Life is like a box of Barbies...

As I write this I’m listening to my little 7 year old snaggletooth narrate her Barbie’s stories.  She’s planning their next move (to the gym) and deciding their futures.  They are lucky girls, hanging out in their jacuzzi tubs and talking on the phone.  They don’t have to make decisions or plans because it’s all laid out for them, only they don’t know what’s coming next.  Oops.  Next turned out to be back in the box with a bunch of other Barbies - bet they didn’t see that coming!  

My little water girl

There’s a lot in my life that I didn’t see coming.  Sure, I had narrated my story in my imagination - what kind of man I would marry, what kind of mother I’d be, and how many kids I would have.  I chose my college, chose my career, and chose my husband (based on looks and charm, but more importantly persistence to counteract my obstinance).  When motherhood happened I started choosing for small humans, navigating through it like a blindfolded birthday girl trying to pin the tail on the donkey.  It is both better and harder than I could ever have imagined.  

I did not choose cancer.  I did not see that coming.  Four years and seven months ago I was thrown into a box with a bunch of Barbies.  A bunch of really scary Barbies.  Cancer was not in any of my imaginary plans or my 5 year goals, and there wasn’t even a donkey to pin that tail on if I took the blindfold off.  It turned out that I got the full blown stage 4 kind with no good options.  This box was small.  And dark.  I was supposed to be drinking Starbucks and talking kindergarten, not looking for science experiments that might open this box up.  When the box was closed the tightest and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t open, I told God He could use me.  It was really nice of me to give Him permission since that’s what He was planning on doing anyway.  

In January of this year, Stephen walked in from a work trip and announced that he wanted to bring the Miles for Melanoma to Memphis.  Being the submissive and encouraging wife I am, I said, “knock yourself out.”  He was serious though, so I had to get myself where he was.  I am not a social planner.  I am not a public speaker.  I am NOT a runner.  But, it looks like I married one.  We started talking through it and working on the logistics, but it was April and I figured too late in the game for this year so I was home free.  And then, just like that, we had a date, a location, and a presenting sponsor - a paint company whose only connection to melanoma is through two employees - Stephen and our friend Bob in Mississippi.  We had 3 1/2 months to pull it off.  

So, here’s the thing about God’s timing.  He acts fast when He’s ready.  And, here’s the other thing. He had already been strategically planning well before I knew.  All the things  were there, all the people were there, and the money, well it was there too.  He just needs hands and feet.  He gave me a big fish story to tell - one that’s so crazy dramatic that you think the fish should grow every time but it does’t have to - it’s already big.  Even when I try to shrink the fish, it’s still big.  Public speaking?  No problem.  God handed me a microphone in April to tell my story to 400 perfect strangers in white coats.  Go big or go home.  And, the running?  Well, I reluctantly started making myself run from the house to Bailey’s baseball games because I had to get there in time and Stephen had already taken the car.  I suffered through the July humidity enough to show up and not look pathetic but if I’m any kind of runner at all it’s a fair weather one.  I’ll give a shout out to Kelly Clarkson for her words of encouragement as I trained:

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger

Stand a little taller

Doesn’t mean that I’m lonely when I’m alone

What doesn’t kill you makes a fighter

Footsteps even lighter

Doesn’t mean I’m over cause you’re gone

We started to watch the numbers rise - it was our bedtime conversation.  Teams started forming.  Stephen’s boss, Tim, sent race stats like they were sales numbers.  We asked for sponsors. People said yes (and no).  Stephen went around town telling my story, making the ladies cry, and people wrote checks.  Teams formed from other places, people we didn’t know but needed to connect through this disease.  Our goal of $20,000 seemed like a lot especially for a first year.  We just wanted to reach our goal and for people to show up.  He exceeded it once again - in a loaves and fishes kind of way.  

Our home became race headquarters with a UPS delivery of boxes every day.  One friend brought over boxes of sunscreen, I drove around in my car with 400 frisbees for 2 weeks because I had no where to put them.  Powerades, waters, bananas, snacks, more sunscreen - all donated.  When bag stuffing day came, our friends came over, ate hamburgers and filled 400 bags with all that stuff.  Stephen agonized over his play list, reluctantly trading in some of his 80s glam rock for newer pop compliments of a few tween girls and ended up with an eclectic mix of glam rock, Memphis tunes, and a few songs thrown in with survival themes. (Not sure anyone cared or heard it, but boy, was it an issue).  It was happening.  Martha Kate and I put signs team together and as I read those names, I thought of the people behind them.  Teams.  Every person on them was affected in some way either by my story or some one else’s.  And the beautiful thing about it is that these teams weren’t competing but working together.  

