Desperation

I did not write much while I was in the hospital because I was so excruciatingly weak that I just could not do it. I never thought that would happen, but it did. I was almost afraid to write because then it would make what was happening real – documented forever.

Now that I'm removed from the setting and feeling much more at peace in my body and my mind I can reflect and express with more freedom from the "other side."

There were a couple of nights in the hospital that I thought it was the end. I've never, ever during this entire year-long battle thought that I wasn't going to make it. If I did think about dying it was for a fleeting moment and I was always able to push it away quickly and violently. However, after several days of unending fevers and unsatisfied sleep, my mind got the best of me. My biggest fear going into the stem cell transplant process was that I would acquire an infection that my body would not be able to fight. There are two people that I know of that did not make it through to the other side and it was because of an infection – not the cancer, not the chemo, but something that overtook them while their immune system was down and they could not recover.

When my fevers started getting up to 103, I feared that this was also my fate. The buzz of hospital bells and IV alarms, as well as the every-four-hours vital checks, kept me awake in the hospital, but so did this fear. I was afraid that if I fell asleep that I would not wake up and that no one would find me until the next round with the vitals machine. A couple of times when I would doze off I'd wake up with a jolt, screaming on the inside, gasping for breath and trying to understand where I was.

As the feverish days and nights continued I found myself praying. I did not know who I was praying to. I begged he/she/it to save me. I promised that if they did I would do so much good in the world. That if I was spared, if I was chosen to make it through this that I would be forever grateful and that I would dedicate my life to making the lives of others better. I'd find myself crying as I begged for my life as I spoke – in whispers – to this ominous being telling them that I was not done, that I was not ready to go. My tears were different tears than I'd ever felt before. They spilled and trickled out in such a natural and sincere way. They weren't violent or stinging. They were cleansing, involuntary tears.

I had fought so hard and made it through so much that the idea of something as simple as a cold virus killing me was just not acceptable. I could tell in the eyes of all the doctors that they were very concerned as much as they played it cool and kept ordering a strong arsenal of antibiotics ... nothing was working.

It's funny the things that you do and the things that go through your mind at a time of such vulnerable desperation. I thought about my funeral, about who would be there, about who would speak and what they would say. I thought about Craig and Sammy and cried as I thought of them alone in our house. I thought about my life and what I've done with it up to this point and I tried to come to terms with the fact that I had lived a fantastic life and done so many things and had the privilege to truly love and to truly feel loved by my family, my friends, complete strangers. I felt comforted that if whatever the source of these fevers was was going to take me that at least I had no regrets and that at least I felt I had lived my life as fully as I could. But at the same time, I knew that I had so much more fight left in me and that I had so much more that I wanted to do. But I became very, very scared and started to lose hope.

I wrote an e-mail to my close friends and in my head it was in a way a goodbye e-mail though I didn't say that in so many words. In my head I wanted them to know what I was feeling and I wanted them to know how much I cared about them. Then I thought about the hundreds of people that I had behind me, that I knew were also praying for me to all of their different gods and I kept thinking 'I can't let them down.'

Of all music, I chose to play Vivaldi on my iPod to try to relax myself. It brought back memories of Sunday mornings at my grandparents, waking up to classical music playing and the smell of Red Rose tea and buttery toast. It took me into a deep, distant place that I'd never been before. I was so, so scared. I kept thinking of the "fight or flight" lessons in psychology and thought that if I conceded to the fear, that if I relaxed into it and accepted that I was going to die, that I would be sending my body the message that I was ready, that I was done fighting, that it was okay to give up.

So each morning I would push away the fears and the tears of the night before and get out of bed, shower, do yoga stretches, work out with my exercise bands, watch funny movies and laugh like a normal 27-year-old. I was strong for my parents, for my husband and I never told them how I truly thought that I was going to die. I thought that if I said it out loud that it would happen and I didn't want to take that chance. I had to make sure that my mind stayed strong so that my body would follow suit. Then by the grace of all the Gods it did.

The doctors told me that my white blood cell counts had recovered and that this was likely what I needed. I distinctly remember Dr. Cooper saying that there is no better medicine than my own immune system. Like the little engine that could, my bone marrow started pumping out a white blood cell army that narrowed in on whatever it was knocking me down and took it out with a wallop of healing power. The power to fight the infection was inside me all along. When they held that thermometer under my tongue for the umpteenth time and my temperature registered at a cool 98.6 degrees I knew in that moment that I was going to live. I was chosen to be saved.

I am so forever grateful that I was spared and am so humbled and proud of my body and of my mind and my heart for getting me through. Now I have a great urgency to do so much with my life, but at this moment I am so very, very tired and am working on reintroducing myself to the world in baby steps ... baby steps.

Pardoned

This past Tuesday my parents took me back to Smilow for another check of my bloodwork and a breathing treatment to prevent PCP pneumonia. It was also the day that I found out the next plan of action.

All of my blood chemistries came back normal. I didn't need any transfusions or electrolyte repletions – great signs that my body is doing what it is supposed to be doing, rebuilding.

The breathing treatment was a little odd, but no big deal. I've never had to take an inhaler in my life so it was a bit strange. The respiratory therapist took me into a room and had me suck two puffs out of this big inhaler tube to take in the medicine. Then he hooked me up to a nebulizer which was basically like breathing in and out of a big peace pipe. I had to "breathe normally" (as easy as that is) while wet, medicated air flowed in and out of my lungs for about 15 minutes. I choked on it a couple times and drool dribbled down my chin, but I recovered. I'll have to repeat this treatment twice more over the next few months as a preventative measure.

Erin, Dr. Cooper's APRN, came to see me as well as my transplant coordinator, Kathryn. So, next steps? I have an appointment with my local oncologist, the esteemed Dr. Dailey to check in and get him up to speed on what took place during this whirlwind two months since I've seen him. I'll now be back under his care. Then it's back to Smilow on July 1 where I will receive another breathing treatment and lay in the tunnel once again for a PET Scan. I'll then meet with Erin to go over the scan results. The hope is that all the chemo worked and we can say officially that I am in remission and cancer-free. On my last scan after the ICE it was determined that there were no visible signs of cancer, though there was one area in my chest lighting up – it was read as non-cancerous (possibly my thymus gland being super active?). We're hoping that this is completely gone at this point. If not, then we'll have to look at some other options to rule out cancer activity with more certainty. I'm confident that my scan will be clear ... though nervous as hell.

My restrictions? Stay away from obviously sick people. Continue my antibiotic three times a day for six months. Come back for check-ups with Dr. Cooper at 3, 6, 9, and 12 months post transplant. Continue on the no sushi, no digging in dirt restrictions. No gym for at least two weeks while my platelets continue to recover (yoga class is fine so I'm back at the studio every day). Get lots of rest. Drink lots of fluids. Listen to my body. Ease back into work as I feel ready. Other than that, as directly quoted from Erin: "Eat, drink and be merry."

They de-accessed my port and sent me on my way – a whole month of freedom. My parents went to use the restroom and I went out into the meditation garden for one last time. As soon as I heard the babbling river and was surrounded by the zen stacked rocks and exotic trees I just lost it. I had worked so hard to stay strong for so long and now that I was granted release it all just came flooding out of me – everything that I had been gritting my teeth to hold back so that I could pile drive through the hurt, the pain, the frustration and the fear.

I sat on a bench and just started shoulder-shaking crying. There were other patients out there, but I didn't care. I just stared out at the view overlooking the city as tears streamed down my face. Hot tears of pure relief and release, a physical symbol that I made it through. I sat there thinking about all of the previous times I was out in that garden – always with an IV pole attached to me, always with at least a mask on, other times with gloves and a gown to protect myself. But that day I was free to breathe in the air and to touch the weathered wood of the bench with my bare hands, run my fingers over the ridges and elevations of the stones.

