Just Another Surgery

It's crazy to think how commonplace anesthesia, breathing tubes, cold, cold, cold operating tables, steri strips and hospital provided no-skid socks can become. This was my third biopsy in just a little over a year, not to mention the two bone marrow biopsies and egg retrieval surgery.

However, this time I got a blue-and-white seer sucker robe to tie over my johnny. I kind of wanted to take it home. Other than that, it was same old. Just another slice-me-open-and-take-out-a-chunk-of-lymph-nodes kind of day.

I was the surgeon's first case of the day so my mom and I arrived at 6:15 a.m. after a 4:30 a.m. wake-up. We were bright and cheery to say the least. I'm glad she was the one driving on the highway.

I was brought to the pre-op room where an IV was placed in my forearm and I had a visit from the anesthesia team where they explained the usual process of sending me to Tahiti, that I would be breathing on my own but would have a tube in my throat to breathe in the gas that would transport me.

Before long I was rolled into the cold OR where the operating team all introduced themselves and we made small talk about the construction at the hospital. My funny little surgeon was cracking jokes and full of smiles. He indicated that he would reopen the "wound" he left there in May, 2009 as my new cancerous lymph node was right underneath it. They were all so nice and we repeated together several times what procedure I was having done before the surgeon wrote it in marker on my left shoulder ensuring he was going into my left underarm.

The last thing I remember is breathing gas out of a big tube covering my entire mouth ... the anesthesiologist telling me to mouth breathe.

"Have a nice, deep sleep. We'll see you soon," said the nurse.

I thought of snorkeling less than 10 days before when I was also breathing in and out through my mouth and pictured myself surrounded by cobalt blue and neon yellow fish rather than wrinkled blue scrubs and blindingly bright round surgical spotlights.

With just a few breaths I was out and remember nothing until waking up in the same room that I had started pre-op in, which was now converted to the recovery area for all of us morning surgical cases. Soon my mom was brought in and I felt totally at ease. My underarm was in some pain so they gave me some IV pain meds and after cranberry juice and graham crackers, a Percocet.

After maybe an hour I felt fine and was released. A pimply faced, teenaged, super shy volunteer

wheeled me out to the car via the fastest wheel chair ride I have ever gotten. I swear we were squealing around the corners. He took his patient transport assignment seriously. It was rather exciting.

Other than being loopy from the Percocet and orange from the sterilizing iodine, I really felt fine. My mom cooked me up some eggs and cheese when we got home and I cuddled into the couch where I camped out for most of the rest of the afternoon. Craig came home from work and joined me in napdom. He then cooked me a delicious burrito and we ran out to rent a movie. After an inspiring viewing of Invictus it was more sleep.

I didn't take any pain meds after getting home and have been able to squelch the ache with Extra Strength Tylenol alone, which makes me very happy. Today I was just sore in the armpit and my throat but had a lot of energy ... enough for a 40-minute walk which felt fantastic. I had good music pumping and a lot of aggression so the adrenalin just kept pushing me. I also finished a book and baked kale chips and zucchini bread. This was quite satisfying. Luckily, I was able to remove the surgical dressing and shower this afternoon as sweating in these 90 degree temps revealed smells I didn't know I could produce.

Dr. Dailey started me on Prednisone steroids which has helped to calm the Hodgkin symptoms and I'll stay on these until I start chemo on Thursday. It's eliminated my fevers and has much reduced the aches from my swollen lymph nodes and the swelling in my chest.

I have not yet heard the biopsy results and have no idea what we'll be getting into on Thursday, but I know that I'm going in to start chemo of some sort as they want to get me going on something as soon as possible to zap this cancer.

Tomorrow entails an echocardiogram to ensure that my heart is strong enough for more chemo. But more importantly, I'll be meeting Craig for a picnic of our favorite Chipotle burritos and a walk around our old West Hartford stomping grounds. Hoping for another one of these beautiful summer days we've been spoiled with.

Dream Fulfilled for a Borderline-Obsessed Rocky Fan

Cancer, you don't have a fighting chance. "Eye of the Tiger" is putting it mildly. I've eaten lighting and crapped thunder before, and I will do it again with gusto. Whatever it takes, I'm ready for the fight.

The Little Follicles That Could

Something is brewing. Despite all odds, my little follicles have made a remarkable growth spurt over the past two days. We had another ultrasound appointment this morning and low and behold the few follicles that were just emerging during the last disappointing ultrasound have now sprouted and pushed their way toward maturity (with the help of these past two days of hormones, and I like to think all the walking and visualizations I've been doing and all the grapefruits I've been eating).

Craig and I were completely taken aback when the doctor went over the numbers with us and said how much more promising things looked and how pleased he was. We went in there ready to pull the plug on this ordeal knowing that we gave it our best shot. But this time the bright, white room felt illuminated and refreshing. This experience has been nothing less than a roller coaster ride - the kind where your feet dangle unprotected below you.

We now have four mature follicles to work with, each of which could possibly contain an egg. This is nowhere near the dismal news we received on Wednesday that just one was mature with three showing potential. These little guys have pushed right past the 10mm marker necessary. I knew all the swelling and bloating I was feeling had to be a good sign. My ovaries were just a little slow - they're allowed to get chemo brain, too.