Saturday, it became clear to me what kind of race we were having - I didn’t see it coming.  Our race had heart.  It was full of stories and connections, friendships, memories, and love.  My team was huge - I’ve known that, but when you line them up in the flesh wearing hot pink shirts, it really makes an impression.  The others?  Some I knew, some I didn’t.  Some I got the pleasure of meeting, others I wish I had.  I finally met our friend, Bob, and his family who was introduced to Stephen through his district manager, Tim.  Over the last 2 years, Stephen and Bob have become good friends through my story and his and we now share a doctor and the same cancer drug. Bob went head first into the fundraising with his creativity.  He pulled at the heartstrings by wearing my shirt and posting a picture of his smiling face getting treatment, passing the hat at his family reunion, and my personal favorite, auctioning off his bucket of home-grown tomatoes for $100.  

Race day was like a wedding.  You don’t know who’s going to show up, you don’t know if you have it together, but you know you’ll walk out of there just as married.  We showed up to run but we had all already won before we got there.  As Bob said, “when you’re surrounded by winners and people who strive to be the best, success will fall in your lap every time.”  Our goal for this race was raised 3 times.  We exceeded every one and totaled over $42,000.  250 were expected.  We had 422.  Team KJ was the largest participating team ever - over 115.  If you are wondering where God was, He was right there on Saturday.  Stephen and I said some words on a stage but there really weren’t enough words to describe it.  We also crossed this finish line.  The hills were real, the heat was real, but so was the experience.  

We learned a lot through this experience.  We learned that hosting a race and running it too is a lot harder than it seems.  We’ve learned that the people around us are seasoned with life - our life and our experience and that if they’ve hung on this long, they’re not going anywhere.  We’ve learned to push through and look ahead and say yes when it matters because the on the other side of that yes there are big things, big fish and probably loaves of bread to go with it.   

We were sitting at Vanderbilt a couple of weeks ago waiting on my scan results and to see my

doctors.  Every time I sit there, I know there’s a chance they are about to tell me that I will do this all over again. There’s no way to prepare, no way to determine what this box of Barbies holds for us next.  And, with every clear scan, every good blood count, we take a deep breath and move forward.  Saturday morning also ironically marked the day that 6 year ago my mother ran her own race into the arms of Jesus.  I woke up, took a deep breath and moved forward.  

That’s the way it is. Good comes from bad, joy comes from sadness, and victory comes from defeat, but God wins - every time. 

“Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us...” Ephesians 3:20

Kimberly

LeBonheur peeps

Addie and her family from Texas - a former patient of mine who has cheered me on from the beginning.  We go way back. Click her name to read more. 

Daddy - always supporting!

More of my posse.

Stacy held me up more than once.

The Jessops - always to our rescue!

Emmanuel love

Two of my best girls that missed the team pic because they were working.

Sherwin-Williams

Bob, Tim, and Stephen

Seven!

Dear my Martha Kate,

Today you are seven!  You are strong and spunky and sweet in the same package - kind of like a gummy worm!  Six has been fun to watch because you have grown up so much, yet you are still my little girl.  You can read with excitement, write great stories, and do math problems even when you are being timed now.  You have two grown up teeth and by next year you will have a lot more big teeth to grow into.  I joke that sometimes you only use the right side of your brain because you are so full of imagination.  Your best singing and dancing is when no one is watching - although sometimes I watch because you are really so fun to watch.  

Your face always tells it all.  It is usually smiling but when it’s not, it’s because you are mad or upset, or because someone else is.  You like for everyone around you to be happy and because you are happy, you have a hard time understanding when people are not.  I am sure that when God made your heart, He made it extra big.  You love to give and always think of ways that you can give to others - especially your mommy.  The other day, you caught a big fat frog and carried him to your brother at the baseball game because you know how much he loves frogs.  You brought your daddy home a guitar pick that you found under a table in a store because you know how he always leaves his in his pockets.  You love to make cards - I got eight from you on Mother’s Day and found eight more on your desk that you were working on. You will run from half a mile to hug someone you love.  

