Selective Memory

I've been feeling pretty good. And the better I feel, I realize how badly I felt for a long time. It's amazing how your mind and body can just compensate and make the most of the situation no matter how much you're hurting. I guess that's how I got to be at such an advanced stage of cancer ... .

It definitely feels good to feel good. However, I certainly wouldn't say I'm 100%. I still get pretty tired at the end of every day and don't have my full pep back. Turns out it could take up to a year for that to happen. Other than that, I just get some occasional chest pain and a lot of chest tightness.

Nonetheless, everything still works. We went on a very, long hike today and once my heart rate leveled off I was fine and very proud of myself. I've had to do a full eyebrow shaping and am back to shaving my legs and underarms (the one negative in all of this)! My hair is now fully covering my head. So much so that tomorrow I'm going into work without the customary head scarf I've been wearing for so many months. You can still see my scalp a bit as it is very thin, but there are no more obvious bald patches. I can't believe how fast it has all grown back. It really seemed like one day eyebrows and hair just reappeared. It's not red and it's not curly like Shirley Temple as many warned it would be. But it is very dark and I love it. I suppose that this is in fact my natural color. I guess I didn't really expect it to grow back with vanilla blonde highlights.

I've been working a normal schedule and keeping up with the busy schedule of holiday parties, shopping, snow shoveling, Christmas tree trimming and everything else that comes with this season. It's very hard to even remember when I couldn't do these simple things.

But it all came rushing back when I had a follow-up appointment at the cancer center this week. I suppose this is what's going to happen for the rest of my life while I'm constantly watched for any signs of cancer coming back. Hopefully it will get a little easier as time goes on.

As soon as I walked into the waiting room it brought my right back to my treatment days. Vulnerable. scared. uneasy. lots of anxiety. But I was able to recognize the fact that this time I was there as one of the post-chemo survivors I had always seen bopping in for quick check-ups, hugging and catching up with the nurses. And that's exactly what I did. It was great to see the team even though doing so meant I had to get my finger pricked and my port stuck.

It was most surreal to see my oncologist. I got all welled up sitting there in his room waiting. I could literally feel all the emotions swirling back throughout me. I thought I was going to lose it and just start crying as I remembered my own journey and watched so many others pass by the door at various stages of their own. But I held it together and just felt so incredibly grateful to be there painless and with a clear head.

Dr. Dailey sat down right next to me in his little exam room in the Hartford center and he asked about my post-chemo progress. He felt my lymph nodes on my neck and collar bone, under my arms. All signs point to the all-clear. But even so, he still wants to do one more PET-CT Scan before removing my port. Sigh. January 15 is the big day. If the scan is completely clear then we schedule a port removal surgery and I'll then be followed with a CT-Scan every six months. We talked about planning a pregnancy around my scans (very romantic) as I can't be exposed to radiation while pregnant. He advises that we wait until at least next January to start thinking of trying to build a family to be sure that my body is strong enough and all the toxins are out of my system. It all sounds like a great plan.

Then it was in to see the nurse to have my port flushed. Since it's not being used, I need to come in every month to get some saline and special concoction pumped through it to ensure there are no chances of clotting or build up of fibrous tissue within or around it. So it was another deep breath and needle jab ... hopefully I'll only have to go through that one more time.

After that appointment it's been back to holiday happenings, and I'm very much looking forward to Christmas and Hannukah with the fam. So much to be grateful for this year ... the gifts of the season take on a whole new light. Like all the cards and commercials say, I really am looking forward to a happy and healthy 2010.

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? 

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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. 

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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 Eight

It's amazing how this roller coaster can change from climbs to dips to lightning speeds to terrifyingly slow crawls so quickly. Two weeks ago I said that I didn't mind going to my chemo infusions, that I actually looked forward to them because I knew it was one step closer to getting better. Well, that perspective completely changed with this eighth infusion - the completion of my fourth ABVD cycle - two more cycles (four more infusions to go). 

