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.

Clichés

As a writer I try to avoid clichés, phrases that are at times so overused that they become meaningless. But lately, I find there are a few that I ponder often for their veracity. I've come to realize that they've become clichés because they succinctly say "it". "It" being what we're trying to convey, wrapped in a tight phrase, tied with a neat bow, for a package that's easily relatable to anyone. So today, I'm letting my cliché guard down and am going to give credit to these phrases that have passed from generation to generation for a reason.

"There's No Place Like Home

I couldn't say it better myself. Home is where the heart is ... . I love, love, love our home. I love its covered porch. I love its big picture window. I love its dining room skylights. I love its gingerbread trim. I love that it's a hybrid space of old and new. I love thinking about what happened in the 1800s Baptist church that it once was. But most of all, I love how I feel when I'm in it. We've decorated it freshly and eclectically – our personalities on display. I feel so comfortable here, and there is no place I'd rather be, especially when I'm feeling awful. I love that I can snooze on our sectional couch – a fantastic Craigslist find – and gaze at the georgeous Japanese maple outside the living room window. I love that our bedroom is so airy and filled with sunshine when I awake each morning. There's nothing better than sitting in my rocking chair reading on the front porch or talking with our neighbors – neighbors that are beyond what one could ask for.

"This Too Shall Pass"

People often say this to me and I often say it to myself. It's one of those phrases that's hard to believe when you're in the middle of "this," but once you come out the other side you realize that nothing is forever. I felt so, so, so awful for several days following ICE chemo and at the time it was hard to comprehend that I'd ever get back to myself again ... but I did. It amazes me every single time how much my body can be knocked down and still have the capacity to bounce back. So it's true, no matter how much harder each step in this process has been, there is always an end and soon enough the pain is a distant memory – so distant that it's hard to even remember how badly I felt.

"Dog is (Wo)man's Best Friend"

I never feel alone because I always have Sammy's companionship. She's there laying on my feet when I'm curled up on the couch. Or, more often, laying right on top of me. She follows me into the bathroom. She sleeps on her doggy bed and watches me with one eye open when I'm feeling particularly bad and have to retreat to my bed upstairs.

A neighborhood kid summed it up best. Craig and I were sitting in our anti-gravity chairs on the lawn the other day and this little boy with dark chocolate skin and milk chocolate eyes and the bounciest tousle of dreds came into our yard and said:

"Excuse me. Can I play with your dog?," pointing over at Sammy who was rolling around in the grass with her tongue dangling wildly.

"Sure," we said.

They played for nearly an hour. They played fetch with the tennis ball. They passed the close-to-airless basketball treasure that Sammy once miraculously and instinctively dug up from nearly 2 feet underground beneath the pine tree. They chased each other around the yard.

While tousling her ears, we overheard the boy say to Sammy: "Sammy, if you were a human, you'd be a really good person."

I concur.

"What Doesn't Kill Us Makes Us Stronger"

I know now more than ever what I'm made of and that no matter what challenge I'm faced with, I can conquer it. I know this is a valuable lesson that will serve me well – it already has. I don't necessarily believe this cliche as it is, but more a modified version. I think that what doesn't kill us gives us the opportunity to realize how strong we already are. That it's not the adversities that make us strong. Instead, the adversities bring out the best in us. There've been many times that I've looked back on a particularly bad blood drawing session or a surgical procedure and thought, How the hell did I get through that? I'm sure there are many more of those moments to come, but it's tests like this cancer journey that has made me realize how strong, adaptable and resilient I am and truly believe that this is the case for anyone faced with something of this magnitude. If there is a good thing to come out of the war that is cancer, it's that you learn that you can conquer the battles.

"You Don't Know What You've Got 'Till It's Gone"

To say that I've learned to better appreciate everything in my life is putting it lightly. Going through these treatments that have knocked me on my ass at times has taught me how much I appreciate my body, my mind, my abilities, and my freedoms. Being tied down to a strict regimen of daily doctor appointments, being quarantined, and being out of my body and out of my mind at times has made me realize how good I have it. Not having full control of my life right now has allowed me to step back and take a look at myself and everything and everyone in my life from all different angles.

I'll keep these clichés in my back pocket to reflect on from time to time as this journey surely isn't over ... it's only just begun ... and won't be over until the fat lady sings. I've heard it through the grapevine that it won't be a walk in the park, but I'll look for the light at the end of the tunnel and keep on keeping on with my eye on the prize – one step at a time. I'll make lemonade out of lemons and find the silver lining in every cloud.

In the Business of Making Stem Cells

Good news is that I no longer need the third round of ICE chemotherapy that we had originally been planning for. Because my "b" symptoms have subsided, there are no palpable lymph nodes, and I've bounced back well from the first two rounds it was decided between Dr. Dailey and my new oncologist down at Yale, Dr. Cooper, that we should go ahead into the stem cell transplant. It was explained to me that there is a delicate balance between giving not enough and giving too much chemo. Since I received the extra chemo administered in the pediatric regimen, I've gotten nearly as much as an adult would in three cycles. This should have effectively put me in remission. They don't want to give me too much more of this chemo at the risk of wiping out my bone marrow's capability to produce new cells. This makes me ecstatic as it means that I may never have to be an inpatient again!

So, here we are. This week I have been in the bone-wrenching business that is making stem cells. Starting Monday I have had a double-dose shot of Neupogen every day and I'll be continuing those shots through Sunday. The Neupogen is forcing my bone marrow to create great amounts of stem cells - so much so that they'll be pushed out of my marrow and into my bloodstream so that they can be fished out. I get the shots in the back of the arm. They don't hurt - just burn some as the drug is going in, but really not bad at all. I'm used to them as I would receive them during my ABVD chemo treatments, though this is twice the amount per shot so that means twice the amount of burning. I also thought it would mean twice the amount of bone pain as my marrow is being worked so hard, but that really hasn't been the case. Every once in a while I'll feel whopping pain in my back and in my hips mostly, but I'm able to kick it with a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol. I haven't had to fill the vicodin prescriptions I've been holding onto. However, driving to the cancer center every day for the shot has gotten old. I have never been able to leisurely sleep in since all of this is started. Every day there is some kind of appointment that I need to get to. But, you do what you have to do and that's it.

On Monday I need to be at Yale New Haven Hospital's Smilow Cancer Center at 7:15 a.m. for what is hopefully my first day of stem cell collection, pending my cell amounts are high enough. The next order of business will be to asses my veins and see if they are viable enough to use for the collection procedure. Otherwise, I'll have to have another type of catheter inserted in my chest, which they will do with local anesthesia that morning. Then I will be hooked up to the apheresis machine which will pull out my blood, snatch out the stem cells, and put the filtered blood back in. I'll come back and do this for however many days it takes until they have enough for them to store and freeze for later use. After that comes the scary, high-dose chemo and then the re-transplant of those stem cells I collected pre-chemo. These cells will help to rebuild my bone marrow and immune system which the chemo will have wiped out completely. To be blunt, without the stem cell rescue, the chemo would kill me.

