressed hypochondriac. Depressed? Hell, yes! I had to quit my job as a fitness instructor and marketing director at the local YMCA. I couldn't sleep, and I was growing increasingly agitated because I didn't think my doctors were taking me seriously. It wasn't until late 2004, when my husband pretty much demanded that I go to Duke for a second opinion, that we made any headway. I told the doctors there that I thought I had celiac disease, an extreme intolerance to wheat gluten. They threw out every test that had been conducted up until that point and agreed NOT to review my past medical records, in order to not form a biased opinion of me or what was wrong with me. In less than one month, they were able to determine that I not only HAD celiac disease, but I had a very stealth and dangerous form of the disease. I had already begun eliminating wheat gluten from my diet, but a great deal of damage had been done to my body. Still, through the excellent care I received at Duke and diligent adherence to a gluten-free diet, my health began to improve.

During the time that all of this was going on, I was the primary caregiver for my great aunt, Alice. I adored her. When she became too frail to live on her own in the house where she was born in Asheville NC, I drove a U-Haul from my home in Salisbury (two hours away) and moved her here. I spent a great deal of time watching over her and physically caring for her over the next five years, even when I had to move her into an assisted living facility. When that happened, I was incensed at how her monthly income and life savings disappeared in no time. This little lady had given her entire career to her country - first the Navy and then the Department of Social Security in Washington, DC. But she ended up with nothing to show for it. No one told me that she was eligible for a veteran's benefit called Aid & Attendance - none of the facilities where she lived, no one in the Department of Social Services and no one at the Veteran's Administration. It wasn't until she passed away in 2005 that I found out she had been eligible for benefits for nearly 20 years. But it was too late to apply then. She died penniless, after spending her entire life giving to others - her church, her family, whoever needed help. I was furious, and determined that no one else I knew was going to go through this.

I went back to work six months after Alice died, as a Marketing Director at an assisted living facility. The only way I could make sense of what had happened to her was to make sure it didn't happen to anyone else. Little did I know that my tenure in long term care would render so many blessings. It was tough work. The hours were very long and the pay didn't begin to compensate for the time I spent away from my family. But every single day I spent in that facility, every exhausting hour...was a true gift. I got to help people. I got to make a difference. I got to hug distraught family members, help them place their loved ones in appropriate care and find ways to help fund that care. When their family members became too ill to continue on, I got to help them through the death process. I saw many a miracle during that time, and I learned lessons that nothing but the experience itself could teach. I was giving back, and despite the fact that it was hurting me physically - I thrived on the satisfaction of helping people. I fell in love with my residents and they loved me back unconditionally. I couldn't help my aunt anymore, but because of what I had gone through with her, I could help other people like her. I could help their families. And I LOVED that feeling. It was a true gift.

In 2009, I ended up in the hospital for nearly two months with a deadly staph infection in my leg. (That is a story in and of itself, but we won't go into it here.) It was a humbling time for me, as I laid day after day in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes, IV lines and a wound vac. I had three surgeries and came close to dying one night. I was told afterwards that I never should have walked out of that hospital, much less with my leg still intact. But I did. I found a way to fight through the worst of it - because there were people praying for me, supporting my family, giving up vacation days so that I wouldn't have to miss a day of pay, sending flowers, calling, and making me laugh. I had never felt more surrounded by love than I did at that time. It was a harrowing experience, but somehow, I knew it was happening for a reason. Boy, was I ever right...

I've heard it said that going through adversity prepares you for other hardships. Nothing could be more accurate in my case. One month after I was discharged, I was back in the same room at the same hospital - with our son. He had an emergency appendectomy one week before his high school graduation. Four months after that, he collapsed during a basketball practice at college and we had him back in that same hospital to have a mass removed from his nasal cavity, which fortunately turned out to be benign. Three days before Christmas that same year, my husband suffered a heart attack in our living room while we were all together. Two months after that, our son had a career ending surgery on his shoulder. Four months later, my husband suffered a second heart attack. And six months after that - the week before Christmas - I found a very suspicious looking mole in the center of my back. It was removed, biopsied and the results came back on January 6, 2011. Malignant melanoma. I had surgery on February 15, 2011. I refused the conventional treatment at the time, Interferon, because it had a long-standing history of weakening the immune system and didn't have a success rate that justified a year's worth of extreme side effects. My immune system was already compromised, and I certainly didn't need to further complicate that issue. So, I began to search for other options. I ended up contacting a cancer research group in Washington, DC who referred me to two different area physicians. I also consulted with a childhood friend who is an oncologist. And in the summer of 2011, I began preparing for an alternative treatment. Just as I was about to begin, I lost my job and our house was foreclosed on. Astronomical medical bills had made it very difficult to keep up with our financial obligations, and my job was killing me - literally. We had to move out of the house we'd raised our kids in for the past ten years. They had to drop out of college and move home. At the end of 2011, I started feeling really bad. In early 2012, I found another suspicious mole which also turned out to be melanoma. I had been traveling to DC for months to see a variety of specialists and get treatment. A close friend there took care of me. He had a bad fall and was unable to care for himself or me for the first part of the year, so I was pretty much on my own. My husband was desperately trying to make money and keep our heads above water, so he couldn't accompany me on my trips. Then, my autoimmune issues started flaring and interfering with treatments. And if all this wasn't enough...my care situation changed dramatically during the summer and fall of 2012. I was on steroids to reduce inflammation in my joints, which depressed me and caused me to have uncontrollable anger outbursts on more than one occasion. My health was not improving, and I was fighting to stay positive. The ONLY thing that kept me sane was my ability to find humor in just about anything - including my own predicament. That, and the Facebook cancer support group I co-founded with a friend, called Curing Cancer with a Smile. Although I didn't realize it at the time, it was one of the best things I have ever done. As I felt my life spiraling out of control, I suddenly found a purpose much bigger than me or my own problems. By giving me the opportunity to focus less on my own issues and more on those of other cancer survivors and caregivers, CCWAS saved my life.