It took every ounce of mental strength I had to get to this infusion. Maybe it was because it was the first time I was driving myself there. Maybe it was because it was a Thursday and I knew the usual crew wouldn't be there to meet me. Maybe it was because I never quite bounced back this time around. Maybe it's because I'm just getting damn sick of feeling sick. The whole premise of chemo is so counterintuitive. The only way to ensure that you can beat cancer is to subject yourself to these drugs that make you feel awful. I've had much more debilitating side effects from the chemo than the cancer itself. At least that's what I feel like now. The cumulative effects of the chemo are really starting to kick in - it's not nearly as manageable as it was for me in the beginning, and I don't know how much more my body can hold up to. 

The morning went as normal. I packed my chemo bags - one with healthy snacks and lots to drink, the other with a sweatshirt, my laptop, book, magazines, thank you cards and other things to keep me busy. But when I got in my car to actually drive myself to the cancer center I lost it. 

The day was beautiful - crisp 70s, no humidity, the sun was shining and I was livid that I had to be stuck inside, hooked to an IV for five hours. I did everything I could to prolong actually getting there. Hmmm, I didn't have any fruit this morning. I should stop at Starbucks for a smoothie. I dillydallied there for as long as I could. When I walked in I felt like everyone was staring at me. Most of the time I don't even notice other people, but when I get into these super sensitive modes it's all I notice. I feel like people whisper, like they're looking me up and down trying to figure out what's wrong with me. Is she going through a sex change? Is there no hair under her hat? What is that thing sticking out of her chest? Does she has three nipples? Why is she wearing fuzzy slippers on a hot summer day? 

In retrospect, I'm sure no one was even looking twice but sometimes I feel like I have a neon sign flashing on my chest that reads: "Yes, I am young, but I have cancer. No, I didn't do anything wrong. I was healthy and now I am sick and am going through a lot of shit so what's your excuse?" Sometimes I hear people bitching and complaining and I just want to scream: "Do you know how good you have it?!" Of course, I don't know how good they have it. Everyone has their baggage, their bad days, their emotional days and I know I have no right to think that my situation is worse but sometimes these awful feelings of resentment take over that I just can't control. 

In Starbucks Bob Marley's "Every little thing is gonna be alright ..." was playing. Normally, this jam always gets me in a good mood. I listen to a lot of raggae lately, especially during chemo as I like the relaxing beats and it makes me think of the beach and sunsets and sand between my toes. But this day I wanted to rip the speakers out of the walls as the smoothie machine whirred with my banana and strawberry puree. "Don't you understand - everything is not going to be alright - not for a long, long time." 

I got back in my car and my eyes welled until I couldn't control it anymore. I just bawled and bawled, choking on my own tears and bawled even more when I would catch my pathetic face in the review mirror. Again, I have never been a crier and have always had complete control of my emotions. But now? There is no question who is boss. My appointment was at 10:15 a.m. It was 10:10 a.m. when I pulled up to the cancer center. I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull in the entrance.

I kept going a few parking lots down and pulled into an arts magnet school that I didn't know existed. I chose the furthest parking spot so that know one would see me, this heaving wreck in the driver's seat. I sat there and gave myself a pep talk to pull it together. I was literally talking out loud telling myself I could get through this. Telling myself that I didn't have a choice, that I needed this medicine or I could die. I truly could die and I needed to suck it up and get my sorry ass in there. I told myself: I've done this seven times before, seven times, and I survived all of those. Why would this be any different? 

I reached deep inside to a place that I've visited a lot through all of this and found the strength that I needed. All throughout this cancer battle the two words, I guess you could call them mantras, that have helped me are "strength" and "peace." "Strength" in the sense that I need to ensure that my body and mind are as strong as possible - that my inner strength and the strength of those around me will carry me through - it's all I have. "Peace" in the sense that this is my end goal. I want peace in my body, peace back in my life. I want the battle to be over, to be able to breathe and not have it hurt. To be able to wake up and jump out of bed ready for the day at peace with what I've gotten through and at peace with whatever challenges and rewards come next. 