You love to dress up.  Something magical happens inside of you when you put on something fancy.  I watched you try on your ballet costume the other night and you spun and twirled so much that I could hardly take a picture of you.  I love how you really don’t care who is watching you. Ever.  I hope you will always be this confident and carefree.  

I love to listen to your stories because the more you tell, the more dramatic they become and the better your facial expressions are - sometimes there’s even a fake cry at the end for extra flair.  I listen to you when you are in your room teaching your dolls or when your Barbies have a store or a fashion show.  I am amazed at the details and how you never leave anything out.  And, you always repeat the things that I say to you when you are playing.  It’s funny to hear my words come out of your mouth, but it also makes me know that you are thinking about me as much as I think about you. 

You love to be outside.  Every day after school I watch you run to the swing and swing as high as you can.  I think it’s the closest you can get to flying and I’m sure in your mind you really are flying.  You learned to ride your bike this year - it took you about 3 minutes and you’ve been full speed every since.  If there is a puddle of water big enough for you to swim in, you will sure try.  You even told me that you would give away your toys for a big screened porch, and you know, so would I.   

I love when you wake up on Saturdays and it’s just you and me and you fold your legs up in mine and say you love me to infinity or to pi because that’s the longest number and I love you back even more.  I love how when I say we are going on a trip, you are packed in 10 minutes and sitting in the car, even if it’a a week before.  I love how you put your little hand in mine although it’s sometimes hard to hold because the rest of you is all wiggly and twirly.  I love that little things excite you like flowers, baby birds, and Oreo cookies.  

You have a purpose in everything you do in your little life.  Sometimes I don’t understand but when you explain it to me, it makes perfect sense. You are fearless and feisty. You are thirty-seven pounds of pure sunshine and possibility.  

You are seven and I love you.  

Happy Birthday!

Mommy

I am a mother.

The other night for dinner, I cooked spaghetti and served peaches out of a can warmed up with brown sugar and butter on top.  Because she did.  Bailey asked why we always have that with spaghetti.  My answer, “because that’s what my mama did.”  

On the way home from church I drove by the iris garden to make sure that my kids know what irises are.  I made them read every sign and look at every flower - I’m not sure they loved it but that’s what she would have done and someday they will make their kids do the same.  

After that, I handed Bailey a shovel and showed him how to transplant the hydrangea I had rooted.  We put a brick on another stalk for next year.   

I let Kate sit in my lap and move the fabric through the sewing machine because that’s what she would have done and when there’s thread and scraps all over the floor, I remember how I used to make Barbie dresses out of hers when I sat under her feet while she sewed.  

I drink coffee every morning because one time in college she brought her own coffee pot and left it.  I’ve been hooked every since. 

I believe in open windows, bare feet, and drinking from the hose because she said it’s good for you. 

I cook cornbread in an iron skillet and know exactly when the batter is right because of how it pours and not because of a recipe.

I remember how she used to talk about picking up all those scraps of paper on the floor when I’m digging them out of the carpet at my house.

I remember how she cried that once when I backed out of the driveway going to college and again when we loaded up our kids to head back home after a visit.  It was never long enough.   

I listen to my own voice come out of my daughter’s mouth and know that her voice comes right out of mine.  

People told me I looked like her when I was little, I didn’t see it.  The older I get, the more I realize that I have become her and I embrace it.  

Last week I said some things about my life to perfect strangers.  It took me a week to come up with the words, then I started over.  It turns out that there were really only four words that needed to be said to explain my drive to survive:

“I am a mother.”

I said about a thousand more after that but when I stripped it all down that’s really all that was left.  All that matters.  It doesn’t matter who you are or what situation you are in, you will rise up.  You will do whatever it takes.  

You will hold that baby for the first time and you will continue to hold them in your heart, in your mind, and in your lap everyday after that.  

You will use your seatbelt arm when the brakes slam on even though they are in the backseat strapped in.  

You will hot glue marshmallows onto styrofoam and glitter onto “star of the week posters.”  

You will know they are sick by the look in their eyes from 30 feet away.  

You will read their expressions, you will know their thoughts, you will anticipate their needs. 

You will talk them through smallish issues that will eventually teach them how to be friends and how to just let some stuff go.

You will watch them on stage or on a pitcher’s mound and realize that they are becoming their own people and that even though you are swallowing your own heart because you are nervous for them, they are fine.  And you had something to do with that.