It is important to mention at this juncture just how CCWAS came to fruition.  A group of amazing high school friends formed their own support group on Facebook to support my family and I. It is called Rams to the Rescue. A high school friend who is a member of that group was online commenting on a site called Mike's Cancer Fight, and I happened to see his post. I was intrigued and went to the page. I joined the group and began reading about Mike Terrill's incredible struggles with end-stage brain cancer. He was "balls to the walls" brutally honest about what he was going through. And he was mad as hell. I decided to reach out to him, we chatted, shared stories, frustrations and became instant friends. He saw what my friends were doing for me through RTR, and told me that he wanted to start a group to help cancer patients - a place where they could get information, vent and find support. I agreed to help. And Curing Cancer with a Smile was born. Mike was, and still is, dying. But CCWAS gave him a new purpose, a reason to continue fighting. We noticed right away that we were actually helping people...lots of people. And we LOVED it. Today, we are 1600+ members strong. And on my very worst days, like today, CCWAS is my saving grace.

Three months ago, as I was in the midst of a very challenging time medically, my husband had yet another heart incident that required surgery. These two amazing groups and many other wonderful people rallied around us in support. Mike became my most vocal advocate - even on the days when he was screaming in pain - and I continued to  support him faithfully through his trials as well. We jumped through hoops for each other and every one of our members. In the past year, we have witnessed the beauty of mankind - the human spirit in its finest hour, every time one of our members has been down and people in the group have rallied to support that person. When one of our original members lost her husband to cancer at the end of last month, the outpouring of support from CCWAS was just incredible - most of it from people who have never laid eyes on her. I stayed up all night with her on the phone the night he passed, and Mike took over for me the next morning when I needed to rest. Even though his own condition is declining fast, he is on the page encouraging whoever needs to be supported each and every day. He and I check in with each other several times a day to support each other and discuss who in the group needs help. New members are joining daily to find and give support. Mike and I both know he's at the end of his journey; he makes no bones about that. My own journey is uncertain; I make no bones about that either. But the ability to "give back" has become our primary focus - a greater gift that either one of us ever envisioned. 

Which leads me back to my very bad day. Things are pretty bad financially. My cancer battle is nowhere close to being over; I have yet another surgery scheduled in mid-July. But I'm not as worried as most people might think I'd be. I know we're going to be ok. I have faith, a great support network and I can still laugh. That, in and of itself, is a blessing. The group that I have put my heart and soul into, the amazing friends who have continued to give selflessly, the awesome charity organization called Eblen Charities that kept us afloat for months, and the countless prayers and loving gestures that come to us daily keep me strong. I believe in the good of the human spirit. I believe that each of us has within us the ability to make a difference in some way. I have found a way to do that myself in my darkest hour; it is my mission to take that to a whole new level when I get out of this situation. And I WILL get out. I am going through all of this for a reason. For, if I had not experienced this, I could never really understand the plight of those who suffer devastating financial loss due to serious illnesses. It is my purpose in life to help those people - for the rest of my life. And even though I can't do it financially right now, I can do SOMETHING. I am inspired by those who rally together to give what little they have and collectively make a BIG difference. I am a recipient of that incredible generosity. Today, when I logged onto the page I co-founded to help OTHERS, what do you think I saw?  People I don't even know were rallying to help ME. I don't at all like that they're doing this; I don't want to be in this position. I am very proud, I'm not at all comfortable receiving handouts and I HATE asking for help. But part of the humbling lesson I'm learning is to accept help when it's offered to me, and to show my gratitude by helping other people.

This is where I am right now. I have little to give materially, but I can still give a lot. I can always do or say something to make a difference. And when the light at the end of the tunnel ceases to be a freight train, I will do great things because of what I've been through and what has been done for me. I will "Pay it Forward". NOTHING on this earth could ever give me more satisfaction.