With strength and visions of peace I wiped the mascara from under my eyes, tried to dull the redness, turned the engine, dropped in the clutch and creeped two driveways down to the cancer center to make it to my appointment just three minutes late. 

Though the lab tech taking my CBC was so sweet I could hardly muster a smile. I was afraid that if I spoke I would lose it again so I just sat there as she pricked my finger and squeezed my blood into a vile. I waited in silence as my blood levels were collaborated in the machine. When I got the copy of my printout I knew it wasn't good. 

I met with another doctor in the practice who looked up my history and noted that my white blood cells and granulocytes were at the lowest levels they've ever been. The printout had double stars and double "L"s for low - I've never seen this before. My WBCs were 2.4 K/uL (reference range is 4.1-10.9). My granulocytes were 0.3 (reference range is 2.0-7.8). He told me that he was very hesitant to treat me as that it would only make it harder to bounce back and I'd be even lower before my next treatment. He must have noticed that I was ready to scream, cry or faint. I dragged myself here. I was going to get treated. 

"But, I'll treat you. Only because you're wearing that shirt," he said. I was wearing the "Stupid Lymphoma" t-shirt I ordered from I'm Too Young for This courtesy of my Arts Council friends. These funny t-shirts have really gotten me through a lot. 

Thank God. But my treatment was on that condition that it would be followed up by a much more aggressive use of Neupogen the following week to boost my counts back up. So I'm going from my usual two doses to a shot in the arm every, single day next week. This means much more bone pain to look forward to as the Neupogen forces my bone marrow to work overtime. He also explained that he was hesitant to take me off schedule because I am on a curative regimen - to mess with the every two weeks schedule is to mess with my survival rates and no one wants to do that. 

I asked him if my low counts were why I had been feeling so fatigued and lethargic-much more than ever. He explained that I am at the roughest point of the Hodgkin's treatment. That now is the point when most patients really start to feel the cumulative effects of all the drugs. That my bone marrow is fatigued, which leads to my general fatigue - both physically and emotionally. 

"You have a lot behind you, but still a lot more to go," he said. "That really weighs on people." 

Hearing that made me feel normal again. It's not me. It's all part of the process - not that it makes that process any easier. I've discussed this phenomenon with other Hodgkin's patients. Yes, we've got the "good" cancer - it's curable, unlike so many other types of cancers. However, that doesn't change the shit we have to go through to get cured. It doesn't change the here and now. The emotional and physical tolls. The strained relationships. The self doubt. The questioning. The straddling of lives between who you used to be and who you are with cancer. Yes, the thought of knowing that this isn't a death sentence helps get you through the really tough times, but it doesn't make those times any less tough. 

So I picked up my bags and settled myself in a chemo recliner. My mother and grandmother showed up to keep me company and that helped distract me from my angry thoughts. Then five hours later the IV machine beeped that the final bag of meds was done. My port was unhooked and it was over. Another one down. Just like all of this, it's only temporary ... 

Now as can be expected I'm feeling pretty awful. There's so much that I want to do but my body is like dead weight - so tired - while my mind is going a mile a minute from the steroids and from my anxiety. Monday is a big day. I have my PET CT Scan. Dr. Dailey's hope (and all of ours of course) is that the results will come back cancer-free. This is why he wanted to wait until I had four full chemo cycles under my belt to ensure that it had time to do it's cancer killing. 

I've never been so scared about something in my entire life. More so than the first PET Scan. More so than my biopsy. Good or bad results they're going to change my life. Even if the cancer is gone I will complete the final four chemo infusions to make 12 for good measure. And if it is gone, now what? How long will it take to be healthy again? If the cancer's not gone then we look at other options ... options I can't even get my head to entertain right now. 