This is still of course nowhere near the 10 follicles that they like to see when doing a retrieval, but clinically, the doctor recommends that we move forward and that our chances of getting 1 or 2 embryos to freeze are good. Is the situation ideal, no? But for the hand we've been dealt, we're very happy.

We decided that the fact that these follicles are fighting so hard to grow means that we can't give up right now. Someone (baby Frosty, perhaps?) is trying to tell us something. So we're going ahead with the retrieval - fully knowing that the chance (though smaller) still exists that we'll end up with no eggs or with eggs that don't fertilize through ICSI. But if we don't try then we'll never know, and the last thing we want to do is look back on this chance with regret in the future.

We're prepared for it not to work out and will be completely fine with that. We know that having a biological child is not the only way to be a parent and look forward to the chance to create a family no matter what the "means" of making that family is. Like "Brangelina," we'll have our own United Nations of love under our roof. But maybe, just maybe, there'll be some mini Craig-and-Karins in the mix.

Transition

I plucked my first out-of-place eyebrow hair.

I filed away the last of the blood count reports floating around our office.

I threw out the leftover steroids.

I took down the calendar which held the lists of doctor appointments and documented how I felt each day.

I twisted my hair around my finger. Well, half-way around.

I crumpled up the hand-written notes from my mom with directions of when and how much of which medicines to take each day.

I'm transitioning from cancer patient to cancer survivor. In fact, this past couple of weeks, I've really forced myself to forget about the "C" word altogether. I think I've really been squelching it all, excited to be feeling better and getting back into my old routines. However, no matter what, I know that this experience will forever be a part of me and I don't want to forget it. I think I just wanted to tuck it away in my back pocket for a little while. Now, I'm ready to reexamine it all and see how I can use it to better my life and the lives of others. I'm going back to figuring out that still unanswered question of why the hell this happened to me ... .

I'm waiting for the big flood of emotions or whatever is supposed to happen when I actually realize everything that I, and those around me, went through. Right now it just seems like it was a little bump in the road, a chapter that is now closed. It's hard to even recreate what my mind and body felt like. I remember people telling me that would happen back when I was first diagnosed. Telling me that one day this cancer experience will be just a little blip in my life and that I'll have so many bigger and better adventures that will overshadow it. I found that hard to believe at the time, just as it was hard to believe that I'd ever reach the 12th treatment. But now that I'm here, I realize that the world keeps moving and that there's a whole lot of life still ahead of me.

Even though I don't think about it constantly as I used to, I am still frequently reminded. Of course, there's the givens. The lady lump is still in my chest. It seems that the skin discolorations on my body are permanent, and oh ya, I still don't have enough hair to cover my head. But there's also the unexpected reminders.

Last night we were out at a tavern enjoying some beers and a live band with friends. I go to the bathroom and this 60ish-year-old woman with long, peroxide bleached blond hair, teased bangs and L.E.I bellbottom jeans starts to explain to me why she has a heart painted on her face (her grandson), keeps talking to me while I'm in the stall, and after I'm done washing my hands and she's done drawing on her Barbie pink lip liner, reaches her hand out to shake mine and introduces herself.

"I'm Karin," I replied, wiping my hands on my jeans and shaking her hand.

Her eyes widened.

"That's my sister's name ... ," she said.

I nod and mumble back something about 'what a coincidence' and make my way to the bathroom door.

"She just died of cancer," she said and I spun back around.

I hesitated at first, not knowing what to say, then blurted out: "I just beat cancer. I just finished six months of chemotherapy." As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wanted to take them back. I couldn't believe how mortifyingly insensitive I was, but her reaction completely surprised me.

She grabbed me in her arms and pulled me in for a tight hug. I was immediately engulfed in the scents of Aquanet hairspray and gag inducing flowery perfume.

"What? Oh my God. God bless you, child," she choked, going on and on and on. "That's amazing! Oh, that's amazing!" She kept kissing me on the cheek - several times. I'm just awkwardly smiling back thinking, I am in a bathroom, with other people doing their business in the stalls listening to this. I thought I was just going to take a leak and I end up sending this woman over the emotional edge.

"I'm sorry about your sister," I said back.

She just replied with more sighs of happiness and more awkward touching. She squeezed my hand and we reentered the bar. I plopped back down at our table and immediately recounted my bathroom experience. Then I watched as this dolled-up Grandma headed to the dance floor to slink around to the beat and rub up against her much younger looking boy toy and I smiled.

It's like I'm now forever part of this secret society. For those who have been through it or watched someone very close to them go through it, you have this instant rapport and understanding. That's something that I feel very lucky for - to have the capacity to form these instant human connections. So quickly comfortable that several smooches in the ladies room at a divey bar are perfectly appropriate.

Chemo Day 12

For the last treatment there had to be a bit of excitement. My port didn't work again. I had to have blood drawn from my arm. They ran out of the normal needle gauge size. One of my four drugs was pulled from my regimen. We set off the patient alert alarm throughout the center and we forgot a bottle opener. But all in all, the final chemo session was as fun as a chemo session can be - if that makes any sense.