Over the last several days I've had myriad of emotions starting from total fear and dread to where I am now, which is again focused on getting myself strong and ready to kick ass. I've had much blood work done to be sent down to Yale and have had to fill out lots of paperwork and read over consent forms, the most disheartening being the "Consent to Receive High-Dose Therapy with Stem Cell Rescue for the Treatment of Hodgkin's Disease." This document is a doozy and what sent me into a mild anxiety attack on Sunday. Basically, it's full disclosure of all the possible side effects that could occur, it gives some harsh statistics and numbers, and talks about the risk factors, which include leaving me susceptible to future cancers like untreatable leukemias.

But I have a lot going for me and I like to think that I'm not the "typical" patient. Overall, I did really well with the ICE chemotherapy and Dr. Dailey tells me that many of his patients who go through the stem cell transplant procedure find the ICE to be more difficult than the BEAM chemotherapy that I have to come. I'm hoping that this is the case for me. I am strong. I have been walking every day but the 3 dead-to-the-world post-chemo days, have been working out with exercise bands and doing yoga at home as I'm not allowed around the germs a studio would contain. I've been eating well - lots of organic and whole foods, and my blood cells have also made a good showing with time. Right now, my white blood cells are again so low that I'm neutropenic and am again on prophylactic antibiotics, but that's to be expected, and I'm 1 point higher than what I dropped to after the first ICE round. Tomorrow I'll find out if I need a blood transfusion to get me up to the required levels before I can go through with Monday's procedure.

To balance out the medical jargon, I've found it most helpful to talk with real people that have gone through this. It's helpful to hear that there's a light at the end of the tunnel and that the whole process really isn't that bad. Today I spoke to Ethan Zohn, the winner of "Survivor Africa." He's in his thirties and went through chemo for Hodgkin's Lymphoma, relapsed quickly, and was back in for ICE chemo followed by a stem cell transplant. I've been following his path all along as he was diagnosed in 2009 just a couple months ahead of me. I was connected with him through my friend Jack at the I'm Too Young for This! Cancer Foundation.

Talking with Ethan certainly helped to quell a lot of my fears and helped to reinforce my beliefs in a lot of mechanisms that I've been using to get through everything I've been through so far. He is also a big advocate of exercise, yoga, visualizations, meditating, and diet and gave me a lot of tips for how turning to them helped him get through his transplant. He told me how there were days that he wasn't able to eat hardly anything because of the nausea but that he would force himself to at least drink a shake or a smoothie to get something in and also was devout about downing lots of fluids. He also told me how important it was for him to get up and move/exercise every day even while in isolation. Some days that meant just getting the motivation to get to the shower, but when he was feeling a little stronger he had exercise bands and weights that he brought with him, would do yoga stretches, etc. and swears that this made such a difference for him. I'll be packing them in my bag as well.

He told me that he wouldn't kid me, that it's not going to be easy, but that it's manageable and you get through it. He told me not to be shy, not to try to be a hero, and to ask for what I need when I need it. He told me that I have science on my side and assured me that within 30 days he was back at the gym and walking outside and that he's feeling stronger and that he's there at any time if I have any questions. This is what I'm talking about when I'm talking about being part of this great cancer community.

During his treatments Ethan recorded video blogs for People.com. Here are links to a couple that I found helpful:

• His stem cell harvesting day (this will be me on Monday) - it helps me to visualize what this apheresis machine is all about
• Post-stem cell transplant interview with Ethan and his girlfriend, Jenna Morasca, winner of Survivor: Amazon - in this one he mentions that his journey with Hodgkin's was the most difficult thing he went through in his life - harder than being a contestant on Survivor, Eco Challenge and running an ultra marathon.

The Dream World

Whether it's the drugs or my suppressed anxieties, my dreams have been more vivid - both beautiful and frightening - than ever in my life. Often, I don't like the answer when I try to analyze them, but sometimes, it's these dreams that give me hope.

I receive a regular showing of what I've come to call the "soldier dream." I've been having these dreams long before Beyonce's Grammy performance of "If I Were A Boy" that featured a riot police-like entourage. However, the choreography in that brought my dream to life in an eerie fashion. In these dreams there are thousands of these steel, ebony armor-clad men coming at me in syncopated rhythm. Some are marching on foot and some are on their stomachs doing the Army crawl. As they head toward me they swiftly turn their heads from left to right in perfect synchronization with their movements. Left. Right. Left. Right. Stone-faced and powerful they head toward me. When they reach me, I wake up. But I'm not afraid of them. They're the good guys. They're my protectors. All of these molded muscled men are on the attack for me. We don't need to call on Freud to interpret that one.

Another frequent offender is the running dreams. Running, running, running away from I don't know what. I never see the attacker. But suddenly my legs will give out or I'll hit a dead end or something will stop me from being able to go forward. I always have a gun on me and I raise it, but I can never, ever shoot it. My gun doesn't work or I just can't get myself to pull the trigger. And then I wake up. Usually in screams and sweats.

Often I will wake up screaming, even from deep naps. Or I'll wake up groaning and trying desperately to call out. There have been times that I've been napping on the living room couch and Craig will come running in from the far other end of the house where he'd heard me screaming to find me in a pseudo-conscious state. He'll have to talk me back to reality and comfort me until I realize that it was all a dream. As mentally taxing as the dreams and the realities are for me I think it's harder for my husband. All throughout the night every time he tosses in his sleep I feel him checking my temperature with the back of his hand on my forehead and feeling my skin for the cold dampness mixed with pooled sweat that he's come to dread but is now accustomed to.

For me the paradox is that once I do ease into consciousness it's my real life that's often harder to face. Waking up and remembering all of this all over again every day - what I've been through, what's yet to come, the aches, the baldness, the scars, the unknown - is what nightmares are made of. People wake up to escape those types of things. For me, I wake up every day and have to try to make peace with what is my reality and garner the strength to get out of bed and face it. Some days are more difficult than others. Some days I just lay and stare. Sometimes I cry. But I just let whatever I'm feeling that day happen and the important part is that I do get up and no matter how difficult it is, I am always able to get back to the realization of how lucky I am to have each day to wake up to and conquer. Sometimes it just take a little longer to get to that place.

There are also the beautiful, beautiful dreams. But sometimes these worry me more, like I shouldn't "follow the light." In one I was bouncing on clouds with a huge group of friends. As I bounced on each cloud, out would burst my favorite things - unreal colors - then all my favorite things would pour down over me like rain. We ran through these clouds and laughed and danced like it was an LSD trip.

Then there are the dreams that I can't figure out. Like last night, I dreamed I was carrying a young girl, maybe two years old, my daughter. She had delicate blonde ringlets surrounding her head like an angel. I was carrying her on my hip and holding Sammy on her red leash on my other arm. Sammy was older. She wasn't pulling. We were at a fair of some sort and the little girl on my hip wanted a balloon. I told her she could have any color that she wanted and she picked pink. I went up to the booth and asked if I could just buy a ballon. We didn't want to go in to the fair. I just wanted a balloon for my daughter. They wouldn't give it to us. There was a fat, grouchy lady behind the ticket booth who said we had to get a ticket for the fair to be able to buy a balloon. I begged and begged and finally said: "Listen lady, I am dying and I have no money. I can't afford a ticket. My child just wants a balloon, please." I was bald. This is the first dream that I've ever had where I've been bald. Usually I have long, flowing hair that I'm constantly playing with.

