In Memorium

Tabatha Leigh (Piszczyk) Johnson (1971-2013)

If you're reading this, it's because you either knew my wife or know me, which means, at least in some way, you know her.  That being the case, you've been made a better person.  Not by me, but by Tabby.  There are all different types of people in the world.  Selfish, selfless, kind or mean, but only the rarest of people make you better simply by virtue of having known them.  They are the type of people who make you proud of yourself, who give you a warm feeling whenever you enter their presence, whose laugh can brighten an otherwise dismal day.  Tabby was such a person.

If you never had the pleasure of meeting her in person, I grieve for you.  You never got to experience her laugh, her smile, her passion.  You never got to be hugged by her (and let me just say that even at the end, she was one of the best huggers on the planet).  You never got to feel was it was like to have your soul fed with love in the way that only she could.  Her friends were lifelong, and fiercely loyal, and for good reason.

Tabby never turned anyone away.  Never.  Misfits as, I'm sure, we all were when we met her, she greeted us all with a smile and a warm hug and treated us all as family.  Everyone, celebrities and normal people alike, remembered her.  Everyone loved her.

If you came to our house, there were always a few things you could depend on.  First, no one ever went away from our house hungry.  We might've not had much, but Tabby loved to cook and would cook up a storm for anyone who had emptiness in their tummies.  When we married, I weighed 142 pounds soaking wet and had 6% body fat.  I like to blame my weight gain on her cooking, but it was more than that.  It was contentment.  It was love.  It was comfort.

I tell the story often, to anyone who will listen, but I'm telling it again.  I first met Tabby in Junior High School.  I was dating her best friend at the time.  I lost track of her for about a decade, but found her again in Junior College.  I asked her out, and she turned me down flat.  At the time, she had a boyfriend.  It took me a whole year to get up the nerve to ask her out again, and that time she said yes.  Our first date was on Halloween, 1992.  I dressed as a drag queen (I make an ugly woman), she as a (beautiful) rodeo queen.  We were never apart after that.  By Thanksgiving of that same year, I'd asked her to marry me.  By Christmas, we told her parents, and by April, we were married.  Less than six months after our first date together, we were married.  And despite what many thought, we stood the test of time.  Twenty years we had.  Were they all great?  I'd be lying if I said they were.  But I would not change a single moment.  I wouldn't rewrite a single second.  Not one.  Not those times.

She is survived by our beautiful daughters, Anna and Zoe, her brothers Cameron and Aaron, her mom and dad Ruth and Don, her sister Althea, and by me.  To say that we are all devastated is an understatement.  To say that I will never fully recover would be laughable, were it not so true.

Whatever your faith, chances are you have some idea of an afterlife.  For Christians, it's Heaven.  For Pagans, it's Summerland.  Some call it Elysium, and others call it by names that do not fall easily from the lips.  No matter what your belief, wherever Tabatha is, it is paradise.  Not because our religion says so, or because of some prejudiced idea of where she would go, but simply by virtue of her being there.  No matter where she is, just because she is there, it becomes paradise.  She did it here on Earth.  I have no reason to believe she'd do otherwise elsewhere.

Look around and realize the truth of this statement:  Because you knew her, you are today a better person.  She made me a better person.  She believed in me, made me see myself as someone worth loving, and gave me the confidence and strength to do whatever I set my mind to.  Because I knew her, I am a better person.  I will always be grateful to her for making me into the man I am today.

Goodnight, Tabby.  I love you so very much.  I do not grieve for you, but for myself and for the rest of us who are left behind.  There is a great hole in my life where you were, an empty chair at my table.  I will not get over you.  I will always miss you.  And I envy those who you meet in the afterlife.  Even they will be made better people for having known you.

SAJ

A Break from the Gloom and Doom

I know the posts have been a bit... dark lately.  There's good reason behind that, but that's not all there is to our lives.  Tabby isn't gone yet, and we still manage to get out and have some fun occasionally.  So, to that end, I wanted to post a few pictures of my gal.  Tabby's sister (Althea), her husband (Vincent), and their kids (Hallie and Kaia) came for a visit, along with Tabby's mom (Ruth).  We decided that being cooped up in the house wasn't a good idea, so we went to Greune (pronounced "green."  Don't ask).  We managed to get there just in time for "Market Days," which a chaotic mix of local artisans, great food, and live music.  I just wanted to give a little joy with some photos we took from the day.

So here's Ruth (Tabby's Mom) with Tabby in Mamacita's restaurant.

And here's Tabby enjoying some sunlight. 

Tabby with my wonderfully goofy daughter Zoe.