Both my mom and Craig were there with me for this momentous occasion. God willing, the last time I will ever have to sit in the chemo recliner. In fact, I don't know that I'll ever look at faux leather recliners the same ever again. I think they'll always remind me of long hours spent with my feet up waiting for the drugs to drip.

I think all three of us were a little bit loopy with excitement - so ready to celebrate that this routine was over, but also careful that not everyone in the cancer center was celebrating, knowing that for some, that day may have been just the beginning of their journey and I could only hope that it'd be as successful as mine. But we managed to celebrate on the sly, sort of.

I brought in Funfetti cupcakes for my life-saving team and made them all pose for pictures with me, much to their chagrin, I think. It's probably not a request that comes often, but I never want to forget the faces of the people that saved my life and made this hell a hell of a lot easier to bear.

We had an emotional meeting with Dr. Dailey. I got myself a little paclemped trying to thank him for all that he has done to keep me sane and healthy. We talked about next steps and follow-ups and scans - though that's all a little surreal. Because I have had a

persistent cough throughout much of these past few months and had just come off the bad cold I had been fighting, Dr. Dailey thought it best to omit the Bleomycin from my last chemo treatment. So instead, I got a three-liquor cocktail: AVD for my send-off. This is because of the concerns of pulmonary toxicity that can arise from the harsh drug. Its effects could leave me with long-term lung damage. He said he was 5% concerned that the bleo could have negative long-term effects and 0% concerned that omitting it would have any negative outcome on the effectiveness of my treatment course. I was sold. Plus, that shaved a half-hour off of the process!

Luckily, the three of us secured a private room as I think we would have been a bit too rowdy for the common areas. My wonderful nurse Diane came in to "poke my port" one last time.

"Ready. Pinch," she said. The usual routine. It hurt a bit but the needle was in.

"We're out of the small needles so I had to give you a 19-gauger," she said.

"Glad you told me that afterward," I replied. Very smart woman she is.

Big needle or not, my port was not coughing up any blood again. Drawing blood is a necessity of the process and my port just wasn't putting out. That meant a stick in the arm - sigh. For all I went through with fighting to get the port it was a bit frustrating that I'd still have to get stuck, but I was just grateful that it was working well enough to take in the drugs. I can't wait to get that sucker out of my body.

So my buddy Denise came in to do the dirty work. She gave me a stress ball to squeeze and left me with a Sharpie-drawn smiley face on my gauze strip which made me laugh like a doofy little kid. As I've said throughout this, it's the little things like that that really make all the difference. For the rest of the time as the chemo started flowing my smile was as wide as the one on my arm.

Craig, my mom and I talked and joked and reminisced a bit about the crazy ride it's been. Then suddenly this strange beeping noise starts eminating through the center. No one is sure what it is. Then Craig realizes he'd been leaning on the "Pull For Help" button. Apparently no one has ever pulled it because no one knew what the sound was for a good few minutes. Then all came rushing in and had a good laugh over it - Diane saying that was the most fun she had had all day.

We pulled over a table and played Scrabble SLAM - a new favorite game. Especially good for the chemo brained as it only deals with four-letter words - nothing too fancy. We threw out cards and yelled out words as Jack Johnson played in the background and the time passed. I sucked on my ice cubes during the push drugs and snacked on healthy treats to keep my nausea down.

I had just a few ounces left in the Decarbazine bag but could not hold my bladder any longer. I was so afraid that the "end-of-bag alarm" would ding while I was in the bathroom and I wouldn't get to celebrate with everyone. It was a race to the finish, but I made it back to my chemo room to hear those final beautiful, mechanical notes.

At that, it was time to pop the sparkling apple cider that we had brought. But

who knew it would be a pop top? Craig tried desperately to pry it open to no avail. Then once again, Diane to the rescue with a bottle opener from the back room --- for the tough days.

We cheerzed as Diane removed the needle from my port one last time and I was flooded with a rush of freedom. Thank God Almighty, Free at last!

I got all unhooked, said my goodbyes, and left without tears headed for a delicious post-chemo Bertuccis lunch. I don't think it all will hit me until a few months from now when the dust settles and the smoke clears and I can really look back and realize what happened to me and to every

one around me.

Until then, I'm just focused on getting better. That means more Neupogen shots. More scans. More bloodwork. A port removal surgery. I'll be working on piecing myself back together one step at a time.

Chemo Day 11

I always blog about my treatment day experiences several days after and realize that much is probably lost in the interim. So, because for some reason I have not been able to sleep after this treatment, I will write. Forgive if this makes no sense whatsoever and is riddled with bad grammar and punctuation. I blame the drugs.

Today was number 11. One away from number 12, the final infusion in my chemo regimen. That means I can now say: "Just one more to go!" That sounds much better than the days when six months and 12 treatments were set up as obstacles ahead of me. I've hurdled over nearly all of them and honestly, it's hard to believe.

This morning I worked from home for a couple hours. In fact, worked right up until the last possible second before I had to get in the shower and pack my chemo bags. Avoiding the inevitable, I suppose.

No funny chemo t-shirt today. It was too cold out this morning so a henley and a toggle tie wool sweater were in order. It turned out to be a wise choice, though when the sun came out it was much warmer. It was a wise choice because there was a lot of action in my port site today and the button downs made it that much more accessible.