The woman finally balked and told us to go see "Ted." Sammy, my daughter and I climbed over a huge mound of flattened corrugated cardboard boxes to find Ted. An ashen faced man sucking back a long cigarette came around the mound of cardboard.

"We're here for a pink balloon," I said, trying so hard to stay positive and excited for this wide-eyed little girl on my hip.

"We've only got orange," he grumbled and handed her the white ribbon with a gawdy, 70s-home- decor-orange balloon floating feet above her.

She was ecstatic and didn't even comment that it wasn't pink.

Then I woke up and quietly cried myself back to sleep.

ICE Round 2: Aftermath

In the past I've thought I felt like shit, but that was nothing. I liken these past couple of days since chemo to feelings of oozy, raunchy, steaming dog shit.

I am completely zapped of energy. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to get myself out of bed and onto another horizontal surface and that's pretty much all I've been doing. When I do get the strength to shuffle around in the kitchen or to walk to the mailbox I return with a pounding heart and have to immediately sit to calm my body back done again after its excursion. What I have to continually tell myself is that this is because my body and the chemo is working so hard against the cancer cells and that my body is trying to bounce back from being ravaged with three days worth of high-dose chemotherapy. But it's hard to keep that perspective when any sudden movements cause a wave of nausea and when my brain just literally can't focus on even the most mundane of tasks.

As Craig said last night, "If you didn't feel this bad, then we should be worried." This makes sense, I suppose. I feel bad because the chemo is working. It is tearing out my insides - literally. The whole first six inches of my throat feel like an auger went through it hacking away at the soft tissue so that it's hard to speak at a normal volume and uncomfortable to swallow. Despite that, I drink and drink and drink - water, Gatorade, Crystal Light, and more water. It's vitally important for me to force the fluids to flush everything out and keep my kidneys functioning well. I also shove the food down my throat no matter how nauseous I am.

Between the steroids and my body's fatigue, I certainly have a big appetite and eating usually curbs the nausea waves. I consider it fuel for the cancer bonfire that's happening inside of me and I must continue to give it the kindling it needs so that it doesn't go out. This means many frequent meals throughout the day - and it's odd things I crave. Last night I couldn't get my mind off Pad Thai so we ordered in and that did the trick. This morning it was banana and peanut butter sandwich then a healthy portion of bacon and spinach. Right now all I want is fiery chicken sausage so I'm working on Craig to light up the grill.

I am proud to say that I have not vomited and I made it past the vomit point of the first ICE chemo. I also have not had a bowel movement ... sigh. But, you take what you can get. I'm on some different nausea blockers this time around. Zofran in the morning and then I have this cannabis-based drug called Marinol. It's synthetic delta-9- tetrahydrocannabinol, the same chemical found naturally in marijuana. It's often used for cancer patients, AIDS patients, people with anorexia needing an appetite stimulant. Side effects are "elation, easy laughter, relaxed mood." Now this is a much nicer side effect list than what I'm used to reading on the printouts for each of the chemo drugs: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, heart palpitations, rash, hair loss ... . Truth be told I've only taken the Marinol twice. I'm a big proponent of "the less drugs the better" especially with how many I have in my system without a choice. I like to use mind over matter techniques until I just can't take it anymore, then reach for the drugs. I just never want to be dependant. The Marinol does cut the nausea very well, but I wouldn't say I experienced a "high" - not that I would know what that is like - except for that one time in college ... .

Today is certainly much improved over Thursday and Friday and to make it all better it's been hovering above 70 degrees with bright sun each day. So, even though I'm not able to do much, I'm able to lay in my anti-gravity chair, complete with flip-over shade and full reclining capabilities as I just exist outside in the warmth. There are certainly some healing powers to that. Yesterday I reclined so hard in my chair that I rolled right over myself - head in the arborvitae, ass following immediately afterward. My mom and Gramma were there playing Rummy 500 while I floated in and out of sleep all afternoon. My Gramma, who's weak from getting chemo two days ago herself, is the one who rushes over to help me up while my Mom stands turned away from me, hands between her legs bent over laughing and trying not to wet herself - her usual reaction to these types of occurrences. I also almost pissed myself I was laughing so hard at the hilarity of it all as I picked pine needles out of my mouth and scraped the sap off my elbows.

"Does this count as alternating rest with light exercise periods?" I asked my mom after the summersault stunt.

We laughed more - Marinol induced or not, that was funny stuff. I guess my reflexes are a bit compromised.

ICE Round 2, Day 3

Today was a tough day. I was pretty much a waste of space. It took so much motivation for me to get out of bed and do any walking or moving whatsoever. My colleague, Michaela, stopped by in the morning with her adorable baby on her way to the day care. That was so sweet and it really gave me the motivation to get moving. So I got a few laps with the IV pole in then it was back to bed and that was pretty much how the day went. I'd wake up and watch a movie or some TV, then back to sleep, then wake up to eat, then back to sleep.

All day I haven't been able to form a cohesive sentence and my mind is moving very, very slowly. I'd catch myself just staring at the wall for a good 30 minutes trying to get the energy to get up to go to the bathroom - which I do so, so often. I am so pumped with fluids it is painful. I have been hooked up to IV fluids since Monday at noon - nonstop. Plus, I'm supposed to continually be drinking and I'm getting the big bags of chemo dripped in. So, I feel like a walking swollen udder. My hands and feet feel double their size and my face especially feels so swollen. Some may mistake my stomach for a baby bump it's so swollen and hard. I feel like I've gained 85 pounds since I've been here but my mom and Craig say it's all in my head ... . Right. The steroids make me ravenous so dinner has been a big dinner and I'm sure that doesn't help with how beefy I feel.

Adding insult to injury is the dryness of the air here which causes my skin to feel so tight and the skin on my hands is just peeling away. Plus I'm struggling with being able to regulate my own temperature. All the drugs and the Lupron which has put me into temporary menopause causes lots of hot flashes and sweats - believe me, my heart goes out to middle age women going through this. The heat waves are unreal. I look forward to a shower at home and my humidifier and new tempurpedic pillow. Plus, of course, a big Sammy hug. Ahhhh.

As today is St. Patrick's Day Craig brought me over a heaping plate of corned beef, chunky garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus from Whole Foods. That certainly satisfied the palate and made me feel like I had a little bit of a St. Patty's celebration, though no Guinness this year - Carbolatnin, Iphosphomide and Etoposide instead. Not exactly an even trade off.

We didn't end up having the St. Patrick's Day parade around the floor. On one of my walks Jennifer spotted me and asked if I was ready to shake my shamrocks. I told her that there'd be no shamrock shaking tonight. Shaking might just put me over the edge. She laughed.