My parents came out and found me red-faced and teary-eyed and sat on either side of me as together we took it all in. The fight from hell was over and we all felt a whole lot lighter.

Day +10 RELEASED!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday, May 29, 2010, 10 days after my stem cell transplant my body recovered to the point that it was deemed ready to be sent home. My mind and spirit got to come along too, but they've got a lot of catching up to do. My emotions are all over the place right now.

Throughout Thursday night I never spiked a fever. My first temp check of the day on Friday registered at 98.6, an exactly normal temp. It stayed that way for the rest of the day. I was physically feeling a lot better, just beyond tired. I really never slept more than 4 or so hours a night for an eight day stretch and sleep was broken all the nights of the chemo infusions the week before so it was safe to say that I was sleep deprived.

The attending doctor and the team of residents and interns came in to see me in the morning and told me that my white blood cell count had completely recovered – 7.5 (from 0.1 on Saturday) – my immune system was back. They told me that as long as I could "stay cool," meaning no fever, that they could possibly discharge me that evening or the next morning at the latest.

I was kind of in shock.

"Would you like that?" he asked.

"I would love that," I said. "Even tomorrow morning would be fantastic."

Before they came in I was poking around my soggy corn flakes in a plastic box mentally preparing myself for starting the course of steroids later that morning and preparing myself for another three days of hospital food and IV pole tethering.

Well, I did "stay cool" all day in fact and because I never spiked another temp, the steroid regimen was never needed. My body embraced my stem cells without a problem. The persistent fevers were just chalked up to my severely compromised immune system - something was going on inside me that it couldn't fight but as soon as those stem cells birthed enough white blood cells at the direction of all those Neupogen shots they started taking care of business and got me back to normal temp.

Craig was there with me for the day and we worked on some projects together to pass the time. I received some potassium and phosphorus repletions to bring up my levels and continued on my oral antibiotics. They still had another fecal sample out for testing so the contact precautions were back on until anything was ruled out so I wasn't allowed to leave the room and everyone in it had to glove, gown and mask – including Craig. I really had no expectations of going home that night.

Then all of the sudden at about 3pm a resident and an intern came into my room and said that they were going to be sending you home. The fecal matter tests came back negative so the precautions signs outside my door were taken down and everyone ripped off their blue paper gowns. They explained that since my counts were back to normal, since my feveral pattern had subsided and since I had no other symptoms that it was safe to say that my body had recovered from the high-dose chemo and stem cell transplant.

I don't remember what I said back but the doctors looked at me and said: "Does that sound good? Would you prefer to leave tonight?"

I just didn't get it.

"So I can go home home, not the hotel? I can eat what I want, drink what I want, go out in public?"

Craig said that as I spoke my voice was so shaky and he could visibly see my chin trembling. He had to keep stepping in to ask questions and talk for me.

They told me that I still should avoid big crowds and stay away from anyone who is visibly sick as I continue to recover. Dr. Cooper and his nurse Erin who saw me later told me that my only restrictions were "no sushi and no digging in the dirt for a while" and that they'd see me on Tuesday.

The doctors told me that they'd write up my discharge instructions and write me a prescription for Acyclovair, the antibiotic I'll continue to take three times a day for six months. As my platelet count was borderline they also wanted to transfuse me with one more unit of platelets before I left just to be on the safe side. They also scheduled me to return to the clinic on Sunday for more bloodwork and any other transfusions as needed. Then again on Tuesday for the same, a breathing treatment to prevent PCP pneumonia and to discuss the rest of the follow-up care.

They left and Craig says to me: "You looked like you were going to cry."

I responded by starting to cry. I was just so overwhelmingly relieved and completely stunned that I made it through. It felt exactly like sky diving when I was 18 though instead of the amazing adrenalin of that free fall, this had been a free fall from hell filled with fear, sadness, confusion and hurt. I jumped out of the plane at 13,500 feet with a little Australian man attached to my back. we were free falling through the sky at 120 miles an hour for one solid minute of pure energy rush. Then together we pulled the cord, the parachute released and the abrupt change in motion was so harsh. I remember the harness around my upper thighs locking so tight against me and our bodies wrenching with the force of the parachute stopping our free fall as it felt we being yanked upward.

When I heard that this proverbial free fall was over, everything around me stopped just as suddenly. It was the abruptness that was the strange part. All of the sudden it was over. I was going from not being able to leave a room or to move my bowels without telling anyone to complete freedom to do whatever my body could handle and complete release to go and start the lifetime healing process. I can only hope that what's to come will be just as beautiful as the slow, gentle, breathtaking parachute descent I took from the sky to a field of grass 10 years ago.

I did not have much to say on the ride home. I was just so happy to have the windows down and the breeze blowing in. We stopped at our favorite pizza place for the Little City special - chicken, melted leeks and artichokes galore. As we waited for my prescription to be filled, we ate it in the car with the windows rolled down. We parked it by a nearby restaurant with a patio that had a guy outside singing and playing guitar. We savored the pizza and listened as he sang U2's "It's A Beautiful Day" agreeing with every sweet lyric.

Then it was home where I inhaled the familiar scents, took a long hot shower to get rid of that lingering hospital film and climbed into bed spreading out in the glorious soft sheets that don't scratch and pillows that are not blue and rubber.

Here I am 11 hours of sleep later with a much clearer head and holding a lot of pride. Things aren't perfect. I'm still very weak, sore, bruised and battered with a persistent cough and chest tightness but I'm on the sweet descent. I'm going to take things slowly and try to decompress and grapple with everything that just happened. I know this will take a long time, but I am so excited for so many good things to come. Most immediately I look forward to a Memorial Day weekend of sun, fresh air, parades and barbecues.

Smiling and at peace.

Day +9

Yesterday I had an all-star cast of caregivers which is exactly what I needed. I had the same nurse for 12 hours and her energy never faded throughout the shift. She was efficient, friendly, and genuinely happy. She was always smiling and humming anytime she was in the room. It was exactly what I needed as I was very tired and lethargic as it's been many, many days since a good night's sleep (as I write at 4 a.m. ...), but her energy was contagious. It's all about attitude. Another nurse who I had my first day was back to help out with my transfusion and I love talking to her because she has been working with stem cell transplant patients forever and is incredibly knowledgeable about it all. She helped me more fully understand what is happening in my body at this point in the process. One of my favorite PCAs was back that always calls me Miss Diamond. And, even the woman that transported me to a CT Scan was so talkative and friendly.

It was a busy morning. I received another transfusion of platelets and a repletion of magnesium. They also drew yet another set of blood cultures because of a fever the night before. Again it took three nurses to pull from my arm vein. Now it's just comical. I just look away and focus deeply on my breathing.

Unfortunately I still had a few fevers. I'm hovering around 100 and got up to 101.3 at about 5pm. All the blood cultures keep coming back negative for any viral or bacterial infection, which is good. Dr. Cooper ordered a CT Scan yesterday to take a closer look at my chest and upper abdomen to see if there is anything going on there as I've had persistent dry coughing spasms especially at night and in the morning, but that's been happening for weeks. Preliminary results showed nothing that would be causing a fever and revealed that my lungs look nice and clear – also very assuring.

My white blood cells are just about fully recovered now so they are thinking that if I did have an infection, my body would be strong enough to fight it. Therefore they have stopped the IV antibiotics and I am just continuing on the oral ones –some of which I will for six months as part of the protocol.