Weight was stable. White Blood Cell count and granulycytes were very low as usual, but not as scarily low as before the last treatment. Blood pressure was good but heart rate was up. This was noted both by Denise (my fav lab tech) and Dr. Dailey but to no huge concern. My nurse chalked it up to anxiety. I hate to admit it, but yes, I did have a lot of anxiety today. In fact, I may have experienced what some may call a minor anxiety attack ... . It again goes back to the counterintuitive nature of chemotherapy. I might as well walk up to one of those beefy men who pull 18-wheelers via straps held with their teeth in those Strongest Man competitions and ask him to punch me in the face, then kick me around about while I'm wriggling on the floor - a couple of swift ones to the gut and the lower back. Of course I have anxiety about arriving there. Every time I know better what the effect will be on my body but yet I'm the one walking my body in. I almost lost my breakfast in my mom's car and then in the red bin full of discarded fluid bags and bloody gauze. My chest pumping "bring it on," "eat lighting and crap thunder" attitudes I used to plow into the Cancer Center with. Now it's more like "let's get this shit over with."

Our meeting with Dr. Dailey was again very positive. He checked my lymph nodes, noting that my neck is still lumpy and asymetrical but nothing to be concerned about. Many of the lymph nodes may be scarred from being stressed so wide when filled with the cancer and this may never heal fully. He also said that I may need to see a neurologist if time does not heal the dead leg I experience in my left shin/outer leg area. That's okay, I can deal with a lumpy neck and a leg that works, despite its numbness. He seemed very impressed with how my body is still responding so well to the ABVD. I had been expecting these last few to be the hardest yet, but they've really proven to be quite manageable - or maybe my expectations of what it means to "feel good" have just been lowered. Next steps: final chemo treatment Oct. 21 (big day, very big day) then another PET/CT Scan. In my last PET/Scan, though he declared me in remission, there is one area near my sternum that showed some "hot spotting," but Dr. Dailey is doubtful that it is cancer presence. We both hope that the spot is gone altogether in this next scan.

We were then escorted to one of the private rooms where my Mom and I got comfortable. My anxiety doesn't really go down until the port needle is inserted and the meds start flowing. That's when I can breathe a little easier and the nausea subsides. These feelings weren't nearly as extreme in the beginning. I think everything is just accumulated over such a protracted treatment regimen. My nurses' sighs as she was trying to draw my blood vials led my anxiety to new heights. Try as she might, my port just was not cooperating. Every treatment she draws blood for testing, in addition to the CBC finger prick that I get. My port was flushing well and accepting the pre-meds no problem, just not giving back. She explained that there might be a fiber or some clotting behind it. Despite how much she assured me that that's very normal to happen, I was pretty shaken up thinking about a clot traveling from my port site to my brain and leading to horrible things ... . But apparently those worries are unfounded and I'll trust the experts on their word.

Because the port was taking in the meds no problem that scene went smoothly. I get more woozy from the anti-nausea and steroid pre-meds. My vision blurs a bit and my processes slow. I get giggly and goofy and everything feels a bit off. Add to that my shaky hands and tight muscles as I unwound from my anxiety frenzy and the first hour was a bit rough. But my mom held my hand and relaxed me and I just kept apologizing to the nurse about what a baby I've become because again, Karin pre-cancer wasn't someone used to anxiety - nothing could throw me into a tizzy. Thank goodness for the visualizations and breathing I've learned in yoga that helped to get me back to reality.

We popped "Confessions of a Shopaholic" into my laptop – fantastic chick flick – and that really helped to pass the time from A to B to V to D to bag of saline. When the meds were done, we tried again to get some blood from my port. It spit and sputtered a bit but not enough to clear the tube and fill a vile. She had me lean forward, lean back, raise my arms, but nothing worked, so a needle in the hand it was. Luckily my nurse is fantastically steady and skilled at getting it in painlessly so I just turned away while she kneeled on the floor and I made a fist with my very sweaty hand. The blood was taken and I was free to go.

It took me a bit to stand up and get my bearings and I don't really know what I was saying when I was talking to the secretary to schedule my next appointments. Leaving there is like waking up groggy from an unexpected nap – the reaction time and processing speed are very sllllooooowwwweeed. This is why I do not get behind the wheel and instead rely on Mom to chauffeur me to CVS to pick up my take-home drugs then to lunch for whatever I may be craving. This week it was a hot chicken parm sub, but once I saw the menu it was a Caesar salad and spinach-and-gooey cheese calzone that did the trick of absorbing all the chemicals that were making me feel uneasy.

Usually I crash once I get home but it's now 8:45pm, I've been up since 6:30am and have not slept a wink. Lots on the mind I guess? I've been glued to the couch, watching Ellen then Oprah, doing lots of Facebook stalking. Then I ate more when Craig got home - some delicious homemade chicken soup my mom brought over. I feel on-and-off hot flashes, the room spins and blurs a bit and I have to proceed with caution on any attempts to get off the couch for fear of seeing stars or inducing nausea.