Front Row:  Zoe, Hallie, Kaia.  Back row: Althea, Tabby, Ruth

Tabby and Zoe, and some random weirdo who happened to be passing by...

Me with my brother-in-law, Vincent.  I swear, there was something interesting up there.  No really...

And me, with the look I usually have on my face.  

So, there.  We enjoyed being out of the house.  Tabby was able to walk around for a couple of hours, then had to go home.  She was wiped out for the rest of the day (and most of the next one), but it was good to see her smile and laugh.  

So let this post be a warm fuzzy to you all.  

Love to you. 

Update on Tabby - March 20, 2013

This is a difficult entry to post.  So much has happened since the last update, and much of it within the last 24 hours.  I'm not sure where to begin, but I suppose it should be with Tabby, and an explanation of the image to the left.

We saw Tabby's doctor yesterday to get the results of the CT scan she had on Monday.  The results were that the cancer has grown.  The new treatment did nothing.  Tabby's mother was with us when we heard the news.

The doctor told us it was time to consider hospice care.  For those who don't know, hospice is either a nursing home or in-home care for the terminally ill.  The purpose is to treat the symptoms that come along with dying to make the patient as comfortable as possible until the inevitable happens. What we've known all along just hit us like the proverbial ton of bricks.  There will be no more chemotherapy.  There is no more chance of survival.

I cannot begin to relate to you what it is like, the terrible knowledge that I'm going to lose the other half of my soul.  I cannot begin to fathom the deep ache that Ruth, Tabby's mother, is feeling at the impending loss of a child.  I can't even begin to imagine what is coming for our children at the loss of their mother at such a young age.

Out of this, came a small moment of happiness.  Because of Tabby's condition, she can't actually work. She's been out of work for a year, which means we halved our income and (due to medical bills) we doubled our output.  The point of this isn't to complain, so bear with me.  The home we're living in now, well, to borrow a political phrase, the rent's too damned high.  We can't really afford to live there anymore.  So yesterday, while I was out getting another round of medication for Tabby from our local supermarket, I took a detour through a neighborhood near Plum Creek.  I don't know why I did, other than I kept wondering what was back there, so today my curious nature got the best of me.  As I drove around the tiny subdivision (seriously, there are a total of four streets), I found a house, just one, that was for sale.  A one-story house (Tabby can no longer climb stairs very well...) with a larger square footage than the one we're currently in.  I called the relator and made an offer.  The owner accepted, with VERY little down and payments nearly $200 lower than what I'm paying now.  The house has a beautiful tree in the back yard under which Tabby can sit, and she loves the house.  To make a long story short, if I can get the financing together (I think I can), we're moving.  Tabby won't be doing any of the lifting or anything... That'll be me and whomever I can bribe with beer and pizza.  But the house will be a quiet, serene place for her.  That's the point.  That's what has to happen.  My youngest will stay at her same school, see her friends, and is generally thrilled.  The house is what we've been hoping for.

I am, beyond a doubt, devastated.  Tabby is heart-broken.  I don't know how long I have left with her, but we intend to make the best of it.

Love to all of you.

SAJ

Update on Tabby: 2-6-2013

Before I get too far into this, I need to say something.  Thank you to everyone who reads these, comments on them, shares them, etc.  There's not a whole lot, at this point, I can do or that anyone can do, but it is appreciated.

Yesterday, we went back to Austin to visit with Tabby's doctor and get the results of her latest CT scan.  We expected everything to be stable.  Our expectations were not met.  The tumors have grown.  Significantly.  What that means is that the last year of chemotherapy Tabby has endured has done nothing more than hold it at bay.  It hasn't ben successful in fighting it.  We are all very disappointed.

So what does that mean?  First, back into chemotherapy for Tabby, but this time without the "hooded nightmare" cisplaten, or the torture-drug nulasta.  She's using a drug called Taxol, and will be infused with it once a week for, likely, the rest of her life. In two weeks, we look again to see if there needs to be adjustments made on the dosage, if she's allergic to it, or if it is having any effect whatsoever.  This new drug does have a lower success rate than the first.  If this one fails, there's one other, and it has a lower percentage still.

The doctor was very clear:  She told Tabby that there would come a point where Tabby would have to make a decision.  People who are not in chemotherapy do tend to feel better than those who are not, but they live longer.  Tabby nodded her head and said "Okay.  Let's fight."

Define "tenacity."  Look it up in any dictionary, and you should find a photo of my wife.

There's not much else for me to say at this point.  I continue to watch over her, try to provide comfort for her and my girls, and keep doing what I do because the world, in general, doesn't give a damn.  No matter what happens, the world will keep turning, bills will still need to be paid, and people will still expect things to get done.  And someone has to do them.  So I'm doing them.