You will sleep through a tornado but not a cough in the middle of the night.

You will instantly recall exactly where the eye black is that he used for Halloween and the last place you saw the right purple Barbie shoe.

You will teach them that people are different, yet sort of the same and hope they remember this and look for common ground.

You will be ok with how they sit on top of you every time you sit down and you will still try to fold them up in your lap just to make sure they still fit.

You will have conversations about real things and tell real jokes and they will get it. 

You will watch them run free, swing high, and dream big because there are no limits in life for them right now.

You will let them squirt whip cream in their mouth from the can.

You will tell them no.  It will be hard but worth it later.

You will do hard things.  Because you can.  Because you will see their faces and that’s all it will take.  

You will know that someday they will know that motherhood is not easy or glamorous, yet at the same time it is.  One day they may actually get how motherhood was your only driving force somedays and how the thought of losing that sparked something inside of you to never give up.  

But, for now you just want them to be who they are and to know they are loved.  

And they know it.

 Happy Mother's Day!

I love you because you do almost everything for me.

Her gift is giving.  She does it well.

I love you because you give the best kisses and hugs.

The Motherload.

"Things happen..."

“....when you leave the house.”  - Kelly Corrigan - Glitter and Glue

And they did.  A couple of months ago my phone rang and since it was a Nashville number, I hit answer, then speaker, and waited for the automated Vanderbilt lady to tell me what time to show up again.  But there was silence, then a real voice that said, “hello?”  Uh, well, that was Dr. Sosman asking me to speak at his cancer retreat.  Since I was already such a ding-dong for not saying hello, I said yes.  

Now there were no instructions given except that he said I didn’t have to say anything profound, which I assured would not be an issue.  I floundered over what to say, prayed for guidance, and finally sat down last Friday and wrote the words.  I am a forward thinker, forward mover, and not a looker-backer.  So this looking back business was tough.  Four and a half years of cancer drama in less than 10 minutes with the goal to make a room full of oncologists and scientists believe that their job is absolutely worth it.  Not to mention that I haven’t given a speech since I graduated from high school and before that it was probably kindergarten which my daddy paid me a quarter to do.  

It was a one foot in front of the other kind of two days.  The kind people at Vanderbilt put us up in a nice hotel - the kind with valet parking.  We pulled up in our Ford Fusion with our empty Sonic cups in the console - I got myself an Oreo blast on the way - big living, people.  I get a little confused on those spinny doors so I went the wrong way through it only once and then started to feel a bit insecure about the water I had spilled on my jeans among the suits in the lobby.  And then there was dinner.  

Nice restaurant.  First ones there.  Sign saying “terrace room, third floor.”  We saw one fella standing in the “terrace room” and I headed back to the elevator where I was then cornered by two lovely and smiling ladies who obviously knew who we were.  Big hint - every other person at dinner was either famous in the cancer world or head of something or another at Vanderbilt.  Cue the sore thumbs.  Second big hint - “So, you’re our survivor!” Uh, yeah that’s me.  There were immediate cancer questions, “When were you diagnosed?  What drug did you take? How did you end up at Vandy? and then, YOU HAVE WHAT?”  Either my story was that riveting or they just wanted us to talk so they could hear our Mississippi accents.  Stephen and I sat right next to each other but didn’t see each other for four hours.  I’m not sure what I ate, pretty sure I used the wrong fork, and the conversation spanned from Memphis barbeque to melanoma.  We walked out and headed aimlessly down the street before we could get enough wits about us to call a cab.

At dinner, I learned my target audience for the next day (most people would have already asked these questions) - about 350 oncologists, researchers, and scientists.  I was first, followed by the 4 keynote speakers who have spent their entire careers in cancer research.  These are the people who have uncovered the pathways to how these drugs work and started the clinical trials which I benefitted from.  Dr. Topalian looked at me at dinner and said, “It takes a lot of courage to sign up for something so experimental.”  I said, “When that is your only option, courage is thrown out the window.”

It was at dinner that I began to realize what was happening here.  I was basically their life’s work in human flesh - living, breathing, talking, joking, and showing pictures of my children.  This means something to them.  I am a statistic but this day, it came alive.  I found myself standing on a playing field that was in twisted sort of way, insanely level.  