But my mom, Craig and I had a nice St. Patty's evening visit and my Uncle Kevin swung by for a visit as well. Earlier in the evening the vice president of the cancer program came to see me which really meant a lot. We work together in my career capacity here at the hospital and it was so sweet of her to take the time out of her crazy busy schedule to come see me and to offer lots of words of encouragement. It's wonderful to have people around with such positive energy and I am continually so thankful for the amazing care that I've gotten here.

I even landed a massage and a Reiki session back-to-back so I had some good relaxation this afternoon. The Integrative Medicine department here is so integral to the healing process. Something like that can really brighten a day for someone who just has no energy left and can just lay there and be pampered. It was perfect.

Word is that I get to be released tomorrow morning and I am very, very much looking forward to being unhooked and to getting out in the fresh air instead of looking longingly at the sunny, blue sky from my hospital bed.

But for now it's time for bed. I am so, so, so tired despite so much sleeping. I guess there's a lot of action going on in this body. I've got to give my good cells a fighting chance.

ICE Round 2, Day 2

I awoke feeling pretty groggy from a quite interrupted sleep and the effects of the chemo starting to kick in. But once I ate breakfast and got myself moving and showered things were better. Then it was a parade of visitors which was great to keep me distracted from my woozy weakness.

My sister is back from California and my brother is home on spring break so they came by to spend much of the afternoon. My boss stopped by bringing some more laughs. My Dad came along to spend time with me. Our dear friend Leah, who's always bursting with sunshine - even more so now with the glow of pregnancy - came by with a doctored up card featuring Sammy's mug and shamrock sugar cookies. Of course, my faithful husband has been here every evening after work. And, I even had a visit by a real-life clown who provided some fantastic entertainment to my brother, sister and me.

Our good friend Keith, whom Craig works with at the summer enrichment camp he teaches at and who's son I used to babysit for, finished up a gig at The Bushnell entertaining before a kid's show and decided to come over and give me a little show to cheer me up. He was dressed up in all his "Tabasco Pepper" character garb and we just had a blast.

He taught me a few magic tricks. He "tested my reflexes" and had me balancing peacock feathers on my hand and juggling kerchiefs with him. We juggled balls together. He told jokes and had my siblings and I in stitches.

I guess the adage that "laughter is the best medicine" is true. Just before Keith walked in I had called for the nurse for some anti-nausea meds as I started to feel pretty uneasy. Well the drugs never came, and I never needed them after Keith was through. I felt a million times better.

My nurse Jennifer and I talked about the fantastical idea of staging a St. Patrick's Day parade tomorrow around the floor and having all of the patients march banging bed pans and blowing on tubing and such for some entertainment. Then she drew me a very impressive clover on my white board. It's nice to have nurses with a sense of humor.

Craig and I ordered in pizza as the greasy grilled cheese that came on my dinner tray wasn't cutting it. Pizza was delicious for sure. Then a Reiki volunteer came to my room and I was treated with a nice session which got me all relaxed before bed. It was so bizarre because as soon as she saw my face she said: "Are you Karin, the Karin that writes the blog?" Turns out that her nephew dates someone that I went to middle school with who sent her my blog a while back and she was all caught up on my life. My world seems to be shrinking more and more every day when I realize all of the connections that we have to each other. It's a comforting feeling to constantly be reassured how amazing the interconnectedness of the human race is. You only have to peel back a few layers in a person to find some commonality and mutual relationships.

After the Reiki session I crashed real hard right after Craig left last night - all that stimulation got to me I guess. I fell asleep without the aid of any meds and never even took any anti-nausea meds before bed. I slept through all the med switchovers during the night and slept solid until 6am. Still woke up very lethargic, but one more day down. And that's huge. I can't wait to get out into this beautiful weather - high 60s and sunny - I'm just so glad that it's supposed to last all weekend so that I can soak a bit of it in too.

ICE Round 2, Day 1

Disclosure: I am three hours into high-dose chemo drugs and just popped an Ativan so forgive me if this post is incoherent.

Today was pretty uneventful. My mom took me into the hospital for check-in. We first went to the cancer center to get my blood counts checked and have a quick meet-up with Dr. Dailey. My counts looked good - I'm a bit anemic, but that's usual. I always have very low blood pressure and am always anemic. So they sent me back up to "Hotel Bliss 5" where I checked in for my reservation under Diamond. This time my room is on the complete opposite corner of the large floor. Same set-up - painfully small TV, own bathroom with the hat that I have to pee in, neutral blue curtains, a white board where they write the names of the caregivers as the shifts change, a sink and big mirror. But my view out this window is beautiful, centered in it is the gold-domed state capitol, which looks even more beautiful lit up at night. I can also see the building that my office is in - strange to see it from this perspective.

It was nice to see that all the nurses recognized and remembered me though I came without hair this time. As suspected, there's not even a stubble left, in a matter of a couple of days it all let go so that my head is now naked and smooth except for some soft spiky blonde hairs. I got a lot of compliments on my nice head shape - I'm glad the cone head that I had as a baby faded away!

It was great to have my mom here with me all day today to pass the time. Nothing happened until we were here for about four hours, around noon, when my port, which was accessed earlier, was hooked up to fluids. So we took some brief naps between visits by PCAs to check vitals, visits by food & nutrition to take my orders, etc. As I've said before, it's not easy to fall asleep in a hospital - no matter how tired you are. We looked at bridesmaids dresses for my mom and I helped her set up a Facebook account. Soon it was time for Ellen and Oprah and all was well.

She left and Craig relieved her after he got out of work and went home to take care of Sammy. It wasn't until after he got here - at 7pm - that the chemo finally got started. I guess the cancer center was packed today and they had six other patients on this floor that were also getting chemo today so the pharmacy was very behind. It really doesn't make a difference to me, and I almost prefer starting the chemo late because then I can just sleep off the wooziness and nausea rather than having to be awake and deal with it. In total the Etoposide and Iphospohmide (too tired to look up the spelling) take four hours. I've got about 45 minutes left. Then I'll receive a bag of Mezna (spelling?) every three hours throughout the night to run for 15 minutes each. This medicine will protect my kidneys which can be wrecked by the harsh drugs. I'm hoping that this Ativan will knock me out enough that I can sleep through the frequent visits and hope that they can just switch over the tubing without having to disturb me.

The sounds here are a bit eerie. The wind is howling outside the window and sounds almost like an ambulance siren it is so loud and violent. This evening I heard other howls, but howls and cries of pain from another patient on the floor. This floor is home to both oncology and end-of-life patients so there is a deep sadness irking from a lot of the rooms or maybe in some cases it's a sense of peace that they are letting go of whatever they may have been suffering from. I see a lot of large groups of families coming in to visit certain rooms, a tell tale sign that they are coming to say their goodbyes. It's hard for me who's fighting so hard for survival to be surrounded by that and as much as my heart goes out to them and to their families, when I do my laps around the floor with my IV pole I try not to look in the rooms, not to look in their eyes, as if I locked sight with them then death would head for me too ... and I'm not ready for that. I'm just here to get the medicine that is killing my cancer cells. I am not here to die.