Rather than an infection, what we are now looking at as the fever cause is an inflammatory response happening in my body due to all the action in my bone marrow and all of these young, vibrant cells taking over the tired, weak chemo-compromised ones. Sometimes as the cells graft together the body can mistake the new ones as invaders and react causing a fever. This is not uncommon in transplant patients.

As of yesterday evening's talk with Dr. Cooper, after the next fever we're going to try a course of steroids (prednisone) to calm my body down and reduce the flare-ups. If the fevers go away after that then the mystery is solved and I'm free to go home. I believe the steroids are a few day course so I don't expect to be going anywhere anytime soon ... .

With my contact precautions now lifted Craig and I were able to spend some time in the healing garden yesterday which was nice – and we can now hug instead of fist pump which is double nice. We spent the afternoon watching funny movies and doing a little napping.

Unfortunately I'm still hooked up to the IV pole for regular saline maintenance fluids. It's certainly getting old being tethered for nearly a week now and I'm going to ask the resident this morning if we can discontinue that too since I'm having no problem eating and drinking. If it means I have to drink 18 pitchers of water a day I'll do it if it means I don't have to lug this thing around with me. My taste is certainly not fully recovered, but it's much improved and therefore so is my appetite. I'm told it could take weeks for my tongue to react normally again to flavors.

It's really not so bad here though. The room is so spacious, I have my own bathroom, shower, and fridge, and I have a couch and a recliner so I don't have to be in bed all of the time. What I love most is the view I lucked out with. I can see all the way to Sleeping Giant mountain with so many lush, green trees and a beautiful red rock formation to marvel at. Last night I could see the bright lights of a night game in a baseball stadium and that made me smile. The night before I witnessed an awesome lightning display – full sky to mountain strikes. I've never seen a thunderstorm so vivid. My view is to the west so I've caught breathtaking sunsets every single night.

I'm happy to have a new plan of action and hoping that these steroids do the trick and I can bust out and take a long, deep sleep in my own bed – after a good tennis ball fetch session with Sammy of course.

Day +1 to Day +8 Recovery

It's been quite a ride. And I thought that I've already been on all the scary rides at the amusement park over this past year. Lots of ups and downs. Lots of gut checks. Lots of spins, confusion, weakness, chills, sweats, even some diarrhea and puking. It's actually been quite like continuous long days at Six Flags after too many spicy fries and soft serve cones combined with centrifugal rides that make you stick to the wall while the floor drops out from under you.

Last Thursday we moved down to New Haven into the hotel suite. It's pretty tight quarters but has a kitchen with all the amenities, a living area, and a super comfortable queen size bed. The night before I was literally on hands and knees trying to pack a suitcase with 15 days worth of things that I would need but so far somehow I didn't seem to miss anything. My mom had bought me a huge pill box with openings for morning, evening and bedtime for each day and counted out all the antibiotics and anti-nausea pills that I would need to be taking. The antibiotics are like horse pills and were especially a bear to get down due to my incredibly uncomfortable mouth. By Thursday I had no taste buds and my entire tongue and mouth was coated in a white film and it felt like I had a tube sock stuck in there. Never mind the nausea and gag reflexes kicking in when trying to take them, but I'd gotten them all down, knowing that if I couldn't get them down that I would have to be admitted as an inpatient and I was trying to avoid that at all costs.

Thursday's trip into the clinic went fine. Then it was the same drill on Friday. I got my blood work done then received a Neupogen shot to start boosting my white blood cells and two bags of fluids to keep me hydrated and keep my blood pressure up. On Friday we were there for several hours but it was beautiful out and Craig and I played cards out in the meditation garden until my IV pump ran out of battery and we had to head back in. Afterward I was feeling pretty strong. We went on a drive through New Haven, rented some movies for the week, and went to the beach where we laid out on a blanket and read in the evening sun. Back at the hotel my appetite was feeling better than it had in days so I had some Annie's mac and cheese with spinach and chicken sausage. We curled up to watch a movie and I was feeling "good" (a relative term, of course).

Then the clock struck midnight and all hell broke lose. I could literally feel my upper and lower intestines throbbing in pain and it was bathroom trip after bathroom trip doubled over with horrible diarrhea. They told me the Melaphan chemo drug would cause this but I never imagined it to be that bad. I was up all night transferring from fetal position on the bed to hunched on the toilet. By 8am when we had to head to the clinic I was incredibly weak, still in a lot of pain, and unaware if things were going to act up again. Every movement was so cautious, Craig comparing me to a 97-year-old woman and that's really what I felt like.

We rolled in and they tried to put me in one of the chemo pods but I told them that I needed a room with my own bathroom and explained the night. I was sent t0 the far end of the hall. Being a Saturday it was bare bones staff and Craig and I sat in there for nearly 45 minutes before anyone came to get me started, check on me or put a pillowcase on the pillow. Finally our call bell was answered and we came to realize that this would just be the day of hellish care. Note to self: try not to feel awful on the weekend shifts. When the nurse finally came I told her that I was having wicked back and stomach pain and about the night 'o diarrhea. Because of that she called the on-call fellow - also not much help. Then luckily Dr. Cooper swept in.

At this point I was downright weapy, all teary-eyed and choked up because I just felt so, so shitty. I told him that I'm usually really tough and I was just feeling awful. I couldn't help the hot tears from streaming down my face and had to keep wiping them away with a tissue. I was running a temp of 100.1 and because it was still so early in the morning he said it was safe to assume that it would only rise throughout the day and made the decision to admit me and get me on IV antibiotics. Though I certainly did not want to be back in the hospital again, I knew it was the best, and the safest thing to bring out the heavy antibiotic guns and to be monitored at all times.

So the preparation for admission ensued. While in the clinic they took blood cultures to test for any bacterial infections. Most could be pulled from my port but some have to come from a peripheral vein in my arm in case the infection was in my port itself. This took two nurses on their knees, three vein pokes and an arm that was about to explode they tied the tunicate so tight and had to leave it on so long because my vein was only dribbling. I was just so tired that it was all I could do to breathe deeply as my eyes continued to well.

I was then admitted to the solid tumors floor as that was the first bed to open up. There I received two units of red blood cells and four units of platelets. My nurse was nothing short of a nightmare. I've had wonderful, wonderful nurses, mediocre and some doozies but never one like this. I was so out of it, but luckily coherent and smart enough to know to advocate for myself. It was one thing after another after another that just wasn't going right with her. Dr. Cooper came up to see me and when I got all teary and told him that she wouldn't hook me up to fluids flippantly saying that I didn't need them and that I had to convince her to recheck the orders to see that in fact I do need Benadryl before platelets. Hearing all of this he stood up chest puffed out like an ape and he ripped his paper gown off like Clark Kent revealing his Superman undersuit and went into the hall to find her. I'm pretty sure he reamed her a new one because when she came back later she asked me: "What was that doctor's name?" The next morning he made sure that I was transferred to the 11th floor which is devoted to blood cancers and I've been here ever since.

I really wish that I was up to writing over this past week but I just could not get the strength. And anytime I got close to it someone would come in to put me through something. It's not easy to keep a creative flow going here. But I guess it's also just a testament to how awful, awful I was feeling. Looking back on Sunday through today it's all a big blur. Maybe it's better to remember it that way. It's been a blur of all different antibiotics throughout the day and night by mouth and by drip, daily Neupogen shots that burn like hell, blood transfusions, magnesium and potassium transfusions. A blur of constant vitals checks, blood draws, chest x-rays, blood cultures, physical exams and the dreary eyed desire for an uninterrupted night's sleep. A physical blur of throat sore pain, vomiting, diarrhea, aches, and extreme weakness.