Thursday morning’s breakfast was a repeat of dinner.  I talked about my kids, I explained the difference in North Mississippi and South Mississippi and had another conversation with Dr. Topalian about how I go into homes and daycares in the inner city for my job.  She asked if I was ever scared.  I said, “not really,” bit my tongue from saying that I was a lot more scared of cancer and instead said, “I just try to find common ground, we’re all people and we’ve all got something.”  She agreed with me.  Meanwhile, Stephen was sipping orange juice and discussing research with Dr. Pardoll.  

So, our original plan was that I would speak at 8:15 or so, wait until the break and then make our exit.  We had already looked at the program and I had plans to swing by H&M and grab me some queso at the SATCO.  I started kind of seeing this plan unravel at breakfast when our new friends were telling us how exciting the information they were presenting would be.  I made it through my speech without vomiting, crying, or bolting.  I looked up and this cast of characters with all the publications, credentials, and whatnot were cheering, high-fiving, and beaming from ear to ear.  When I sat down, Stephen said, “You know we can’t leave, right?”  

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Anyway, it was the next four hours that made me understand where they were and where I was in relation to that trajectory.  I watched four of the top oncologists and researchers in the country, present data on studies - most of them related to melanoma.  There were graphs and charts and words that looked like the alphabet written backwards.  The words “cancer” and “melanoma” were said more times than I’ve ever heard in my life.  (I’m so chicken that I couldn’t say either until about 2012).  And there was survival data.  Survival data from the actual study that I was a part of.  Yes, the results were on a power point slide the joke of the day was which green line was I.  Funny.  What’s even more sobering is that most of it didn’t go past 18 months or above 40 percent.  Well, no wonder, Dr. Wolchok turned around and gave me a thumb’s up, but then said, “Until that number is 100 percent, we won’t stop.” I hugged him for that later. 

Topalian et al.
I confirmed that I might be the top yellow line and my arrow is still pointing to the right - a good sign.

I never cease to be amazed where God shows up.   Smack dab in the middle of some big fancy speaking engagement at the same hospital I walked into four years ago to learn about my cancer.  Apparently, now I’m teaching them.  Over the last four and a half years, He has been priming these doctors to find a cure for this mess.  The cancer that had no options has 3 new approved drugs that can be used.  Dr. Sosman elbowed me and said, “You know this will become the standard of care.”  God has closed doors, opened doors, and strategically planned every dramatic, painful, and heart wrenching incident and decision in my life.  He has moved every chess piece into just the right position.  The statistics were on the screen in front of my face and He said, “I told you so.” 

I asked why, and He said “Wait.”

I told Him enough and He said “Not yet.”

I finally quit asking and said, “Fine. Use me.” 

And, what I know to be true with all my heart is that He’s not done.  

So, what to you do after a day like this?  I’ll be honest.  I put on my ripped up jeans and Converse and headed to the park to watch my son play ball.  I sat with God for an hour in silence and tried to make sense of it.  Then, I determined that it’s not possible.  I gathered what I have and held them tight - my people.  I went to dinner and sat on the patio while I watched my two greatest accomplishments swing and throw a tennis ball at a rather unruly Boston Terrier.  I watched my Daisy become a Brownie and my 56 pound slugger pound a baseball across a field harder than I thought was possible.  I pulled out that research article that Dr. Sosman gave me a few months ago and read through it.  It means way more to me now.

I let my husband be proud of me but he should be more proud of himself.  

Because folks, “Things happen when you leave the house.”  

Dr. Sosman

They called themselves my posse.  Dr. Fong, Dr. Wolchok, Dr. Topalian to my right, Dr. Pardoll to my left.
Look them up if you're bored.

Just because I know you’re wondering what I said, Here it is:

I thought a lot about what to say today and more about what you needed to hear from me.  Obviously, I’m a cancer survivor - stage IV melanoma is what landed me this gig.  

I’m also the wife to my biggest fan on earth - Stephen, a mother of two - a boy and a girl, and a pediatric physical therapist. I spend my days shuffling kids to dance class and baseball practice, packing lunches, teaching babies how to walk, paying bills, making meals, and sometimes the most interesting thing I read all day is about the Mayan civilization from my son’s fourth grade social studies book. 

I represent the girl next door, the mom in Target, the 30 something year old at a country music concert - or rock concert if my husband has anything to do with it.  

I am as stubborn as a cockroach in a puddle of raid, and I do not like for people to tell me what to do - so you can only imagine how well I took on the “sick” role.