Woozy. Nauseous. Antsy. Tired ....

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

The hair that finally grew back enough to cover my head after the ABVD chemo treatments is now gone. My scalp just couldn't hold onto it. The follicles opened up and out it came, like my head was making an offering to the chemo Gods.

It happened real fast, exactly two weeks to do the day that I had my first day of ICE chemo - exactly as Dr. Dailey had predicted. It started with a familiar scalp tingling on Sunday - tremendously itchy and throbbing. Then Monday the hair cascade began. Tuesday my scalp ached with that feeling you get when you've had a ponytail in too long or when your hair's been tied up tight in a bun with jabbing bobby pins for a dance competition. It's the feeling when you let your hair unravel and then rub your scalp to let the circulation back in - it hurts to touch it and to move the hair around, but you can't stop doing it. Or at least that's me anyway.

Tuesday morning I woke up in a nest of short, dark hairs that covered my pillow. Disgusting. The shower was worse. The water added weight to my hair that my scalp just couldn't hold on and out it came in thick, black clumps. Enough hair to coat one of those creepy hairless cats. Much Drain-O needed. All day yesterday hair fell out at the slightest touch and the ache in my scalp only increased.

As soon as Craig got home he looked at the fistfuls I was pulling out and we both knew what had to be done. Out came the buzzers again. I can't just sit by and watch hair pile up around me. It was time to take matters into my own hands. So Craig took me up to his workshop and buzzed it to the shortest length - after a little fun with some mohawk sculpting. My scalp was immediately relieved and I felt freed. I really don't mind the G.I. Jane look and Craig actually prefers it (or so he says.) I didn't have time to get attached to the crazy curled, dark brown hair that had grown from November to now so it wasn't nearly traumatic as it was parting with my long, blonde locks last May. It's just strands of fibrous protein anyway.

This morning I woke up to a pillow with a case of five-o-clock shadow. The stark white of the pillow case was contrasted by a healthy amount of little black stubble. It won't be long until I move from G.I. Jane to Mr. Clean.

Chemo goes after all fast growing cells, hair cells being some of the fastest, so it only means that the chemo is on the attack. I can only imagine that the cancer cells are leaving my body just as quickly as the hair is leaving my head.

Vulnerability

My white blood cell count has plummeted, a few days more quickly than anticipated. Yesterday I felt great. A lot of energy. My head was clear. I went to the Avon Cancer Center for a CBC (Complete Blood Count) check - just a quick finger prick for blood and to check in with Dr. Dailey.

The lab tech filled my vile and dropped it into the blood cell tabulating machine and I hear a big groan.

"This things going to give me a heart attack. Ugggghhhhh. Come on."

She's banging the thing, running the sample again, saying she may have to stick me again. She gets on the phone with the Hartford Cancer Center and I hear her on the phone telling them that it's showing a white blood cell number that's impossibly low and that the breakdown of types of white blood cells isn't even showing up.

Turns out it wasn't the machine. The reading was in fact correct. My white blood cells are 0.4. So low that the machine doesn't even to bother to calculate the percentage of granulocyte and neutrophils present. I'm told that I will be at 0 after the stem cell reinfusion. I didn't think I would get this low after infusion one of the ICE chemo.

Dr. Dailey, always calm and assuring, wasn't overly concerned.

"So your counts are very low," he said calmly, balancing out the frantic nature of the lab tech.

He had expected them to drop to about 1.0, but probably not until the weekend. But he said that he was still glad that we hit it hard and I now realize how harsh these drugs really are. I guess that's why the nurses have to wear protective gowns and gloves when handling the IV bags full of the chemo.

As a precaution he put me on a antibiotic in anticipation of any infection that might arise. I now take this Levaquin once a day and I need to take my temperature a few times a day to be sure that I'm not spiking a fever. If I hit 100.5 I need to call him immediately and he'll very likely admit me to the hospital where I can receive IV antibiotics. So far, no fever. This is good because I do not want to be in the hospital any more than I have to be.

I am what is called "Neutropenic" meaning that my body's disease fighters, neutrophils (a type of white blood cell), are nonexistent so I have to be very careful with what I expose myself to. No shaking hands and kissing babies. No getting anywhere close to sick people. I have to be super diligent with food safety and ridiculous about hand washing. So, I haven't left the house since I got back from my appointment yesterday. Well, besides to get outside for some fresh air.

Though Dr. Dailey doesn't think I have to be overly paranoid about it, I thought it best to lay real low - no grocery store, no movies, no restaurants, etc. This is what they told me I'll have to do when I'm living down at Yale so I figure it's best to take those precautions now as well. I do not want to land anything that will delay this treatment course or will send me back to the hospital. I go back tomorrow for another CBC and hopefully the counts will begin to climb, though I'm told I can expect to be this low for several days. Soon, though, the Neulasta shot will kick in and that's when my marrow will start creating new cells to get me ready for the next chemo whop.

For the past several days I've been blowing bloody tissue out my nose. All of the delicate tissue in my sinus tract and within my nasal passages is fried, so it's filling my sinus cavities and I wake up with awful sinus headaches. Once things get moving I fell several tissues of bloody phlegm and internal tissues. It is not a pleasant site, but it feels so much better when the daily collection is out. There can't be much more left so it's got to end soon. My gums are so fragile and raw I can feel every bristle of the tooth brush and I worry that they're not holding tightly enough to my teeth. I also have quite a deep cough that comes up at night. Dr. Dailey says that this is also because of some of the rawness in my bronchial tract. A lot of that tissue is delicate tissue is burnt off so it's irritating my chest.

But I'm not going to play my fiddle. It's all par for the course. I just have to keep telling myself that if it's causing this havoc on the good cells in my body, then it's frying those cancer cells just as hard.

Yesterday I had so much energy I was dancing around to MJ's "This Is It" DVD that my mom had rented for me. Today I am exhausted beyond belief but can't sleep. I woke up a completely different person. My body is so restless and there are so many things that I want to be doing but I can't. I just can't get the physical strength. I've gone through this before and I know I need to listen to my body, but it doesn't necessarily make it any easier, so far doing it for a second time seems harder because I know what's coming.

This afternoon I just sobbed. Choking sobbed out of pure exhaustion. Thank God for Sammy. At my first crying hiccup she was nuzzled on my lap and sat, chest out next to me while I cried it out. She kept giving me her stuffed dog, her new favorite toy. She went and got it off her bed and would toss it over to me for comfort. It's smelly and spitty but exactly what I needed. I buried my face in her fur and wailed and then she was nuzzling my face so much and shoving her toy at me so hard that I just started laughing and laughing and everything was better. I love that dog.

Coming Out of the Dark

The clouds have begun to part. Literally. Monday the sun peeked through for the first time in nearly a week and with that sun peeked through my strength and even some clarity of mind. After Saturday night's horrific experience things began to look up. I suppose it's all relative, right?

Sunday I was strong enough to get out of the house and instead spend the afternoon on my parent's living room recliner watching Dante's Peak and USA vs. Canada. I got to see my little bro, which is nice and he even accompanied me on my short walk around the neighborhood. I still felt nauseous and weak but nothing compared to the days prior.