The worst of all has been the fevers which have continued since I was admitted on Saturday. Anywhere from 100.1 up to 103.2, never going below 99. Each would start with violent, shaking, teeth chattering chills. Despite wrapping myself in several blankets I could not warm up and could not stop shaking. They would give me Tylenol and all I could do was curl up in bed and ride out the chills until the fever broke and I was soaked in sweat. The hunt has been for the cause of the fevers to make sure I don't have any type of bacterial or viral infection. This is why they've been drawing so many blood cultures and I also have had to endure swabs up every orifice. So far, everything continues to come back negative.

I've never been bored. Not for a second. In fact I wish that I had more time to read or sleep or catch up on miscellaneous projects but again the energy or gusto was completely zapped. I've had either my parents or Craig here for a few hours each day with Craig coming for a couple hours after work each evening before he goes back to sleep at the hotel and commute the hour to work. We've watched movies together and my parents even brought bright garden streamers to decorate the room. But often it has been them watching me half-sleep.

All started to turn around on Tuesday and has been doing so turner for the brighter with each day. Until I come out of neutropenia and I stop having these fevers they will keep me here. What's helpful to keep in mind is that I am here to heal, not here to receive more toxic drugs. This means that when I do get released it'll be just to continue along the recovery path. This time once I start to feel close to myself again it won't mean that it's time for more chemo. It'll mean that I can keep the healing going.

Day 0: The Making of Karin 2.0

I had finally reached the proverbial summit. I had expected that the view at the top would be crisp and clear, peaceful and serene. Instead the view was confusing, intimidating and surreal as I was so tired and foggy headed from all the chemo.

I had come so far to this point: Day 0, my mollecular rebirth. We'd been talking about an autologous stem cell transplant for more than a year. It was always thrown in as part of conversations with Dr. Dailey to assure me that there were back-up methods should the ABVD chemo treatments disappoint. And that even those who go through high-dose chemo and a stem cell transplant have a strong survival rate. A year ago the idea of a stem cell transplant was to me a far-off scientific abstraction, but a great insurance policy, another safety net that would be at my disposable in the very minimal chance that the aggressive 12 infusions of ABVD didn't cut it.

Now I am resting in that stem cell transplant safety net like a trapeze artist hoping that it will hold me firmly and gently and that I'll never fall through. There have been brief discussions about further options - an allogenic stem cell transplant with bone marrow from a donor - if I somehow relapse. But that will not happen.

My mother and sister came with me to the cancer clinic for my rebirth day. There was a bit more pomp and circumstance this time around as it was a full and legit stem cell transplant unlike the "mini" I had with DI-CEP. Kathryn, my coordinator, brought me a bag of birthday goodies including a Yale baseball cap and Blockbuster gift cards. My nursing duo of Ann Marie and Chona whom had been administering my high-dose chemo all week were the ones there to celebrate the re-infusion with me.

I was at once very tired and very hopeful. I lay in the hospital bed with my mother and sister in chairs beside me and the nurse from the stem cell bank arrived with my blue Igloo cooler of 6.5 million cells. The frozen cells were warmed and the bag was hung.

Nurse Chona clapped and cheered as they started to descend into my port saying: "They're swimming. They're swimming."

I asked again how they know where to go and she compared the stem cells to sea turtles. Mother sea turtles lay their eggs on the beach and when the baby turtles hatch it's just in their DNA to know which way to crawl away. I closed my eyes and thought of a line of baby turtles hobbling toward the ocean and willed my blood cells to do the same.

I sucked on a ginger lollipop and ice chips to calm the itching sensation in my throat from the preservative, but other than that, had no negative reaction. The Benadryl and Tylenol I received beforehand put me in a sleepy state.

Pandora radio was playing on my iPhone and a most apropos James Taylor song came on called "One Morning in May" in which the chorus kept repeating "Good Morning, Good Morning" like it was my stem cells reuniting with the rest of me and sending us salutations for a good start to the day. Then came George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun," which seems to be a recurring theme during all of this. Then my cell phone rang when the stem cells were just inches from reaching my chest and it was Craig. So he was there by phone for the big cellular reunion. We marveled at the coincidences.

I left to use the bathroom and came out to find my mom and sister all teary and crying – happy tears. I thought that I would have done a lot of crying and would have been more emotional, but as my mom described me she said I just looked at peace. I did feel at peace and felt a tremendous amount of hope.

Day -1: Melphalan

This past Monday, it was early to rise with another morning appointment down at Smilow. The last day of BEAM chemo. It was only one drug – one of the high-dose drugs – but I was told that it would go smoothly albeit the fiery diarrhea that would set in days later.

Eerily similar to when I arrived for my 12th and last ABVD chemotherapy infusion, my port decided to act up. It would flush the saline they always send through it without a problem, but it would not give back any blood. One-way only. I had flashbacks to being back in the Avon Cancer Center with the nurse having me turn every which way to no avail until they finally had to stick me in the arm to get my blood and sated me by drawing a smiley face on the bandage.

I was very tired from all the chemo and this was really the last thing that I wanted to deal with, but it happens. Sometimes fibers get caught up in the port-a-cath and can cause a blockage of some sort that doesn’t allow for a clean blood return. So the charade began. My nurse laid me all the way back, half-way back, turned me on my side, put my right arm over my head, had me cough, put my left arm up. Still nothing but a few bloody dribbles until reinforcements were called in and Chona, my absolute favorite little Philipino nurse, was able to get the job done.

The blood work was sent and the chemo began … two hours of dripping. To my surprise, my blood work showed that my hematocrit had already dropped down to 23 and I would need an infusion of red blood cells. So much for a short clinic trip. We’ve certainly learned to expect the unexpected and always plan to be there for much longer than anticipated. That’s why my “activity bag” is always packed tight. The anemia setting in explained some of my tiredness, but I had just chalked it up to the chemo effects – I’m sure it’s a combination.

Blood transfusions always require prophylactic Tylenol and Benadryl, which I don’t do well with at all, so I was in and out of a loopy state while Craig tried to keep me entertained with funny online videos and by taking on the huge task of organizing our address book.

A visit by PCA Wade and another of his magic card tricks made me smile. And so did the caring of my nurse team – Ann Marie and Chona. They’d been working with me consistently since the first day of BEAM, and it was nice to have the continuity of care. They’re compassionate, attentive and efficient … and I like how Chona calls me ‘honey’ and makes a pouty face when she knows she has to do something to me that I’m not going to like. She’s feisty, energetic and positive. Something you really come to appreciate in a caregiver.

Eight hours later we were released. Chemo no more.

Day - 3 and Day -2 (Etoposide and Cytarabine x2)

The idea of a nurse showing up to administer drugs became old hat very quickly. Even Sammy did well with it. She didn’t give any of the four nurses that we had over any trouble. Just some curious sniffing then she let them be. She was also dainty and respectful around my IV line so there wasn’t concern that a quick jolt would rip the needle out of my chest.

Last Saturday morning (Day -3) Chatty was back, but a little quieter after she had already divulged her life story the day before. In fairness, she was very nice, just a little – different. And that’s what makes the world go round, right? I especially liked her on this morning because she allowed me to receive my chemo out under the sun umbrella on my front porch where I played music and caught up on things. She perched herself inside watching me through the dining room windows and would occasionally come over for a chat and a vitals check. We shared some laughs as Craig bounced around doing yardwork.