I was asked what effect this had on our day to day lives.  I can't even begin to answer that question without sounding like whining, so I won't.  I'll just say there's been a huge impact, the likes of which I hope no one I know will ever endure.  Emotionally, financially, psychologically...  Cancer doesn't just claim one person.  It claims families.  It claims friends.  Those of us that must, do what we must.

Tabby doesn't have an expiration date.  She's planning on fighting until she can't anymore.  How long that will be is anyone's guess.  And I'll be the guy in her corner screaming at her to get back up and fight.  Because I love her.  And because that's what we do.

SAJ

Update on Tabby - 12/31/2012 Taking a Break

We went in to see the doctor today with a great deal of trepidation.  Tabby's body has taken as much abuse as a human body can, and it's starting to wear on her.  Apparently, most people can't take two full batteries of cisplaten-laced chemotherapy, and Tabby's done that and smiled through it.  But recently, her body has begun showing signs of wear.  Constant vomiting, constant fatigue, bone loss, muscle loss...  It's a fight.  A serious fight for her life.

Often, Tabby's doctor has offered to give her a break.  Every other time, Tabby's said she could handle it.  This time, however, we recognized that she needed a break.  Her body stopped recovering between chemotherapy sessions, and I wasn't sure if the cure was hurting her worse than the disease.  So this time, she said she needed the break.  The doctor agreed.  She needs to recover.

So here's the long and the short of what's happening for now:  First, no round 14.  Chemo stops now.  No more nulasta, no more cisplaten, no more beating her to death with this stuff...For now.  Tabby will go back for another CT scan in February to see if the tumors have grown or stayed the same, and we'll figure out what to do from there.

The good news is, she will have time to recover, to purge the poison from her body.  She'll rest, regain some of her strength, and maybe her appetite again.  There will be no three-to-four days of hell while nulasta makes her bones ache.  We might be able to get somewhat caught up on the mounting medical bills.  But there is a down side.  First, we don't know what stopping treatment, even for a month, will do.  It could do nothing.  It could spiral out of control.  It could do a number of things that I don't want to think about.

So here we are...About to begin the new year.  In fact, it's the last day of 2012, and we're looking forward with uncertainty.  We don't know what 2013 will bring, only that with uncertainty comes even a glimmer of hope.

Again, and again and again, thank you to everyone who has wished Tabby well, sent gifts, bought copies of DROPLETS, and kept us in your thoughts and prayers.  Every message she receives, every card, gives her strength and courage.   I'll let you know what happens in February.  Until then, please keep her and our girls in your thoughts. Make no mistake, this is stage 4-b cancer.  This literally is a fight for her life.  The odds are long and stacked against her.  But she's going to keep fighting.

Stasis... An Update on Tabby - 12-05-2012

Round number twelve began yesterday with a CT scan and a gentle probing and visual exam by her doctor.  Incidentally, if you're ever diagnosed with cancer (and believe me, I hope you're not), Texas Oncology is the place to go.  They're the folks taking care of Tabby and keeping her alive.

Back to the narrative:  The CT scan came back and everything was... The same.  Stable was the word they used.  I took a look at the report and it showed all the tumors were within .01 cm of what they were last month (either give or take) or exactly the same.  So what does that mean?

I'm not sure.

On the one hand, it means she's not getting any worse.  We've managed to stop the progression of the cancer so there's that.  On the other hand, it means she's not getting any better, which points to the reason for the title of this blog entry.  Stasis.  Nothing has changed.  She is unable to move forward or back.  We are all just pulling in, trying to support one another, and trying to keep hope alive.  I choose to take this as a good thing because it means I still get to have her around. Yes, it's selfish.  Sue me.

The medication is beating the hell out of her.  The "hooded nightmare," Cisplaten, is a brutal drug that appears to be doing its job, but it's taking its toll on her.  She's constantly tired, weak and her daily bouts of nausea are becoming routine.  It's almost like morning sickness, but it happens morning, noon and night.  She's currently on more than a dozen different prescriptions, including two for the nausea (which don't appear to be working...), magnesium boosters, bone strengtheners, blood pressure medication, and a host of other things pills that equal a handful and a mountain of empty pill bottles in our kitchen.  The Nulasta is one of the worst drugs ever to be necessary.

And yet, through it all, every time the doctor asks her if she can continue, she smiles and says "yes."  Doctor Smith has given her an out multiple times, asking her if she needs a break.  Tabby's determination has never wavered.  Her spirit continues to be indomitable.