Monday, I drove myself to the Hartford Cancer Center for an appointment. It was a balmy 45 degrees and I had the car sunroof open blaring a Judy Garland Broadway compilation CD a friend had dropped off for me. I felt great in big part due to the fact that I had a good, solid bowel movement. I thought that the moment was deserving of trumpets and fireworks. Though they didn't come, they did play in my head. I felt a million times better. And after the puke, when I suddenly came out of that nausea cloud, it felt as if I'd found my legs again after months at sea. For four days straight it felt as if I had just stepped off the ride at the amusement park that spins so fast it makes you stick to the wall and the floor drops out from underneath you. I always hated that ride. It felt like my stomach was not in my abdomen, but instead in my throat, and that what was in my abdomen was churning through my intestines in a radioactive manner. No. Sudden. Movements.

I even wore jeans and a cute top to Monday's appointment. I showered and put on mascara. These were big steps. I certainly wasn't feeling 100%, but I'd say 65%. Today, we're up another 10 or so percentage points. I joked and laughed with the ladies in the lab. We talked about Justin Timberlake and his Soupville SNL skit. Denise, my favorite, was there to take my blood and she was so concerned about what I was going through. She gets all teary-eyed and always tells me that she loves me. I found out that she's no longer out at the Avon Cancer Center where I'll now be having most of my appointments since it's much closer for me. This was sad news, but I know we'll pass each other.

I met with Dr. Dailey and told him about my weekend escapades with the constipation, the nausea, the vomiting. He was sympathetic and we talked about some new options that we can try for ICE round 2 that might help things, including more steroid and a medical marijuana-like nausea blocker (oooooooh) that he says works well with a lot of young people. Despite my weekend symptoms, he thought that I was doing very well with everything, considering. This was encouraging. My blood levels were still holding okay. I'm a bit anemic but he wasn't too concerned. He wants to continue to check my blood every other day. He expects the big drop to happen this weekend and for my white blood cells to stay low (nearly non-existent) for at least a week when the marrow stimulating effects of the Neulasta shot wear off and the chemo effects really kick in. From this weekend forward I'll have to really confine myself to home and controlled environments. No movies. No restaurants. No big crowds. Definitely no contact with anyone who is remotely sick. If I catch a bug of any sort not only could it delay my treatment schedule but my body might not be able to fight it off. I am not going to let that happen so I plan on heeding his warnings to the extreme.

Then it was time for the Lupron shot. This shot will serve to shut down my ovarian functions in hopes to protect them during the high-dose chemotherapy and to eliminate monthly bleeding as my platelets will be low and there is a risk of hemorrhaging. I'm told that it will also give me menopausal symptoms like crazy mood swings and hot flashes. Depending on how my body reacts I might go on a low-dose estrogen to counteract things. Basically, I'm just a human beaker bottle. A little of this potion. A little of that toxin. Let's get me to gurgle just enough, but not bubble over ... . And let's see what different colors I can turn while we're at it.

My oncology nurse whom I had all during the ABVD, Diane, opened the door with a box in her hand. She had a look on her face like she was a little kid who just spilt a whole gallon of milk on the floor.

"I have a really big shot for you," she said, scrunching up her nose and lips. "I'm sorry."

Oh, dear.

"That's okay," I said back. "I just won't look at it."

"Oh! You're so good! Can I just take you home with me?" she exclaimed and came over and gave me a big hug. "You're just so good. I don't know how you guys do it," she said.

I realized that she felt so awful thinking that the shot she had to give me would add to the pain I was already going through, but to me, it was just part of the process. If it was going to protect me or make me better, just stab me with it. I can take it. It also made me realize that other patients might not react that way. I wonder if others would fight back at her begging her not to come at them with the needle, refusing their treatment. I'm sure it happens. This is why oncology nurses should be considered on par with angels.

I didn't look at the needle, but I believed her that it was big when it seemed like it took forever for the drug to go in. I had to pull out a cheek and she shot me in the upper behind. It really wasn't a big deal at all. Diane is very, very good at giving shots. It just went deep and there is still a dull ache in the injection area today. I zipped back up and was on my way with a slew of follow-up appointments over the next few weeks until my next ICE infusion - March 15.

Until then I'll continue my walking. I have not missed a day yet no matter how shitty I've felt. Sometimes the walks are longer than others. Sometimes they're slower than others. But it's important to me to move every day. I also get outside every day which is getting easier now that it's finally not precipitating. Fresh air does wonders. I have so much paperwork to focus on and administrative work to be done that I am not working, I still get a sense of accomplishment completing all of those tasks. I'm eating pretty well. I can keep most everything down now and my appetite is strong. I'm instructed to be on a "high-calorie, high-protein" diet. This is much different than my usual low-fat, lean-protein regimine. Basically right now I am just eating as much as I can when I am feeling up to it as I know how much my body needs the fuel for this fire inside me. I'm still focused on raw, non-processed foods, though I make the exception for peanut m & m's.

I hope that these improvements continue and that I'm out of the dark when it comes to the nausea. The achiness and weakness that is expected to set in in next week is something that I can deal with - napping is easy. Trying not to vomit is not.

ICE Round 1, Day 3, 4 & Aftermath

Obviously I have slacked on the daily updates. Getting the strength to write was near impossible. In short, I've been feeling awful. After day one, there was no more dancing with the IV pole. After the second day of meds things certainly got to be woozy, cloudy and anxiety provoking. By Friday after Dr. Dailey stopped by to tell me I could be discharged I was showered, packed up, shoes on and unhooked from the port waiting eagerly in a hospital chair when my mom and sister arrived to take me home. Since I've been home, I've been spending most of my time trying not to vomit or mustering the strength to get off the couch.

I handled the Carboplatin okay when it was added on the third day bringing the total hours of receiving drugs to five. However, each night when the meds finished dripping, I got very nauseous despite all the nausea blockers I would take hours before. Luckily, the "as needed" anti-nausea meds seemed to cut it, though on the last night I woke up needing it twice. I wasn't feeling hot at all Friday morning, but I wanted to go home so, so badly that I sucked it up as hard as I could. Dr. Dailey came by and I told him that I was doing okay and that I was definitely ready to go home. He agreed and provided me with some at-home scripts for nausea blockers and Atavan. I felt as if my head was disconnected and that my eyes and appendages were buldging from all the fluid I'd been in-taking and all the hot, stale air. I hung my head out my mom's car's passenger window like a dog on the way home and she even opened the sunroof for me though it was snowing right into the car.

But it wasn't all bad. I just feel so badly right now that it's hard to remember anything else, but I'm trying to focus on the positive as unfortunately I've got to do it all again ... twice. I had great surprises from some more visitors. Nicole came by to have lunch with me. Melissa, Leah and Kyle came Thursday evening, while my chemo was dripping, with treats and smoothies, then my brother-in-law, Eric, showed up to add to the laughs and Craig stayed until I was ready for sleep. We got quite rowdy as they played props with the ridiculously small TV monitor on an arm that served as the entertainment in my room. More co-workers stopped by with gorgeous flowers, sweet notes, and my fav Starbucks treat.