I felt fine from the chemo. Craig, Sammy and I took a nice hike further enjoying the summer-like weather and even made a trip to the ol’ Home Depot. I did some yoga stretches then indulged in a cat nap.

By 7pm that night she was back and all worked out perfectly as Craig and I had rented “The Blindside.” Well, Chatty had never seen this and was delighted. As much as we offered for her to come sit on the couch and watch it with us, she sat in the kitchen “so she could pretend to work on her paperwork” though she chimed in with us throughout the movie, eyes glued. She told us what a bad procrastinator she is and we apologized for taking her away from her work. All-in-all it was a good Saturday night.

Sunday (Day -2) came and it meant not only the last day of home chemo, but also that I’d only be receiving one drug twice that day, the Cytarabine. This cut the drug dripping time from 4 to 1 ½ hours, which was a great way to end the week. The short time periods gave us a longer window of freedom. This was good because the exhaustion of nighttime/morningtime chemo was really starting to take its toll and my body felt inflated like a cartoon character from all the fluids – sausage legs, cankles and all.

We did a shorter walk; this time on the flat grounds of the neighborhood streets as my joints were really starting to tighten and swell, but I knew that it was important to move my body every day that I possibly could. The doctors and nurses … and Ethan Zohn (Survivor winner and fellow stem cell warrior)… had told me that the more I move, the better, and I’m taking that to heart.

I was thrilled that I had the strength and that the timing worked for Craig and me to make it to celebrate my former roommate/wonderful friend Laura’s UHa graduation with her Doctorate in Clinical Psychology with a fantastic Elbow Room lunch in our old West Hartford Center stomping grounds. Her family had flown up from Miami and other close friends had made the flights and drives. It was great to catch up and to witness such a much-deserved accomplishment for her.

But before the chemo clock struck we had to whisk out of there to be back to meet the last visiting nurse. Craig had to run some errands so it was just her and me. As a precaution Craig and I set up a code text to send if things got uncomfortable.

Well, it was quite the opposite. I was enthralled by her. She was in her thirties, fiery red wavy hair and lots of freckles. She was petite and had the build of a modern dancer. However, she hobbled around locked tight in a knee brace from recent ACL surgery. She told me how she just couldn’t stand working so she bribed people to drive her to her home visits. I could relate. We had an immediate rapport and a very comfortable couple of hours together. She recounted some stories of her work as a pediatric oncology nurse and shared some woes about also being denied short-term disability pay because of a merger loophole. We talked about our iPhones and about the decorations in our houses then we settled in to watch Trump’s Miss USA contest – always entertaining – remarking at the choices of dresses and the oodles of makeup. I was maybe even a little bit sad when I heard the IV pump beep meaning that her company would be ending.

But that faded quickly when it set in that I had just one more final day of the BEAM regimen and that it would hopefully conclude chemotherapy for the rest. of. my. life.

Day -4 (Etoposide and Cytarabine x2)

One positive about having cancer. It can get you out of a speeding ticket.

On Friday again it was another very early trek to New Haven and I was again a grumpy girl not wanting to drag myself back for more chemo after I had just finished it up at 11pm the night before. So I pushed it to the last second until Craig was able to get me in the car and out the door.

As we were a bit behind, Craig may have been going just a bit over the speed limit and out ripped a police car, lights flashing behind us. We both looked at each other and knew we were thinking the same thing.

"Take off your bandana," Craig said, pointing to the navy kerchief I had tied over my bald head. Really, who can give a ticket to a man driving a bald woman to a chemo appointment? We thought it was worth a shot so I pulled it off revealing my shiny, freckled hairless head and even better exposing my droopy, swollen eyes and very sparse showing of eyebrow hairs or eyelashes ... not a pleasant site at 6:30 a.m.

The officer came up to Craig's window, requested to see his driver's license and asked if he was on his way to work. He explained that no, he was taking his wife to Yale's cancer center and I bent over so he could see me in full and piped in that I was on my way to chemo.

As predicted, he took one look at me, didn't even take the driver's license and just said: "The roads are wet. Take it slow," and let us drive away. Cops do have hearts.

We pulled away laughing hysterically at the situation and the fringe benefits of cancer patienthood.

After the little pull-over blip, we got to Smilow in plenty of time. And added bonus, it was massage day in the clinic. I was whisked away by a sultry accented woman into a massage room complete with music and a real massage table and a view of the meditation garden. My IV pole and dripping chemo came with me of course, but it was a fantastic half-hour respite.

I returned to Craig and the chemo recliner and we caught up on e-mails, watched funny videos and flipped through mags and books ... the usual routine. Everything went smoothly.

After some errands and a visit to a Yale haunt "The Educated Burgher" courtesy of some thoughtful friends, we were back home with time for a little nap before the night nurse came to the house for the second 4-hour set of chemo.

This nurse was quite a bit more chatty than the first night ... unsolicited chatty that is. I heard all about her heavily drinking father, her cluttered house, her son's cars all over the yard, her daughter's boyfriend that she disapproves of, her cats, her sunroom and the grill that exploded in it. Really fascinating material for someone who just wanted to zone out, but what are you going to do? No matter how much I pretended to be into the TV or computer or book, the verbal diarrhea continued to flow. But at least she was nice and Craig and I were able to just give each other knowing glances and elbow jabs to get through it. Eventually we just passed out on the couch until the final drug beeped that it was done.

It was time for bed to be up for Chatty Cathy's arrival the next morning at 8 a.m.

Day -5 (Etoposide and Cytarbine x2)

My mom and I made the early morning over one-hour trek to Yale to arrive for my 7:30am appointment. I was quite grumpy in the morning and pushed leaving to the last possible minute. My mom had stayed over the night before so she didn't have to wake up with the roosters to get to my house and pick me up in time. Reminiscent of those days when I'd roll over and whine not wanting to go to middle school, she got my butt out of bed and into the car.

We made it on time and I was hooked up with chemo dripping before we knew it. I've received the Etoposide before, both with the pediatric ICE regimen as well as the DI-CEP, so I knew that I could tolerate it without a problem. The Cytarabine was new to me, but went down fine as well. In total the drugs dripped for about three hours after I received the usual steroids and powerful anti-nausea meds (Zofran is amazing.)

I dozed off under one of the heated blankets with the butt warmer cranking on the heated chemo recliner and woke up to gray haired, furrow browed older man asking my mom and I if we would like him to paint for us. What a pleasant thing to wake up to, I thought.

He told us about his life. How he used to be a potter for 25 years until the heavy lifting and tedium of the kiln got to be too much for him in his older age. Before that he worked at the BBC in London for 22 years. At the age of 22 he approached them and created his own position in the company. He was nothing short of fascinating.

He gave me the choice of a waterfall, beach scene, a cliff, a long rocky walk with a barn and other natural landscapes. I told him that I loved the beach so we decided on a deserted beach scene with a tree in the foreground and a little row boat tied up. His voice was so gentle and soothing – slow with a fading British accent. He walked my mom and I through his painting process as he laid out his brushes and the four colors he would use, drew the horizon line and then proceeded to magically turn a blank piece of watercolor paper into a magnificent work of art in just 20 minutes. We learned how to spin the brush bristles to make for a perfect tool to draw the straight lines of the branches and the row boat. We learned how to make clouds in the sky by soaking up the colors with a sponge. And now I have an original signed piece of art from a very talented man caring enough to volunteer his time to paint for those stuck passing the time with an IV pole.