Safety Net

I saw Funny People with my sister this week and it got me thinking about the "cancer support network" that everyone talks about when you're first diagnosed. About how important it is to have people that you can count on to make you laugh, help you cry, look at things with a new perspective, give you strength and encouragement and make you realize how important you are to other people's lives - that you're not just fighting for your own life, you're fighting to stay around for everyone who needs you as well - and that's a really good feeling. 

In Funny People, Adam Sandler plays a big celeb but one that is also a loner with no true, deep connections with people --- until he meets Seth Rogan or "Shmira" and the story progresses ... .  It got me thinking how incredibly lucky I am and how I would not be able to bounce back from the negative thoughts and the pain without the help of my taunt safety net. The net is grander than I ever could have fathomed. 

During this experience I have reconnected with people I haven't talked to since middle school, heard from teachers that had me in kindergarten, formed closer bonds with friends, with their families and with my own family. Like I said in one of my first blog posts, it's like being there to watch your own funeral. It's truly a gift to be able to see the lives that I've touched along the way and how many relationships that I've made in my 27 years. It's deeply humbling, incredibly moving and has been vital to this whole healing process. It's difficult to know the effect you can have on someone's life until you're thrown into a situation like this. At the same time you learn what a profound effect people's simple words and actions can have on your own life. 

In the three months that I have been diagnosed, there has literally not been one day that a card hasn't arrived in the mail with some words of encouragement or a crazy memory to share. That's not to mention the thousands of e-mails, Facebook messages and wall posts and blog comments that have touched me in so many ways. Keeping up with all the correspondence is a big job --- a job I wouldn't trade in for a second. And the visits! We are so lucky to have such an amazing set of friends from all walks of life and they all provide a much needed escape from the day-to-day doldrums of cancer crapness. And the strangers that I've met on cancer websites or through their own blogs who have now become close allies in this fight - people I can learn from, swap tips with or just bitch with without fear of making them feel uncomfortable because they're reeling from this too. 

I've been going back to the office more on my off-week now that I've been feeling stronger. Being around co-workers, easing back into a more regular work schedule has been fantastic on my nerves and on my confidence. When I'm interviewing someone for a story or designing a web page I'm not thinking about the multiplying cancer cells or the port pain. I'm so thankful that I have the opportunity to keep on working and contributing to the greater society beyond my little cancer ridden world. 

When I was having a particularly hard time after last week's treatment and port insertion I sat down and flipped through all the cards I've received since my diagnosis. I've saved every one and have been collecting them in a basket in the kitchen --- a basket which I've had to upgrade in size twice. Then I dumped them out and just had to take a picture not being able to comprehend how amazingly thoughtful people are. 

Things that I would never even think of have shown up at my door to cheer me up: subscriptions to magazines like Natural Healing and People, Netflix subscriptions, yoga class and Amazon gift certificates, funny books, informative books, beauty products, relaxing candles, CDs, peanut M&Ms and healing crystals, restaurant gift certificates, house cleaning services, offers for Reiki and reflexology sessions, lots of movies, tomato, parsley and basil plants, hanging baskets, food, food, food and treats. 

All I can say is that I cannot wait to pay this forward for the rest of my life. My safety net is strong. I know no matter how hard I may fall at times, you'll all always be there to catch me. It's because of you that I can get past the fear and leap from peak to peak over the deep valleys of this journey with courage and determination. 

Half-Way Hump and My New Lady Lump

I got through number 6. That means I am half-way through my scheduled chemo regimen. I've been through a lot and it's quite rewarding to look back at how far I've come. However, the taste in my mouth is bittersweet right now. I know I'm over the hump which is hugely exciting, but I also know that I have a whole new set of what I've already went through that lies ahead. What I can only hope is that it will be easier, more predictable and that I will continue to grow stronger and stronger as the cancer fades away. I know this will be the case. 