The body pains have already started and that just makes me sigh. Blah. I get these pains throughout my legs especially which make them feel very heavy and very tight. My hips pop and creak and my hamstrings and Achilles' tendon are so taunt I feel they could snap at any moment. These are the same hamstrings that carried me through a 15 minute run with no breaks on Sunday morning followed by a day on my feet at the fair. These are the same hips that bent easily into the pigeon pose at yoga Monday night. For the 11th time I again feel a bit beaten and broken but I know that it will pass for an 11th time.

I looked in the mirror on one of my many bathroom trips. The only time I don't have much of a choice but to look at my reflection. I look like a completely different person than the face that stared back at me this morning before leaving for chemo. My eyes are bugged out and glazed amplified by dark circles beneath them. My usual healthy color is gone and I look like one of those drug addicts you see on the made-for-tv movies.

Luckily, I have a husband and a dog that shower me with affection despite the fact that I look like a man with a very sad hair-loss problem, with a face that's a little green, the three-second memory of a fish and the attention span of a two-year-old. Right now they're each cuddled on my hip (those are my legs under the fuzzy blanket) and watching the Yankees game and I couldn't feel more assured that it's all going to be okay no matter what.

Brief Encounters

Brutal Simplicity 

I got all the way down to the beach and realized I forgot my book. It's windy and chilly so knowing there is no swimming to be had I turn back around to trek back up the weathered wooden staircase to the parking lot. It's after beach hours so the lot is sparsely occupied. 

I'm walking at a slow clip toward the car I had just came from, in my own world of thoughts, when I hear a tiny voice behind me. 

"Mommy, is that a boy? It is. It's a boy." in the not-so-quiet "whisper" of a four-year-old. 

"Shush, shush honey," the mom answered.  

I glance around me absentmindedly and see not another soul in site. This little girl is talking about me. I dare not look behind me but there is no doubt that this girl doesn't know what to think of this specimen she sees in front of her with what looks like women's clothing but no hair. I must have really thrown her for a loop. I'm wearing short green shorts and a bandana halter that reveals my back and bikini straps while my head is covered by my tan cap, which by no means hides the fact that I have no hair. 

I pick up the pace, embarrassed for the mother more so than myself and at the same time unable to ignore the twinge of hurt creeping up inside me. 

"But Mommy ... she looks like a boy. She's wearing a hat, but it's a boy. Is it a boy? It is. It is." 

"No. No ... " the mom awkwardly laughs it off knowing full well that I can hear her child's accusations. 

I pick up the pace as much as I can without making it obvious and reach for my book off the car's back seat with a swift swipe. I get my hand around it just in time to be able to shut the door and keep on walking while staying enough steps ahead of  the mom and child to not have to acknowledge them. The last thing I want is to end up face-to-face with this surely wide-eyed inquisitive girl and have to answer any questions or confuse her about gender forever. 

I make it back to my beach chair and sink in hard. From afar I watch the little girl get back at the sand with her shovel and run around giggling as the waves swirl around her feet. I know she has completely forgotten me as I was probably one of 1,000 things she questioned that day, but I know I won't forget her. So many of us struggle with gender, with appearances, with having the right kind of body, the breasts, the muscles, the V-shape, the curves, but in the simple world of a child it all comes down to hair length. Maybe there's something to be learned from that? 

-----------------------------

Chemo Talk Over the Clearance Rack 

"Are we doing the same thing?"

"Excuse me?" I say as I look up from the $7 sundress I'm fingering on the Marshall's clearance rack to see a woman with deep ebony skin, almond eyes and a raspy voice addressing me. 

"I said, are we doing the same thing?" she repeats as she draws her finger to her head and the scarf turban that covered it. 

Taken off guard it takes me a minute to register what she is asking me. I reach to my own head and remember I am wearing a navy blue bandana - a surefire symbol that I'm a cancer patient. Then I realize what this is about. 

"Lose your hair too?" I reply. 

"What kind you got?" she asks, her voice milky and fluid. 

I fill her in and she tells me she's got ovarian cancer. We stand there looking at each other for a minute and give each other a knowing nod before returning our glances to the end-of-summer deals on the rack before us. 

It's quiet for a few minutes then she says, "My chemo hurts. It hurts so bad." 

She's looking at me like I can make it better. Like because I'm going through it too I must know what to say. I have no idea what to say but come back with the only answer that makes sense to me: "You've just got to push through it. There's not a choice." 

We lock eyes in a glance of understanding then I drape the $7 dress over my arm and move toward the register. 

----------------------------

A Sign 

We're finishing up our dinner of yellow curry and General Tso chicken on the outdoor patio of Meadow Asian restaurant. Maybe it was the spices. Maybe it was the miso. Whatever it was, I will never forget the moment. Walking up the path from the parking lot was my Peppe. My Peppe who passed away two winters ago. 

The man had the same labored walk, the same bend in the waist, the same weepy, yet bright eyes, the same stark white hair- thin but expertly combed into style. He wore crisply pressed tan linen pants and a wide plaid blazer in tepid summer pales with brown dress shoes perfectly buffed. An outfit I'd seen my grandfather wear many times on our trips to Tanglewood or Jacob's Pillow for a music or dance performance. 

