I’m very easily overwhelmed emotionally, on both the positive and negative sides of the equation. And when this happens, I need time to step back and process my own feelings. This is what I’ve been doing the last week, as I mull over the events and sort through the tangled mess of thoughts. But I think I’m ready to explain now, why I haven’t said anything about Zombie Fest.

I did have a great time at the event, but all of that was overshadowed by an incredibly heartbreaking encounter.

But in order for you to better understand, I need to back up a few months.

This past June, I returned from the Farmer’s Market and made one of my notoriously lengthy posts. In part, it read:

Earlier in the day, I met an elderly woman who stared silently at my signs for quite some time, taking in all the pictures and information I had available. Finally, she spoke and told me her adult son was recently diagnosed with a form of sarcoma, though she didn’t know what type or how bad it was, because it was all very new, and he wasn’t ready to talk to her about it. “He’s here, though,” she told me. “Maybe he’ll talk to you. But don’t tell him I told you about any of this.” She walked away.

“Take the girls for a walk, because things are about to get real,” I warned Hali, as I tried to explain what just happened and how astronomical the odds are to find another person in Jasper, GA with sarcoma. But even I had no idea just how true those words would be.

Moments later, he came into my life, a man who I have a feeling will be a very big part of it in the near future: we’ll refer to him as K, for privacy, since this is a small town, an unusual name, and his family is still in the dark. He, too, read the signs I had, describing sarcoma facts and stats, and stated, “I’m the 1% of the 1%.” I knew instantly this was the woman’s son and listened intently, as he opened up, freely discussing the details of his diagnosis: stage 4 clear cell sarcoma. He felt very comfortable with me, sharing things he hadn’t yet told family. He explained how the diagnosis came to be and admitted he knew nothing of his prognosis or anything other than the diagnosis and stage. It was all so recent, he was currently researching doctors around the country and had a consultation scheduled with Northside that hadn’t yet taken place. That’s why, he explained, his family was still largely oblivious. He didn’t want to tell them anything, until he had more information and a plan.

And the more he talked, the more I fought back the tears. Here was a healthy looking young man, his beautiful wife next to him, pulling a wagon with their 2 year old son. And I knew what he seemed not to: that unless God Himself performed a miracle, that woman would be raising that little boy alone in just a few months’ time. The thought made me sick, but I did what I could to maintain my friendliest smile.

I told him I was still in contact with my mom’s oncologist and would happily reach out to her for recommendations on a doctor who may be able to help him. His wife took my card, and he did something most unusual: he asked for a photo with me.

As much as it ripped my heart to shreds, to know what this man had yet to learn about his own prognosis, it was my absolute honor to meet him and take that photo with him. We spoke for a bit more, and once they departed, I walked away, retreating behind my tent. My head was spinning, my heart was hurting, and honestly, I didn’t understand why I was taking it so personally.

Paula had written in the comments that I should copy the post into my journal, as I didn’t yet have a blog. I’ve thought about this comment a lot in the last several days, so here I am, finally coming clean as to what’s been bothering me, and about to explain why I chose this moment, to share the story of “K” again.

For starters, his name is Kai, and he has a beautiful wife Melissa and an absolutely adorable two year old son named Cade. I can share this now.

Kai underwent multiple rounds of radiation and a couple intense surgeries, and in September, his PET scan showed no trace of cancer anywhere in his body. But while I wanted to freely rejoice with his family and friends, my celebration was done with great caution. “It’s sarcoma,” I told a friend. “And a stage 4, at that. It’s going to come back. Sarcoma’s cruel aggression is what makes it so unique.”

As much as I wanted to be wrong, I wanted him to be the outlier in the statistical world of sarcoma, that didn’t happen. Last Thursday, October 27, was the “legal” anniversary of my mom’s passing. And it was on that day I learned Kai’s cancer had returned. Worse, a tumor had completely encased the iliac artery, and he was admitted to Northside for pain control. Although I don’t typically give that date much thought, the news about Kai forced me to acknowledge its significance.