We drove back home and both my mom and I crashed for a long nap and then it was time for more chemo. The visiting nurse showed up at the house around 7pm and the whole shebang was repeated. I was quite wary about what it would be like to have a stranger in our house and to bring the "cancer patient world" into my home sanctuary, but I tell you, it is much preferred over being in the hospital or the clinic. I was able to curl up on my own couch with Sammy at my feet, watch DVRed TV, hang with Craig, and use my own bathroom. Once I was set up the nurse really kept to herself. She played some Jeopardy with us but otherwise just did her paperwork and caught up on her own things. This was good as Craig, Sammy and I all fell asleep on the couch while the final hour-long bag dripped ... we weren't very entertaining hosts, but she told us to get comfortable!

All was done a little after 11 p.m. and it was certainly glorious to be able to just walk up the stairs to my own bed rather than get back into the car for a long drive home – or worse, face a night trying to sleep in the hospital with all the beeping machines and constant vitals checks.

Day -6 BCNU (Carmustine)

The first day of the high-dose chemo regimen went fairly smoothly. This was the worst drug in the regimen so it's assuring that what happened yesterday will be the worst reaction of all.

Craig and I arrived at the clinic and after having my port accessed, blood work, steroids and anti-nausea drugs, and a lot of waiting for the pharmacy delivery, it was time for the BCNU also known as Carmustine, the "B" in the BEAM regimen. The drug came in a glass bottle – something I've never seen before. Usually the chemo drugs come in the same plastic bags that normal IV fluids do. However, I guess this high-dose drug is pretty harsh and would cause a reaction with the plastic. I imagine it eating it away like burning acid would. So the nurse hung the glass bottle upside down on the IV pole and had to use a special non-plastic tubing to run it from the bottle into my port.

The drug was to run over 90 minutes, but somehow we were there for about 7 hours after all was said and done. This is because a) things always take longer than estimated and b) we had to take a little break.

About 45 minutes into the drug my heart started pounding very quickly and violently and I was feeling very flush. I called in the nurse and she and the PCA took my vitals. We all looked at the numbers on the machine. No one really said anything and she quickly turned to the IV pump pushing the drug and shut it down. Turns out my pulse was way over normal and my blood pressure had dropped to 76/45. A normal person runs 120/80. My normal even when I am healthy is lower than most, about 95/60. My temp was running at 99.1 and the nurse said she could hear my heart pounding when she was listening to my lungs through her stethoscope. Because my blood pressure was so low, my heart was working extra hard to try to compensate.

After some calls out to my APRN, it was decided to keep me off it for about 45 minutes to let my body calm down. I'm told that they've never really seen that reaction before so I guess I found a way to keep it exciting for them. After a time out and some Full House and America's Funniest Videos on the tube, things did settle back to normal and they let the rest of the Carmustine drip. Because the drug is alcohol based, most patients experience a severe headache and brain burning at the end of the infusion, but I managed to escape that. Instead, I had a lot of achiness and pain in my jaws and teeth – again, strange. I looked exactly like the chemo monster on the shirt I was wearing (see the impression to the left; I didn't have to tweak my face too much to nail it). But after some Tylenol and a little nap, the pain went away and never came back again. I was then released.

At home I took a solid two hour nap then my parents and sister arrived and we took my mom out for a birthday dinner at Plan B, the delicious burger joint in Simsbury. Though I don't eat burgers anymore, the cobb salad and the blueberry cheesecake in a mason jar were fantastic. It was nice to be out of the house and I'm trying to do that as much as possible this week as I know I won't be able to do much of anything once all of this sets in.

I was off to bed and again out the door, with my mom as escort, at 6:15 this morning and here I am back at the clinic for more drugs.

Dead Man Walking

My mom called me today and I answered the phone: "Dead man walking" in my best impression of The Green Mile.

She reprimanded me and told me to "knock off that attitude" when I explained the impending doom enveloping me. I told her that I was only joking ... but that's only about 30% true. This is because tomorrow I go back in for the final round of high-dose chemo. The big guns: BEAM. It's not too far from the doom I imagine engulfs you when you know you're taking the long walk to the electric chair where your brain is about to be fried. Well, maybe that's a bit extreme. But, ugh, nonetheless. To be truthful I've got quite a bit of anxiety about it. And all of this is coming exactly one year after the Hodgkin's bomb was first dropped on me. May 8 - the day I got the call telling me that I had cancer. Looking back on it all is mind numbing.

This past week I've been on the mend from DI-CEP and gearing up for BEAM. Every day I've gone for a hike in the woods with Sammy. We're so lucky to have a trail entrance just 100 yards from our front door. The trek up the hill gets easier with each day, but I have by no means regained my stamina. My heart still races and my chest still tightens. I've been packing in the fruits and veggies and raw foods. I've been out and about running errands, doing administrative work, getting things squared away around the house, seeing friends. I suppose this is what you could call "nesting," like women do before they go in to have a baby. But in my case, it's me that's going to be turning into a helpless baby – one that even vomits and poops myself.

Although I am much transformed since just three weeks ago when DI-CEP wrapped up, I am still very tired all the time. My muscles are so tight and joints very achey. Yoga stretches help for about five minutes then everything shrivels tight again. I went in for a check-up and check-in with my Yale oncologist last Thursday and he thinks I've done "beautifully" with the recovery. I ache for those who don't bounce back like that because if this is "beautiful" then I'd hate to see what "ugly" would be.

All of my blood cell counts are perfectly normal as well as my electrolytes, proteins and other indicators that they look at. I told him how the numbness in my left lower leg has increased and how it aches when I get run down and how my stamina still isn't up to par. All expected, I'm told. Apparently the cisplatin that I received with DI-CEP is one hell of a drug that can increase neuropathy and will leave me pretty run down for a long time. He told me that it will come back eventually and unless I wanted to run a marathon or something then it won't be a problem long-term. I told him that I did want to and that I will. He agreed that it'll be doable, I just need to be patient. I do real well with that ... .

So, I got the green light and here we are ready for the final battle. Kathryn, my autologous stem cell transplant coordinator, gave me a wonderfully detailed calendar of all the treatments and appointments I'll have over the next month, as well as a detailed chart of all the antibiotics I'll need to be taking every day to prevent infection ... some for the next six months. She's booked the hotel room for us and called in all my prescriptions for anti-nausea meds, anti-anxiety meds, rinses to treat mouth sores, steroids, and all the other accoutrements I'll need to recover from this. Now, as I've written about before, it's just time for me to get my rear in gear. Kathryn tells me that I'm truly starting out ahead of the game with my strength and activity level. Everything else is in place. I just have to show up and take the punches – again. Easier said then done.

Here's a synopsis of the schedule:

Tomorrow, May 12 (Day -6): the hardest drug in the regimen will be administered in the clinic down at Yale's Smilow Cancer Center. As long as all goes well, I'll head home after. I'm told that I will have a burning in my brain and a wicked headache like a bad hangover for about an hour at the end of the infusion.

Thursday-Friday, May 13-14 (Day -5 and -4): chemo in the morning at the Yale cancer clinic for approx. four hours. Drive back home and will receive chemo again at about 6pm for another four hours administered by a nurse in my home ... very anxious about how this will go ... .

Saturday-Sunday, May 15-16 (Day -3 and -2): chemo twice a day at home with the visiting nurse.

Monday, May 17 (Day -1): second hardest drug in the regimen administered in the clinic down at Smilow.

Tuesday, May 18: This is my Day 0. The day that I will be "reborn." I'll receive the rest of my 6.5 million stem cells which will help my body recover from the debilitating chemo by replacing all the blood cells that it will have killed off.

Wednesday, May 19 (Day +1): Rest day at home. From this point on, I will need someone with me 24/7 in order to be treated as an outpatient. My husband, parents and sister have worked out a coverage schedule.