All the nurses were truly, truly amazing. I had great care the whole way through and never felt alone or neglected. They even rolled around with a "high tea" cart on Thursday while Craig and I were relaxing. A nurse in a crazy purple and red hat came in with a vast array of fresh pastries and donuts, coffee and tea to choose from. Fantastic! I enjoyed a 45-minute massage which felt fantastic on my achey legs especially, and even received a Reiki session the morning of my discharge. I was so taken away to a peaceful place that I didn't even hear my boss come into the room with a latte for me - very stealth. I also took a wellness workout class with two other cancer patients - one just 18 years old who had been in the hospital for a month, and a 60ish year old woman who was neutropenic and had to wear a mask to protect herself. I, on the other hand, managed to snap the exercise band they provided us while doing a set of tricep curls. It was humbling and made me realize how good I still have it, and how I do not want to lose my strength and how hard I'll have to work to keep it.

Now I am home and as I said, my time has literally been spent trying not to vomit. Friday I felt real woozy, but my symptoms were controllable for most of the day. My mom and sister cleaned my whole house while I slept and watched bad TV. Then Craig got home and my Dad arrived and we all just relaxed and watched the Olympics and I watched them play Wii Fit trying to do their own ski jump and slalom races, Craig bouncing up and down on the Wii board dodging wrecking balls in the obstacle course. I kept asking them to do funny things to keep my mind off the pain. Those included my mom doing mock Olympic sports around the house with a "Fuck Cancer" beanie on her head. This was funny. I'd call out "speed skating," "short program," "skeleton," or "bobsled" and she'd pantomime. Oddly, they all looked alike. It was hilarious.

But then suddenly the laughing turned into awful, awful stomach pains and I got very serious and snippy. I hadn't had a bowel movement since I was admitted to the hospital and the nausea blockers tend to block the action down there too. So, it was debilitating s-pains to the point where I was asking someone, anyone, to just stab me in the stomach to alleviate the pain. I sipped on hot chamomile tea, did the exercises that my mom said she would do with her c-section patients that were clogged up, but nothing (still) has seemed to work. With awful pains and vomit hovering right at my throat sphincter I was able to get up to bed, take an Atavan and fall asleep.

Yesterday I woke up with less stomach pain though the nausea was still there. Craig had to drive me back to Hartford Hospital to get a Neulasta shot at 7 a.m. This is the equivalent to 10 of the Neupogen shots that I used to get during the ABVD. It will serve to stimulate my bone marrow and get my counts back to reasonable levels. The nurse practitioner explained that I'll have a lot of bone pain in my hips, shoulders, chest, and gave my a prescription for vicodin. I'm starting to feel it this morning and may in fact go get that script filled. The rest of the day yesterday I was uneasy but stable. I got enough strength to take a walk with Sam and Craig down at the park, which was hard, but felt great. Dr. Dailey told me to alternate rest periods with activity periods so I'm doing my best, even if it's just a few minutes on the treadmill. Much of the day was spent cuddling with Sammy and watching trashy tv like "16 and Pregnant," "America's Next Top Model" and "Real World DC." I ached to be able to sleep, but the stimulating effects of the steroids matched with the uncomfortable stomach feelings prevented that so I watched "Billy Elliot," started a puzzle and picked at whatever food I could take - forcing down nutrients.

Then nighttime came and it was almost time to be able to take an Atavan which helps with nausea and anxiety. I got up off the couch to let Sammy out while Craig slept a few cushions over. I shut the front door, turned back around, burped, and that was the end. There was no stopping it. I woke Craig up to wrenching vomiting. I made it to our nice, wood-woven garbage basket in the living room - not ideal - but better than the floor, I suppose. Craig ran to get a replacement and I shifted my barf aim into a cardboard box as he hovered over me. It kept coming and it sounded and smelt inhuman as I wretched animal-like. I despise, despise, despise throwing up and can't remember the last time I did it. Tears streamed down my face and I was sweaty and achey in my already raw intestines. I had been so proud that I never threw up from the ABVD. I guess high-dose chemotherapy is no joke. Once I brushed my teeth and showered I admit that I did feel better. For the first time in four days I wasn't nauseous, but I worry that this will continue, and I know how important it is to keep nutrients down.

This morning? So far so good. More achey and weak than nauseous so hopefully that's a good sign. My little brother made the trip from Roger Williams so I am looking forward to seeing him today and hope to again be able to make it out of the house for some fresh air and a walk. Other than than, just taking things literally hour by hour.

ICE Round 1, Day 1

So I survived the first day of the ICE chemo regimen. We "checked in" to the HH Spa in the fifth floor of the Bliss Wing (appropriate) around 8:30 a.m. yesterday. Nearly 24 hours later, I've had two sacks of chemo drugs, a constant drip of fluid at the rate of half-a-cup every half hour from 11 a.m. yesterday on, three small sacks of another drug to protect my bladder against the chemo effect, lots of snacks that I brought and (gasp) two pretty decent hospital meals.

My room is large and private. I have my own small (very small) TV that gets lots of channels and my own bathroom and sink. However, no shower. This I have to share communally with the rest of the floor. I've asked my mom to bring back flip flops for me as this reminds me of college days and I'm a little skeeved about going in there barefoot.

I have a huge window that runs the length of the far wall through which I was able to watch the chunky snow flakes mixed with soothing rain throughout the day. Signs of healing. It seems there will be mixed winter weather outside the window for my entire stay here, but I actually think that's more tolerable than bright sun would be as in this type of weather I feel like you're supposed to be cooped up and cozy. The sun would only make me ache to be outside soaking it in.

The care has been nothing short of extraordinary. And I'm not just saying that because I work in the marketing department, really. I've been truly impressed by the resources, the attentive care, all the offerings. We've been flooded with helpful pamphlets and printouts with details on each of my drugs. We had a visit from a social worker to talk about finances. A nutritionist is scheduled to stop by at some point. Craig was given a rickety but mildly comfortable cot to stay the night in. There are no limitations on accepting visitors or having sleepovers. I'm signed up

for a "wellness fitness class" Thursday morning with the other patients on the floor. Volunteers will be coming by to give me a therapeutic Reiki session each day, and I was even given a gift certificate for a massage scheduled for 11 a.m. Thursday right here in my room, paid for by a generous grant from an organization called Angie's Spa that has partnered with the Gray Cancer Center. All of these pieces certainly balance out the bad. It's *almost* like our Sandals honeymoon. I can get plastic canisters of oj and cranberry juice or mini cans of gingerale whenever I want it and Hood ice cream cups are available on demand! My bed moves up and down and I can adjust my foot and back positioning with ease.

My nurse, Susan, was with me all day yesterday and she was so thorough and thoughtful. The first step was to access my port yesterday morning. It's all done under a lot more anti-infection protocol here as an inpatient. She wore a mask, gloves, a gown, and I had to turn my head during the insertion. The needle went in beautifully and now it's all covered and taped and nothing that I have to worry about for the rest of the stay. I can even shower with it accessed after they cover it with cling wrap.