This week, in addition to everything else Tabby is going through, she had to go through the pain of losing her father.  Walter Piszczyk was a gentle giant bear of a man who once threatened to break my legs if I broke his daughter's heart.  That's the man I choose to remember.  The man who, along with her stepfather, walked Tabby down the aisle.  His passing hit her hard at a time when she was already beaten down.  And still, she does not waver.

Consider that for a moment.  Think about your worst day.  Think about having those worst days for an entire year.  Think about the strength that it takes to hold your head up and continue to fight.  That's Tabby.  That's my girl.  If you ever had a doubt, it should be gone now.

As usual, if you're wondering what you can do...  At this point, not much.  I'm so thankful for all the messages from you all.  All the visits help her outlook.  My parents, my brother and sister-in-law, my Mother-in-Law, our friends...All of you have helped more than you know.  Our children continue to help and be morale boosters.  At this time of year, money's tight, as always.  Those of you who bought Droplets, you're the reason why we're able to have a Christmas this year, so thank you.  So I guess for now, all you can do is wait, hope, and call in any favors you might have owed you by any deity in which you believe.  Light a candle and spare a thought for Tabby.  She feels it.  I feel it too.

Love to all of you.

SAJ

TABBY UPDATE - 10-03-2012

Yesterday, we got the results of Tabby's latest CT scan, and it showed shrinkage in almost all of the tumors!  The ones that didn't shrink were stable, so we're very happy.  Some shrank by only .1 centimeter, other shrank by a whole centimeter.  The point is, they're getting smaller.  And that's a good thing.  There is hope, and we will continue to move forward.

It's been taking her longer and longer to recover between treatments.  The Nulasta is the bane of her existence, as it is one of the most brutal drugs I've every seen.  And now, as a side effect, it seems to be leeching the calcium out of her body, which has resulted in horrific migraines and extended bouts with vomiting.  The pain, the exhaustion, the nausea, all makes it hard for her to keep chipper, but she tries.

We'd like to thank everyone who has offered assistance.  Our insurance is holding and helping.  The co-payments and our end of the treatments are expensive, and they are slowly building, but at this time, everything is manageable.  I need to send thank-you's to my parents, who have been helping on chemo days by keeping Zoe and sending dinner home; to my daughter Anna for driving when I can't; to Ruth (Tabby's mom) who comes down whenever Tabby needs her; to my brother and his family for their assistance whenever we ask; and to all of our friends for understanding why we haven't seen them for so long.  To everyone who has bought a copy of DROPLETS, you have no idea the difference you've made in helping pay our medical bills.  And to everyone else who has sent love, care packages, good thoughts and vibes, sent e-mails or called, thank you very much.  You are helping to keep our spirits alive and you are as much a part of the healing and recovery process as the chemotherapy.

We love you guys very much.

Thanks.

If anyone would like to purchase a copy of DROPLETS, it is still available.  Also, for those wishing to show support for ANY cancer victim, you can do so at Choose Hope.

Big Thank You, And an Update!

I just wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you to everyone who has read these blogs and who bought a copy of Droplets to help pay for Tabby's medical costs.  While we're not out of the woods yet, and we have a long way to go, your support and love and help have meant so much to us both.  I can't possibly name everyone who has given their time, bought a book, lit a candle, prayed or sent gifts, but you know who you are.  You know what you did, and for that, I thank you from the bottom of my black little heart.

Now, on with the update.

First off, Tabby's last CT scan showed shrinkage.  This'll probably be the only time I ever say "shrinkage is a good thing," but in this case it is.  What that means, I hope, is that we're over the hump.  Since April, we've been told "no change" and "no growth," but it hadn't gotten smaller either.  Now, the tumors have shrunk.  Not much, but enough that there is a glimmer of hope.

Tabby has, as a result of all this mess, developed diabetes.  Likely, it'll resolve itself when her pancreas starts working on its own again, but we don't know that.  Also, because her white bloodcell count was very low, the doctors put her on something called "Nulasta," which forces her body to overproduce white blood cells.  Sounds good, until you realize how your body does such a thing.  White blood cells come from bone marrow, which means that, when she's injected with this stuff, every bone in her body aches.  Literally.  Every.  Bone.  She's a tough lady, but it's hard to know she's in that kind of pain.

The chemo makes her very tired, but she's keeping her spirits up.  It's that positive attitude that is a testament to her strength, and is helping her fight.  And one of the big things that's keeping her spirits up is you.

So to everyone who reads this, thank you.

Just a reminder, if anyone is still interested in buying a copy of Droplets (all proceeds go to paying Tab's medical bills), you can do so by visiting The American Horror Writer Bookstore.