The good news is that I made it through my port-a-cath insertion on Wednesday, just hours before my sixth chemo infusion. Right now my chest and neck are extremely sore from the procedure but once that fades I know I'll be forever grateful for this handy-dandy vein access. It hurts to lift or pull anything with my right arm and it's very hard to sleep on it though I've been very tired since Wednesday. My skin feels painfully stretched over this new lump in my chest where the port now sticks out. The muscles around the veins ache where the port line was jammed through. The nurse told me that because I am very thin in my chest area and am also athletic and therefore have strong neck muscles, I'll be much sorer than a little old lady with a lot more flesh and no muscle. My head was turned to the left during the entire procedure and continually forced as they shimmied the plastic little sucker down my major vein - hence the stiff neck. 

The procedure went smoothly starting bright and early Wednesday morning at 7:15 a.m. My nurse was fantastic, so reassuring and understanding. I admit, I was pretty nervous about the whole thing for some reason but she and Craig kept me laughing during all the surgery prep and helped me feel much more at ease -- the Adavan she gave me when she saw that my leg wouldn't stop bopping up and down with anxiety didn't hurt either. It took her a long time to find a viable vein to send my IV into for the anesthesia to enter through. She ended up in my hand, remarking that she wouldn't touch my ruined arm veins "for all the tea in China." This helped to reaffirm my decision to opt for the port. She used a pediatric needle and told me to breath through it. I told her how I never used to be bothered by needles but that now it makes me woozy. She explained that after getting stuck as many times as I have no one can get used to it. It's one thing to get blood drawn once a year, another to get stuck every week. That made me feel better. 

After the port surgery Craig passed the "taking care of Karin baton" to my mom who arrived with some food and to take me to my chemo session. I arrived pretty woozy and tired coming down from my "twilight" state. They gave me a super comfy fleece blanket and I reclined deeply into the chemo throne. It was fantastic having the chemo drugs enter through my port. I felt nothing. No pain from the little needle prick. No burning as the drugs went through. No hot and cold sensations. No arm soreness. I think I can get used to this.

What I don't know that I'll ever get used to is the huge bump that now sticks out of my chest. It looks like a big button that if pressed will do something super cool like release a parachute or shoot out lasers, but unfortunately it does none of that. It just sits there creepily. You can even see the tube of the port-a-cath that now lives within my vein. But this is just par for the course. I've learned to take the bad with the good. It's only temporary and the day this is removed will be a strong symbol representing the end of this battle.  

Beach Therapy

I am feeling about 95%. Feeling very strong, very normal, very me. With each recent treatment it seems I'm recovering further, getting much closer to my normal self before the next treatment. Much improved over the first few treatments. Let's hope this trend continues. I know I had several days of fatigue and acheyness, but it seems like forever ago. 

This weekend my parents "kidnapped" Craig and me for a day away in Rhode Island. My little brother (who despite being seven years younger than me, towers nearly a foot over me) joined in on the road trip too. So it was me, Mike and Craig getting nice and cozy across the back seat of my parents car, Dad behind the wheel, mom manning the music and AC/open window swapping. 

Like three five-year-olds we entertained ourselves in the back seat by pinching a clothespin onto odd places like my mom's ear or the back of each other's arms. Though I was squished between two grown men, I couldn't pick two that I'd rather be rubbing sweaty shoulders with for two hours. 

We stopped to stuff our faces with fried goodness at a forever family favorite: Cap'n Jacks for fish and chips, fried whole-belly clams, scallops and greasy French fries. It certainly hit the spot - the perfect antithesis to my collard greens and rice cakes diet of late. 

Then it was to da beach. The weather was perfect - 80s, but a nice breeze so you didn't feel like a sweaty mess. Narragansett Beach was packed, beach chairs and blankets with scantily clad bodies packed in tight like sardines, but we found a spot and settled in. 

Michael and I headed for the waves, despite the bone-chilling temp of the water. I came to the beach to swim and having grown up on many years of cold Cape Cod waters each summer, I know the trick of a quick dive under the water to shock the body into adjusting to Atlantic Ocean temps. I LOVE body surfing. Anticipating the right wave and timing it perfectly so that you ride the crest all the way in, then getting your body wrecked as the wave crashes and forces you into the sand is one of my favorite activities. 