I stared blatantly as he approached and could not take my eyes off him. I put my hand on Craig's and whispered, "Does that not look just like Peppe?" He nodded and locked in on the man as well. He stared right back at me as he approached, a stare I could feel throughout my entire body. 

He passed our table and entered the restaurant where he then waited in the lobby for take-out. My throat grew incredibly dry and my eyes welled heavy with tears. Craig was a mirror of myself and we just looked at each other stunned. 

The man came back out with his to-go bag and remarked to the host about a flowering bush right behind my chair. Even the shake of his voice was markedly similar to my grandfather's. He stood on the patio right beside our table for what seemed like a solid five minutes, though in reality it was likely only seconds, and we shared another long and powerful stare. He walked away slowly and purposefully before hoisting into the driver's seat of an SUV. 

I turned to Craig and said: "If he had stood there for another minute I was going to get up and give him a long hug." 

We compared goosebumps and shared several shocked sighs of disbelief at the surreal experience we just had. 

I remarked that my Peppe wouldn't show up all dapper to tell me bad news. 

The next day I got the word about my cancer-free PET-CT Scan. Now I know he was there to assure me that everything was going to be okay. 

Chemo Day Nine

9/9/09 was the date of my ninth treatment. Supposedly, the number "9" carries with it a lot of good luck, something I'm certainly not turning down these days. A quick Wikipedia search shows the supposed power of this number and I will believe it, because I want to. 

For better or worse, treatments are becoming old hat. It's not something that you think you will ever get used to, but after doing anything nine times I guess you get to know the drill. I can rattle off my pre-meds, the order of the drugs, alert the nurse when I see the saline bag running low so that she can switch it before having to clear out the tubes. I know what the different beep alerts mean. There's no sound in my life more rewarding right now than the high-pitched alert when the final bag of saline is dripped and I can be removed from my port-a-cath. I'll forever equate that noise with a sense of freedom. I can follow the rhythms of the IV bag rotations from hook to tube to drip. In fact, the IV machine reset itself after I unplugged it from the wall for one of many jaunts to the bathroom and rather than call for the nurse, I just took it upon myself to punch through the prompts to reset the thing. No longer is the IV pole and pump a source of intimidation, but now just a familiar part of the process.  Maybe by the 12th treatment I'll be running the show myself. 

Craig was my escort this time around as my mom was on a well-deserved vacation at the Cape. Always curious, he asks lots of questions about every step in the process, why some needles work certain ways, why some meds are given different ways --- certainly a forever student and the perfect teacher. He's also always up for a game which I love about him so we played "Set" and played around online as we passed the nearly five hours together. The cancer center was hopping so I didn't get my usual private room. That meant hearing about other patients' detest for salt or newly acquired tastes for spicy food, their bathroom habits, their grandkids and fatigue ... how they're so jealous of how I can look good without hair because I have such a young face. Ah, the joys of being the odd man out - does anyone think that it's kind of strange to be jealous of a 27-year-old with cancer? Yes, I'm just so happy that I can go through this now before I have wrinkles because that would just be the worst thing ever ... . Luckily, with Craig there I didn't feel forced into conversation and could still create the laid-back, zen atmosphere that I shoot for during treatments. No serious talk or drama allowed - no room for the negative. However, t-shirts that say "Chemo Day" with an angry monster that looks exactly like how I feel on those days is most definitely allowed. Shooting the shit about my woes just really doesn't do it for me. But, if anything, listening to how others handle things helps me keep perspective. 

We had a good, long visit with Dr. Dailey again rejoicing over the positive PET-CT Scan results. I gushed with thanks but he just said, "Thank you. You're making me look good." I do what I can I guess. He remarked at how dramatic the results really are noting that my first PET-CT Scan which led to my stage 4b diagnosis was aglow with cancer activity all throughout my body - now, not a sparkle. 

Craig and I asked a lot of questions: Where do the cancer cells go? What will the chemo be killing now? When will I feel normal again? What are the chances of relapse?

Well, the cancer cells become defunct and absorbed back into my body's tissues. It is always recommended to push through the full chemo regimen to be sure to kill any residual, microscopic cancer cells that may have survived. I should start to feel my strength coming back 2-3 months after my last chemo treatment, but it could take up to a year to really feel like my previous self. The chance of relapse is higher in the first 2-3 years after being in remission - if I can make it through these next few years without a trace of new cancer then the chances of me ever again facing this are much decreased. But yes, it is safe to say that I am now in REMISSION. 

I'm still not fully able to wrap my brain around this statement and am not quite comfortable in saying it because I still have much more to go in this journey. It's hard to grasp that I actually beat this. The wonders of medicine are amazing to me and I am so grateful to the medical community, but I'm also careful to take pride in what I did to complement that. There are times for being humble but this is not one of them. I am damn proud of all the hard work that I have put in (and will continue to put in) to beat this. I know that I survived this so well because my body was strong to start with and because I have always taken good care of myself - these past few months I just ramped it up into an even higher gear and I will never let that go. Having cancer makes you realize how fragile and powerful the human body is and makes you aware of the very real fact that you only get one of them to play around in for your 100 years or so on Earth. I'm not ashamed to say that I'm pretty impressed by the one I've got. 