Thursday, May 20 (Day +2) through Wednesday, June 2 (Day +15): I will be living in a hotel suite located just five minutes from Yale's Smilow Cancer Center. Every single day I will have to go into the clinic for bloodwork, a physical exam, IV fluids, possible blood transfusions and/or electrolyte repletions, and a Neupogen shot to help my WBCs recover. I will not be allowed in any crowds or public places, can't be by construction sites or polluted areas, no restaurants, no restaurant food even if taken into the hotel ... all to keep me safe from picking up an infection as I will have absolutely no immune system. I am however allowed to take walks in fresh air open areas and this makes me happy.

Expected Side Effects:

- While I'm getting the chemo this week through Monday it's expected that I'll feel pretty good and am told that the more active I can be, the better. So, I will eat as much as I can and walk/yoga/exercise band as much as I can.

- Dr. Cooper tells me that Day +4 and Day +5 will be when the worst of the chemo effects start to settle in and it's going to be rough going until Day +12 when by blood cell counts will begin to recover.

- Every single nurse, fellow, resident and oncologist has told me the same truth/joke that I'm going to think I am passing gas, but that it is not going to be just gas so be ready for it. I will be packing plenty of undies in my suitcase. I just hope I don't poop myself in the cancer center.

- GI issues up the wazoo, literally. Possible nausea and vomiting.

- Extreme fatigue and weakness

- Mouth and throat sores which will make me feel like I am swallowing over a bunch of rocks.

- No appetite due to the nausea and mouth sores. I'm told that many patients don't eat for days at a time, but that as long as I am able to keep down liquids, they don't get concerned. If anything, I'll be able to eat soft things like eggs or potatoes, smoothies, milkshakes, etc. I'll be seeing a nutritionist at some point this week who will help to recommend things that should have on hand in the hotel.

It's all pretty intimidating. But I think that the most intimidating part is that my life is riding on this. I am hoping with all of my being and might that the chemo regimen works and that my stem cells are strong enough to salvage me once again. After this horrendous ride is over, I'm very much looking forward to having a brand new, cancer-free molecular makeup.

Like VP Biden said so eloquently about healthcare reform, this is a "Big F*&%ing Deal."

HERE WE GO.

DI-CEP Daze

In preparation for Wednesday's hospital admission, I'd been relishing every moment of freedom and every moment of feeling good. I went to the beach with my sister; I raked out our back yard; Craig, Sammy and I took a getaway to Newport, RI, where we walked the beach and cliff walk, took in the sites, and enjoyed some great meals.

Then it was impending doom time. I procrastinated packing my food, activity and clothing bags as much as possible. I let out a lot of cathartic screams of frustration knowing that I would soon feel like seething, steaming dog shit again. I jokingly asked Craig the night before I was to arrive at Smilow Cancer Hospital if he would just throw me down the stairs so I could break something so that I wouldn't have to go. As expected, he refused. He told me that my mom would be there the next day and that she would be taking me even if she had to hog tie me. I said that when I arrived at the hospital I would just drop to the floor dead weight so that they couldn't drag me to my room and attack my port. He sighed and made me laugh about how ridiculous I was being and reminded me with little pokes toward all the places that cancer cells still could exist to illustrate that this is why I was going in for this extra chemo. I get the picture, it just doesn't make the process any easier unfortunately.

My mom did arrive Wednesday morning. She was suprised that my bags weren't packed yet but didn't reprimand me. She just said: "Where's that fighting spirit? Let's get in it." We got everything set and made the now familiar 1:15 min trek down I-91 to Yale-New Haven. Once I arrived I was raring to go and ready to get the party started. It's always the night and morning before anticipation that gets me. Once I'm in the setting is when it all kicks in that I have to do this in order to reach a cure.

The 11th floor where I was an inpatient in Smilow has only been open since April 1 so everything is barely used and it smells like the paint and new furniture of a newly constructed dorm room ... not at all like a hospital ... yet. The ergonomic liquid gel recliner they brought in for us still had its tag on and we were told that ours would be the first rears to sit in it. The decor was all nicely tied in with cool grey-blues, creams, light fern greens and pale browns with the same light wood laminate floors with an elegant darker wood border that existed throughout the rest of the hospital areas. The room was huge, very bright and open. Could be a NYC studio apartment. There was a big area with a couch (which turns into a bed) and book shelves by the massive window which overlooked the city (including the back of IKEA) and I could just make out Long Island Sound in the far distance. My room had a large flat screen TV, a personal refrigerator and my own large shower. Not having to share a communal shower and fridge were huge pluses in my book!

However, shiny new things and all, it's still a hospital and four days in it went by slowly and painfully. Sleep was hard to come by with all the frequent checks throughout the night and nausea and fatigue kept me from doing much of anything. I was hooked up to my IV pole from noon on Wednesday through 4pm on Saturday which kept me on a tight leash. The thing continually beeped - rather shrilled - when I turned the wrong way and air got into the line or when it was time for a drug changeover.

The drugs: cyclophosphamide, etoposide, and cisplatin, began each evening around 5pm, preceded by steroids and anti-nausea meds. The chemo dripped for a total of five hours. Then came the Mesna, which served to protect my bladder and kidneys and ran for 24 hours. Then lather, rinse, repeat each night. All of this was piggybacked by constant saline fluid drip so I felt like Big Bertha at the carnival side show. I gained six pounds in one day from all the fluid being absorbed into my tissues. My fingers, ankles and joints throbbed (and I imagine they'll continue to until my body can flush out all of this). Getting up and unplugging my IV pole to walk to the bathroom several, several times a night certainly got old.

I've gotten the most nauseous from this particular drug regimen. Each morning I'd wake up and ask Craig to bring the pink bucket over just in case as I'd call for compozene and await my breakfast which usually helped to settle things. Now that I am at home I am trying to be more proactive about taking the zofran and ativan that the doctors provided rather than waiting for the nausea to be too far gone to be able to stop it. I seem to have it pretty well controlled and am able to pick at little meals and continue to suck back the fluids to flush out all the toxins.

Despite how much I wanted to desperately be done with the whole process, there were - and continue to be bright spots. It's those bright spots that I cling to so desperately in times when things get very dark, very lonely, and very scary. It's amazing what the smile of a familiar face or a glimpse at a budding tree can do for your psyche.

The nurses would unhook me for a half-hour shower and it might as well have been a Parisian Day Spa for how relaxing it felt to wallow under the hot water. When I did have the strength, I was also able to unplug and go on battery pump power and walk around the floor at my leisure. Well, as leisurely as you can walk with a cumbersome pole holding precariously swaying bags of varying weights.

I was even able to convince the nurses to allow me to head outside to the meditation garden a few floors below to do a little off-roading with my pole. I was permitted as long as chemo wasn't dripping at that time and as long as I wore a protective mask and gloves (ala MJ style). So off I went for 20 mins in the sun before the IV pumps started to beep "low battery" and it was back to room 248. I took my father out there with me the next day - though it was quite chilly, only 45 degrees - it felt

good to get fresh air as I pulled my mask below my chin to breathe it in while no one was looking. The meditation garden overlooks the city of New Haven and boasts beautifully woodworked benches and pagoda-type shaded areas, plus a calming and tranquil river that runs through it. It's the perfect respite from the monotony of the hospital room.

I had frequent visitors and a roomie every night as Craig commuted to work from the hospital, so that always makes things better. My mom, dad and sister were there for shifts throughout the stay to make me laugh or nap along with me. My best childhood friend came by with a girly goodie basket, our friend Serena, who works at Yale, made a stop over with the cutest mouse cookies from one of New Haven's most notable bakeries and even Ms. Deta, the biggest spirited art teacher that I know came by.