The day progressed with a whole lot of waiting, but Craig was with me all day, and we kept busy taking walks around the oncology/palliative care unit (with my IV pole in tow since we are now attached), reading, napping, playing games, etc.

Late morning I took a drug by mouth, Allopurinol, that will lower the amount of uric acid in my blood and protect my kidneys, which can be damaged by one of the chemo drugs. Then at about 5pm came the nausea blockers, also by mouth: Zofran, Emend, and Decadron. It wasn't until 6:30pm that I started the chemo drugs. I'm told this is because the pharmacy mixes all of the outpatient chemo first since the cancer center closes at 5pm then they tackle it for us inpatients. After they mix it the drug bags go through four different check points to verify accuracy, so it's understandable that it took a long time.

Susan was detailed in explaining what the effects of each of the drugs would be. She went over everything about the amounts I was being given, how long each would take, matched it up to my ID number and told me that I should feel no differently than I did before she started dripping them in - and if I did, to let her know right away.

The first was the Etoposide (E). It dripped into my port for one hour. Then came the Ifosfamide (I), which dripped for three hours. With such a late-day start, this meant that I received chemo until after 10:30pm last night. The Ifosfamide is the one that is nearly double the dose a normal adult would receive as part of the pediatric protocol I am under. The Carboplatin (C) won't come into play until Thursday when I will receive all three ICE drugs. All the while that these are dripping, I receive IV fluids as well. It's extremely important that I drink a lot even on top of that to flush out the residual tumor particles that the drugs are smashing through. I get to pee in what's called a hat in the toilet so they can monitor my urine output. They're watching all of my bodily functions very closely.

All yesterday I felt great. My parents arrived to visit for the evening just as the chemo was getting started. They joined Craig and I as we watched Jeopardy, chatted and laughed and ordered in a couple of pizzas from J Restaurant/Bar just across the street - they deliver right to the floor! I was so hungry from the anti-nausea drugs and steroids. I powered my whole penne pasta florentine with chicken hospital meal then 4 pieces of pizza. I guess my appetite isn't affected. However, Dr. Dailey warned me this morning that I might want to tone that down as the stomach upset may still be on the horizon. I did some laps around the unit with my parents and showed them the lounge area where there's a big fish tank, comfy couches, and a pantry with food and drink up for grabs. I'm grateful that I'm able to walk around and eat whatever I want. I really have no restrictions.

It wasn't until about 11 a.m. last night when I started feeling crappy. I all of the sudden had a huge wave of nausea, complete with that hot, scary feeling. Way worse than I ever got with the ABVD chemo. Sweaty all over and head spins and that awful awareness of my throat sphincter. I thought for sure I was going to vomit. I called for the nurse and she was able to administer another anti-nausea drug which Dr. Dailey had ordered in anticipation of this reaction (God bless him) to be given on demand. It worked well and had the dual effect of knocking me out to sleep which helped everything. The night nurse said she tried to wake me up and I wasn't budging, even with a shove, so I guess I slept deeply, at least for a few hours. But then I was woken every three hours to receive Mesna, a drug that also drips into my port for 15 minutes and will protect my bladder from damage that can be caused by the chemo drugs. I got the last one at 6 a.m. and have been up ever since.

Today, same routine. My sister flew in from Cali late, late last night, delayed by the snow, and her and my parents are currently sleeping at my house and taking care of Sammy. I can't wait for them to arrive later this morning. It'll be great to see her! Craig is also taking a half-day of work and will be back to be with me later this afternoon. Even if we're not talking or all doing our own thing it is great to have others around me, so that I don't feel alone, especially when my IV tether puts things out of reach. Even though I can unplug it from the wall, it's not exactly dainty and the spider-like wheels don't make it into tight spaces to reaching things can be difficult. It'll be a good feeling to be detached on Friday. But until then I know that it's feeding me life-saving meds so I'll deal with it.

Another video produced by my talented husband. We found some creative ways to pass the time. I wonder what we'll be doing on day 4, eek:

The Time Has Come

Tomorrow starts my first round of pediatric high-dose ICE chemotherapy. It'll require 3 nights and four days in the hospital, but Dr. Dailey tells me that it should be "uneventful" and that I'll do well with it. Being in the hospital will allow me to receive the fluids that I'll need and the pre- and post-chemo meds plus super anti-nausea blockers. It's important that I'm monitored for side effects. I'm told that I'll be able to unhook from my port for periods of time so that I can walk around (plus apparently the steroids will make me very restless). I'll have my own room and Dr. Dailey has already told the nurses that I'm coming, that I'm "really nice" and that I work there at Hartford Hospital, so that's a plus! I'm just trying to think of it as a little spa retreat for a few days - on demand cocktails and all.

These past two weeks have been full of preparation. First and foremost was the embryo preservation and the final count is 3 healthy, growing embryos that are now being cryopreserved on a shelf in a secret location until we are ready to use them. We are thrilled at the outcome and so happy that we went through the process. It makes our future even brighter.

I've been walking every single day. Luckily it's been beautiful out so I've been able to get fresh air. On the days when I don't get out before nightfall, I now have a fabulous treadmill on loan from a very generous friend! I've been upping my calorie intake trying to put on some pre-chemo pounds and eating lots and lots of fruits and veggies and au natural foods. I've been reading up on stem cell transplants, watching video blogs and reading about other's experiences, researching my chemo regimen, visualizations, and coping mechanisms. I digested another Dr. Bernie Siegel book and am just about done with Lance Armstrong's "It's Not About the Bike" - very, very inspiring and the book I've most been able to identify with. We share a very similar coping style and mentality and hearing his struggles and triumphs really affirms my beliefs as to the best way to take cancer head on.

Craig and I took a road trip over the four days that we had post-IVF procedure and pre-start of chemo. We went to Philly, a city to which I've never been, and I got to run the actual steps that one of my idols, Stallone, climbed as Rocky, we ate cheesesteaks and explored the Franklin Institute. Then it was on to Virginia/DC to visit my college roomie and her fiancee - two of my favorite people in the whole world. We had a fabulous time just hanging together eating good food, playing Wii, exploring Georgetown, watching the Olympics and marveling at all the spandex over a few beers. They're the kind of friends that you just automatically fall back in sync and comfort with as soon as you see them no matter how long it's been. That was exactly what both Craig and I needed. Plus, I got to fulfill some Matron of Honor duties and help pick out wedding invitations and weigh in on tux choices for their wedding in May, which makes me so happy. We came back recharged and sore from all the belly laughs.

I feel ready for this - as ready as I can be, I suppose. I've packed a bag of comfy clothes and another bag of healthy snacks to counteract the hospital food. I'll be arriving with a little mini cooler and another backpack full of books, magazines, card games, laptop, iPod, crosswords, word searches and various other distraction paraphernalia. I think I'm covered.

Now it's time for what is hopefully a good night's sleep then check-in under "Diamond" at 8 a.m. Maybe there'll be a towel sculpted into the shape of a swan waiting on the hospital bed to greet me.