I get to live this way because of what you do everyday.  And, if you are wondering - it’s totally worth it.  

I was diagnosed in 2010 with stage 4 melanoma.  I was 33 and had a 2 year old and a 5 year old.  One minute I was making all my own decisions and the next minute my choices were flying out the window like paper money.  I was told where to be and what time to be there and somebody always wanted blood or tissue samples when I got there.  

Dr. Sosman and I met in early 2011 when I walked into his clinic one Wednesday afternoon.  He was the third doctor to tell me I had cancer so I guess I decided to believe him. 

As he talked and wrote drug names on a piece of paper I tried to listen thinking I’d need to look all that up later.   There was one I remember - a clinical trial drug MDX 1106.

or Anti- PD1 - you may have heard of it.

It seemed a little new and sketchy to me since there were only a few people on it.  

I remember very little else about that day other than that scrap piece of paper and the feeling that this is where we should be. 

 I kept listening for the easy but since I never heard it, I went on with a lovely little treatment called IL2.  

26 doses later, I had more tumors than I started with, so I signed a bunch of papers and gave a lot of blood to get this tiny bag of medicine every 2 weeks that would ultimately save my life.   

I had a few detours along the way - a lot more drama than I cared for.  I like to be in control, hate being in the spotlight, and I hate disrupting other people, especially my family. I also happen to live about 3 hours away so it really was inconvenient but worth it.  

About 9 months into this process, I started having back pain and weakness which turned out to be a tumor compressing my spinal cord.  

Uh-oh.  I was in trouble and I knew it when I saw that big slug on the screen.  

This landed me an emergency surgery, a lifetime of MRIs, and resulted in a lot of people really freaking out around me. It was at that point that I decided that this was definitely bad - the kind of bad that when you google the statistics, it doesn’t turn out well - so I also decided that if I woke up from that and I could walk, there was absolutely some reason that I was here.  

That’s probably why about 6 months later, when my wacky white blood cell count turned out to be Chronic Myeloid Leukemia, I just moved on to the next thing.  

Now, next thing included a bone marrow biopsy - without sedation - which I later had a few words to share about and may or may not have ended up at the bar before I went home.  But it also included my friend, Dr. Mohan and a targeted drug that worked.  

It’s been over 2 years since that point.  My bloodwork is probably better than yours.  There are no tumors to measure and this molecular leukemia number we’ve been watching - it’s almost non-existent.  

My blood pressure only goes up when I enter the doors of Vanderbilt Ingram Cancer Center.

The lessons I’ve learned are invaluable.  

I learned to make choices. 

For example, when I found out that the imaging center down the street had a Keurig, I started going there.  I chose to make lemonade out of the pile of lemons I’ve been handed.  

I choose how I show up - I honestly believe that makes a difference so I always wear lipstick and earrings and I have a really good game face.

I learned that I’m the one with cancer and the people who are scheduling me are not.  

I am the one living in the anxiety waiting on test results and what’s convenient for them may not be for me. 

I plan my appointments around my vacation, not my vacation around my appointments.  

If my kids have something at school, I’m there.  

I’m the girl who checks the orders in the lab to make sure they are coded correctly because I’m the one getting the bill, not them.  

When the wrong cancer code is on the test, it won’t get paid for.  Apparently that’s confusing when you have more than one.

I’ve learned that people want to help. If you could have cured cancer with brownies and tupperware, I wouldn’t need all of you people, because I had plenty. 

I’ve learned that I didn’t get here alone.  I’ve got a very persistent husband, a big God, and a bunch of praying people.  If you had anything to do with me, you were prayed for.

I’ve learned about research.  I used to ignore the “more birthday” commercials from the American Cancer Society.  Now, I know that’s why I have more birthdays.   

I’ve learned that you need me to live as much as I need you to keep me alive.  

And, when you see tumors on a screen that you need to go after, I see the faces and futures of my children - and all really I want is for you to see that too.  

I am grateful for the host of friends and family that have stuck with me and for Dr. Sosman and Dr. Mohan - because I’m no cupcake.  

I’m thankful that you continue to do what you do, so that I can continue to do what I do. 

And now for my shameless plug.  You may have heard we brought a little race to Memphis.  Go join TEAM KJ for Miles for Melanoma Memphis so we can make it a big race!
Here's the link:
Miles for Melanoma Memphis TEAM KJ