This body's got just three more treatments to go. Three more whops of ABVD and all of its ramifications. I've been warned that these last few may in fact be the hardest as there'll be more healthy cells being killed off without the existence of the cancer cells, but I know I can take it now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Chemo Day Seven

When I wake up in the morning my body sounds like a freshly poured bowl of Rice Krispies cereal – lots of "snap," "crackle," and "pop." This has been the case since my latest chemo infusion Wednesday. It feels as if my muscles are stretched to their outermost limits to wrap themselves around my achey bones and angry blood. It's almost as if my muscles are trying to protect them from the cellular battle they have going on inside themselves.  It takes me a good 15 minutes to come to terms with my body, to stretch it out as best I can. Pop one hip out after the other. Violently crack my ankles. Do a little cat and cow lower back yoga stretch. The elongating sensations last only a short while until again, like shrink wrap, my muscles are tightened to a taunt fit. So goes my days. 

I tried a Reiki session the day after my treatment hoping for some positive energy against the aches and pains that I knew would be coming. The treatment was extremely relaxing. The sessions are conducted by volunteers right in the cancer center. Medatative music was played by the little massage table and all I had to do was lay there, be conscious of my breathing and imagine myself in a calm place. The Reiki practitioner targeted different areas of my body with a very light touch as she breathed deeply and transferred our energies between us. I can't say that it eliminated my aches, but I'm told that the effects are cumulative. I plan to take more advantage of these sessions: good energy in, bad energy out, relaxation. It all adds up. 

For now I just get used to living with the pain. And today, it's been horrendous, beyond the realm of the extra strength Tylenol that usually does the trick. Again, the flogging feelings are back - today it feels more like getting walloped in the back with a titanium baseball bat over and over.  For some reason I picture a very mean, dirty, freckled faced, red-haired kid doing this to me – laughing sadistically all the while. Underneath the beatings is the bone pain, the deep, deep bone pain. Unfortunately, this piece seems to have gotten harsher with every treatment, maybe because it's getting harder for my body to stand up to more and more rounds. It's not just the big bones that ache. It's the little ones, and these hurt even more. My cheekbones, my eyebrow bones, my teeth and most prominent lately, the right side of my jaw which I haven't been able to open fully in two weeks without a lot of pain. I'm told it's all a result of the chemo drugs. Even so, for this pain I imagine that my body is filled with an army of those little worker men from Fraggle Rock and they're all chipping away at my bones with their piercing little pick axes – these guys sadistically smiling and singing. 

Another special treat that's become more prominent is odd skin discolorations. These are also a result of the super evil Bleomycin (the same drug capable of collapsing lungs). They show up in deep purple shades, almost like a birth mark or bruise in very random places. I now have one on my stomach – just in time for bikini weather – and there are odd slashes of coloring on my thighs. It almost looks as if someone singed my skin. So far my face has stayed free and clear and let's hope it stays that way. 

How did I get here? Wednesday's chemo infusion was normal enough. Craig was my escort this time so he got to get in on the action. It is actually really enjoyable going into the chemo treatments. I truly look forward to seeing everyone at the center. I've become very close with the nurses and lab techs as I see them more than I see most anyone else these days. And when I go in for my treatments, each time I know it's a step closer to being done with this. 

The nurse used my port for the second time, but this was the first time that it was not already engaged (last time I came right from the port insertion surgery). I wore my "go ahead, poke my port" tank top and everybody got a kick out of that, nothing like a little insider cancer humor. There is a little needle prick involved but it was nothing compared to an IV insertion in my arm. The needle is actually shaped almost like a hook so she sticks it through my skin and the needle bends right into my 

port and the hole that leads to my blood stream. Yes, very creepy. However, what I enjoy about it is that I can't see it - well, until I saw this picture that Craig took. I think that watching the drugs enter my veins through that arm IV was really starting to get to me. With the port I can almost "forget" that my veins are sucking in their cocktail. Both of my hands are free to read or eat or manhandle my ice chips. 

Craig was actually disappointed that it didn't take longer than it did. The port shaves about 90 minutes off of my chemo time so I was only there for about four hours as opposed to five-and-a-half. He had lots more games he had brought to play with me and more entertaining to do. I even ended up falling asleep for the last 45 minutes - what a lame chemo date I am. The Decarbozine is the last drug that I receive and I never would have been able to fall asleep when I got it as an IV as the burning was so horrendous. The fact that I didn't even feel it made me smile. 

Another thing that make me smile is that I seem to have kicked this upper respiratory infection. The cough medicine and z-pack antibiotics did me good. We'll keep monitoring it but this seems to mean that I'm in the clear of any negative Bleomycin lung activity. 

Despite how shitty I feel today I am very, very much looking forward to tomorrow and know that it will be better. Craig and I will be on the road for six days on Cape Cod – a very welcome and much needed respite. I've been working every day (except chemo days) since I've been diagnosed and look forward to taking some time to myself to do some thinking, some reading, some painting, some swimming and bonding with my husband. We've both been through quite a tough ringer and are looking forward to hanging out to dry for a little while. 