A couple days later, I was serving as a vendor at Zombie Fest. As dusk began to fall and the dimmed light presented the eerie aesthetic perfect for the event, a man approached me. Like Kai and his mother described in the above excerpt, he carefully read all of my posted information and took a deep breath.

“My brother has sarcoma,” he commented. “Terminal sarcoma.”

That, of course, is always difficult to hear, but I’m also always interested in knowing more. It helps me connect, and my compassion is as genuine as my curiosity. I asked him if he minded sharing what type.

“Clear cell sarcoma,” he stated, fighting back tears.

My heart dropped, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I looked at the man standing before me, enormous in stature, and noted his struggles in holding back his emotions. But I knew. There was no way I could be wrong. The fact he used the word “terminal” provided me additional information I wasn’t prepared to hear. Suddenly, the increasing darkness reflected the mood.

“Your brother is Kai,” I remarked, as he took a step back in shock. I quickly explained that I had met him over the summer, and we had done what we could to keep in touch. “I knew about the new tumor, but I didn’t know how bad it was.”

For the next 10-15 minutes, he and I had a very personal, heartfelt discussion of Kai. The more he spoke, the more my own words echoed in my head:

And I knew what he seemed not to: that unless God Himself performed a miracle, that woman would be raising that little boy alone in just a few months’ time.

He explained to me that Northside was incapable of treating such an advanced cancer, and he was being referred to MD Anderson. “It took six years for the original tumor to brew into a stage 4 sarcoma,” he explained. “And just 3 weeks for it to explode all over his body. He’s been given no more than six months.”

I did what I could to fight the tears, but I felt them brimming. I again swallowed the growing lump in my throat, as thoughts raced through my mind. Three weeks. He had only three weeks to enjoy being cancer free, only for it to come back with a vengeance.

“My mom was given 6-9 months,” I said, trying to offer even the smallest glimmer of hope. “She lived another 5 years, and 3-4 of those were working a very physical full-time job.” But even I knew my words were pointless. The reality of the situation hung heavily in the air, and it seemed that all hope Kai would get through this was fading as quickly as the daylight.

By the time we finished our conversation, we stood in darkness, the symbolism heavy in the air. Although my mind was cluttered with thoughts, one stood out: as perfectly as the stars aligned on June 18, to put Kai and me in the same place at the same time, the exact same thing had occurred, for me to meet his brother. The parallels were undeniable. Just like that market in June, I hadn’t originally planned on attending Zombie Fest. But a series of unfortunate mishaps led me to be there that day, right in the path of this man.

He took my card, promising to let Kai know he spoke to me, and we said our goodbyes.

Later, when I checked my text messages, I saw a friend had screen capped a post from one of the Jasper Facebook pages. It was about raising money for Kai and explaining he was heading to MD Anderson. (This public post, which has been shared dozens of times, is why I feel comfortable revealing his name.) Although there was no mention of sarcoma, my friend had put the pieces together. “I figured this is your guy K,” she said. I briefly unloaded my heartbreak on her but otherwise opted to keep it secret, until I felt I was ready to face it directly.

One of the seemingly countless aspects of this I’m struggling to accept is my inability to play any sort of role. I created Baking to Beat Cancer, for this very purpose. I wanted to help the sarcoma community, and here is a man, in my small town, with a young family, and I absolutely should be fundraising for him. That’s why I exist! However, my inability to properly use my hands prevents me from baking anything, rendering me completely useless in the very cause I devoted my life. This is the time, more than any other, I should be cranking out those cookies and selling like crazy, to raise as much money for Kai and his family as I can. Instead, all I can do is voice my hatred for myself in not being able to step up during the one time I’m really needed. But that’s my own issue no one can really help me with.

But all of this is why I’ve had a hard time talking about all the good things that occurred at my last event of the year. Each time I try, I see the smiling face of Kai’s beautiful little boy, and my heart breaks all over again. From there, my thoughts go down the metaphorical rabbit hole, and I think of another friend who is in a similar predicament. Cancer has stamped premature expiration dates on two of my friends, and I’m honestly not sure what to do, at this point, other than talk to Saint Peregrine and wonder when the heartache will end.

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