I even had a four-legged-friend come visit for a few pets and nuzzles as part of the therapy dog program to brighten patient's days. Her name was Roxy. Roxy Hart. Right after her visit both my mother and I were treated to a Reiki session which, as always, was thoroughly relaxing and helped to target a lot of the areas where I was holding tension so tightly. The next day a masseuse came through to work out my kinks in a 15 minute power session. All of these little things mean so much when you're otherwise barely able to focus on a book or flip through even the most senseless of magazines ... never mind having the capability to write. For the first time during all of this, blogging was the furthest thing from my mind. I just couldn't get the strength to do it.

Saturday, I was supposed to be at my college roommate's bridal shower where I was supposed to be fulfilling my Matron of Honor duties, but instead, there I was, still hooked up to the IV pole and aching to get out of there. But being the amazing person that she is, my little Frankie showed up at the hospital room with her step-mom on the way to her own bridal shower after a long trek from Virginia. Though I didn't get to be there to record who gave her what and to facilitate the shower games, I was glad that at least I got to see her on her big day. This chemo couldn't have been worse timing. Unfortunately, cancer treatment rules my calendar right now, and it's an extremely frustrating reality that doesn't allow for cancellations or delays. This must be done now no matter where else (anywhere???) I'd rather be.

I can take major solace in that this is one more HUGE step behind me now and once again I am home. It was wonderful to sleep in our own bed. I still woke up half-dozen times to de-fluid, but it was luxurious to sleep without the beeps, pump motor and monitor noises. I have an arsenal of three different antibiotic medications and two anti-nausea medications. The antibiotics are to treat me prophylactically for any type of fungal, herpes, or bacterial infection that could come up as a result of my white blood cell counts dropping to low. They are thick, white horse pills, so I have to do a lot of mental psyching up before I'm able to choke them down - especially if it's during a nausea wave.

I'm moving, though slow and unsteady. I got a walk in today - partially into the woods at the end of our road, then converted to the easier flat terrain of the street. I'm trying to do a lot of stretching as my tissues feel very sore, especially in my back and chest - I assume as a result of the chemo? Other than that I'm just very lethargic and am happy that this cloudy weather allows me to lay on the couch with a book without having to miss a beautiful, sunny day. Cloudy days are good for healing.

Tomorrow it's back to Smilow at 7:30 a.m. to receive 6.5 million of my stem cells back to boost this recovery process and get me ready for the final round: BEAM in an estimated three weeks. Not sure what to expect for tomorrow except that everyone but me will be able to smell my eau de garlic & creamed corn parfum after my stem cells and their stinky preservative are re-infused. I'm most eager to see Sammy's reaction.

Double the Chances

As we arrived at Smilow on Wednesday I couldn't help but feel like I was back in college again anxiously awaiting to see the bulletin board where the exam results would be posted and scanning along the list looking for my student ID number and subsequent grade.

I'm wildly competitive – especially with myself – so I wanted to knock all of my body function test scores out of the park. The previous day I had a total of six different tests including a MUGA scan and EKG of my heart, three different pulmonary tests to check my lungs and most important of all, a PET scan to get a 3-D image of my whole body to search for any hot spots that might indicate cancer activity.

I especially liked the pulmonary tests because I got to be an active participant vs. just lying there hooked up to machines. And, the results were instant. The tech who administered my tests was fantastic about explaining everything I had to do and pumping me up while I was blowing with all my might into the machine. I did very well with my lung capacity and strength. He even gave me a fist pump and said "Okay, you impressed the tech," when I registered at 103% of expected results. A normal, mostly sedentary person is usually in the 80s he told me. However, the test that measured how much oxygen is dispersed into my bloodstream didn't register such stellar results. He explained that this is likely caused by the Bleomycin, one of the drugs in my ABVD regimen, which can reduce my lung capabilities long-term. I still passed well enough to be cleared for this upcoming chemo. It's just something we'll need to watch in the future.

The meeting with my Yale oncologist revealed that I had a great outcome on all the tests and would have no problem with the chemo. In fact, he wants to give me even more chemo. In a little exam room with Dr. Cooper, his nurse, Erin, and my stem cell transplant coordinator, Kathryn, it was explained that they thought the best move for me to be cured from this forever is to do a double stem cell transplant. As if a single wasn't confusing and intimidating enough! However, after long, careful discussion I understand that this additional regimen will give me an even better shot at never, ever having Hodgkin's rear its head again. The worry about the long-term effects of being exposed to so much toxic chemo or having it leave me predisposed for other cancers is much outweighed by the fact that I have a very aggressive disease right now that could kill me. There's no sense in worrying about statistics for things that may or may not come up in the future. Right now, this is here and it's real.

My PET Scan was clear of any apparent signs of cancer meaning that the salvage ICE chemotherapy did its job. This was the first time that I was able to see what the PET Scan images look like as Erin pulled it up for me on the computer and I could see my body from different angles and where certain organs were lighting up because they were working on dissolving the radioactive isotopes within me. Fascinating.

There is one area near my sternum that is lighting up as a hot spot. We've talked about this area before on previous scans. However, Dr. Cooper and the team at Yale think it's unlikely that it is cancer as it would be odd for one spot to remain while every other area of activity (my abdomen, spleen, mediastinum) had dissipated. He thinks that it may be my thymus gland lighting up or possibly a blood clot. We're going to watch it. So, I suppose we can tentatively say that I'm in remission?

Though there is no cancer showing up on the PET Scan, there also is no one test that can definitively say that I am cancer-free. This is why we are going to add a chemo regimen called DICEP followed by an extra mini-stem cell transplant to help me recover. If there are any rogue cancer cells remaining that might have been resistant to the ABVD, ICE, and the upcoming BEAM chemo, the high-toxicity chemo drugs of DICEP will be another shot at wiping them out. They want to put me through this because I have "concerning disease." When I asked what "concerning" meant, I was told that because my disease was so extensive when I first presented with Hodgkin's at stage 4b and because of how quickly I relapsed that I have an aggressive form of the disease. Because I am young, strong and active, and because I tolerated the previous chemo regimens so well, the docs and nurses are confident that this is the best course of treatment.

The DICEP regimen (dose-intensive cyclophosphamide, etoposide, and cisplatin) will require a four-day hospital stay during which I'll receive the chemo as an inpatient at Smilow Cancer Hospital. This starts next Wednesday, and I hope to be out Sunday at the latest. Then on Monday I will receive back some of my stem cells that they've thawed out for me in order to help me to recover from the chemo.

I'll have around three weeks to get my bearings back during which time I'm told I'll feel real crappy, basically like a prolonged hangover "without the fun of the night before." I'll be very bloated from all the fluids they'll have to give me, will be extremely tired and not hungry.

Just as I am starting to feel better, we'll begin the more in-depth treatment that we've been planning for since February. This will be the 10 infusions of BEAM chemo over 6 days followed by the transplant of millions of my stem cells on the 7th day. For the next two weeks, I'll stay in the medical hotel while the high-dose chemo side effects kick in and while my body deals with the reinfusion of my cells and the rebuilding of my molecular systems.

Out of the 100 or so stem cell patients each year at Yale, Dr. Cooper and his team perform this double transplant on about a dozen patients. I guess I should feel ... special?

In all seriousness, I do completely agree that this is the way to go. I'd rather concentrate the suffering into a shorter time period than have to deal with the unthinkable news of a relapse in the future. Let's kick this once and for all. Bring it on - again, and again. Then let that be it. Forever.