Body Backlash

It's been a rough few days on my bod. The port has been much sorer than I expected it to be and I've been popping Ibuprofen like candy. It's very tender and the skin is very stretched, especially at night when I'm not conscious of my body movements and writhe the wrong way in my sleep. Let's just say I've been waking myself up a lot, frantic that I yanked the sucker right out of my skin in an unconscious stupor. I know this is an unrealistic thought. The doctor told me that unless I am pitching fast balls for the major leagues there is no way that thing is coming out. But the doctor doesn't know how vivid my imagination is ... . As a result of not really sleeping through the night I've been extra tired since last Wednesday's chemo treatment. It's hard to know what's a result of my body recovering from the port insertion and what's a result of the chemo slam in general. 

I slept, a lot, this weekend and couldn't quite shake the fatigue. We got out Saturday night and ran lots of errands Sunday, which was good, but each time we got home I was rocked -- to the couch, to the bed, to the couch was how I rolled. Today is much improved on the fatigue front, but the body aches are back in full swing. It feels like that familiar flogging of my first chemo experience. All of my joints are incredibly swollen and stiff and my muscles are knotted into pretzels. I feel like the Tin Man when they found him rusted in a metal heap on the side of the Yellow Brick Road. So what's a girl to do but find an oil can?

For me, the rejuvenating oil is lots of water, lots of good food and moving as much as possible. In between work projects I am sure to get up and stretch. I graze on something nutritious every couple of hours. I'm truly surprised that I do not way 500 pounds because I literally eat all the time. I'm always so hungry and so drained that the food fuel is the only thing that helps. Luckily, I just keep burning it off in the death match that is my cancer fight. 

Tonight Craig and I took Sammy for a long walk to the Farmington River so she could go for a swim. We covered almost two miles and besides the infestation of swarming mosquitos it felt great. Now I know I'm starting to climb back out of the chemo trenches. I'm starting to get used to my new lady lump. I don't shudder when I look in the mirror at my bulging bionic chest anymore. I don't know that I'll ever get used to it--in fact, I don't want to. This is only temporary, as is all of this. The superglue that's holding the incision together will be there for another two weeks so it will be a while before it's the "thin white line" that the scars will supposedly be. I have started having some fun with it though. When I wanted out of Lowe's and the uncomfortable situation we were stuck in with a hopeless retail clerk who had no idea what she was talking about I whispered to Craig: "Abort. Abort" as I tapped my lump and whispered into its "speaker" like a secret agent. I also ordered a tank top online that says: "Go ahead, poke my port." This makes me laugh very hard and I cannot wait for it to arrive. 

As far as my emotional side goes, it's just as weak as the physical side. I'm trying my very, very hardest to be positive, but sometimes I just can't fight the bitterness and anger that boils within me and I don't like those feelings - they are very foreign to me. Others have told me that this can be the most difficult point. There's so much behind me yet so much more still to go. I do get very tired of it all. Tired of living with cancer's ramifications. Tired of talking about cancer. Tired of people's sympathetic looks or watching them struggle for the "right" words to say. Tired of reaching my limitations much sooner than I would want to. I'm tired of being bald. I'm tired of my anal fissures. I'm tired of my achey hips. I'm tired of worrying about dying. I'm tired of seeing healthy people and getting angry at them. I'm tired of crying for no reason. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I'm just plain tired of being strong. Over the first three months Hodgkin's was almost a novelty of sorts. It was: okay, I can do this. I will beat this. Bring it on. Hear me roar. Now it's been brought on and on again and on again and on again ... . The novelty has worn off. 

Don't get me wrong - I still know I will beat this. I've still got a fire under my ass to fight it, it's just that I'm ready for it to be over. How many times can I get knocked down and keep getting back up? I try not to consider the answer. 

I'm Gonna Eat Lighting and Crap Thunder

I'm going in for treatment 5 today, the start of my third cycle of ABVD. I wouldn't exactly say I'm looking forward to it, but let's get it over with. Bring on the poison. 

I had a "bonus" day of normalcy yesterday as my chemo was pushed off a day due to my oncologist's vacation. Because he went away, I got my own little vacation from the chemo recliner. The day was beautiful - the perfect temp and not a cloud in the sky. I set up my "office" outside and felt very accomplished. My work projects are in order, the house is "clean," the bills are paid (rather, at least in a pile of "to be paid"), I've caught up on e-mails and washed all the laundry. I'm ready to curl back into chemo ramificationess. 

Last night was spent under the stars at Simsbury Meadows at the Talcott Mountain Music Festival for a concert of Billy Joel music featuring Michael Cavanaugh, of "Movin' Out" fame and the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. We sang and danced to "Piano Man," "Pressure," and even "The Crocodile Walk" with our gang of T'ville neighbors and their adorable kids. Even better than the show, I got to catch up with many of my former Arts Council colleagues also there on the lawn. Truly amazing people ... it was great to see their always positive faces. Some people just always know what to say and do and that crew epitomizes those skills. 

All in all, it was a great run this time around.  I can't even remember the bad days. Let's hope the strength continues through this bout. Like my idol, Rocky Balboa, I've put in the training ... minus the raw egg breakfast shake .... and am ready to go the distance.  Cue the fight music. Now to face Apollo once again.