I had my white bandana tied tight on my head to block the rays and not freak people out. I don't know what made me think that would stay on. It's been raining like crazy for weeks so the ocean was particularly tumultous. After the first wave took me under that sucker was long gone. Suprise everyone! Bald girl riding the waves. 

"I'd rather you lose your bandana than your top," says my brother after I muscle my way back out to him at the wave break line. True that, I thought. 

After a walk with Craig to the breaker it was max and relax time. Surrounded by my favorite people in the world I spread out on the Mexican blanket and fell asleep to the sounds of my mom and dad talking and Craig and Michael tossing the aerobie. So content. 

Then we mozied back to reality stopping for ice cream and iced coffees then take-home pizza along the way. 

My belly was full. My heart was happy. My skin tight from the salt and sun. My bathing suit and bottom full of itchy sand. A perfect summer day. 

Unfortunately, I know these feelings won't last. After Wednesday it'll be several more days before I can think about body surfing again. Wednesday is going to be a very big day. At 7:15 a.m. my mom and I will be at Jefferson Radiology to have my port-a-cath surgically placed in my chest. I had a consultation today which helped calm my nerves some and helped me to better understand the great advantages of this creepy little device. From the "twilight" state I'll be in after the port insertion, it'll be a drive over to the cancer center where I'll jump right into my sixth chemo session ... this time through my newly minted port. If all goes well, the whole process will be faster and there'll be no pain from needles or the drugs themselves. Thank God I have my mom to make sure I make it to where I need to be and get through the day in one piece. It's sure to be a woozy whirlwind. 

Stoicism

Sto⋅ic

 [Stoh-ik]

–adjective

1.	of or pertaining to the school of philosophy founded by Zeno, who taught that people should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submit without complaint to unavoidable necessity.

I'm currently reading Dr. Bernie Siegel's Love, Medicine & Miracles: Lessons Learned About Self-Healing from a Surgeon's Experience with Exceptional Patients lent to me by a wise woman. It's fascinating and I think everyone should read it whether or not they're battling an illness. His holistic approach to healing makes so much sense.  

In it he talks about predispositions to cancer. Two being stress and suppressed emotions. I never considered myself a stressed-out person. In fact, many people, including my former boss, were always commenting how markedly calm I am under pressure. I work best under pressure and thrive in a fast-paced, deadline-driven environment (I believe that may be a line on my resume ...). 

Maybe responding well to all that pressure isn't always a good thing. Turns out unexpressed emotion can actually suppress the immune system and can manifest itself in disease. I very, very rarely cry. I don't get worked up or easily overwhelmed. I don't think I've ever had a fight with anyone in my life, well besides fights over Ken dolls and crab rangoon with my siblings. I don't yell. I don't get angry. I see lemons as lemonade. I'm even keeled, generally content and happy with whatever I'm confronted with. I've always been able to step back from a situation, formulate a plan and get 'er done. 

Dr. Dailey got it right in one of our first meetings together when I found out I had stage 4b cancer. I asked how that was possible when I wasn't feeling that awful. "Well, you were probably being very stoic about it." Ding! Well look where being stoic got me. 

Since my May 8 diagnosis all has changed. I liken my emotions to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney. Yesterday, I started crying while listening to a Bach concerto because the notes were just so beautiful. A couple weeks ago someone referred to me as "very ill" in a note and I screamed at the top of my lungs for a good five minutes. Today I was so overwhelmed with love for Sammy that I hugged her and laughed at her tail wagging furiously for about 10 minutes. I'm constantly doting over Craig now and feel like I keep falling in love with him all over again --- I think it creeps him out a bit. I must say, all extremes feel very healing, though it may make me seem a bit crazy.  

One of the questions Dr. Siegel asks his patients is: "What happened to you in the year or two before your illness?" Come to think of it, the past two years were quite eventful. 

In August of 2007 alone, I:  

-finished planning a wedding

-got married

-bought our first home

-delved into our first mortgage 

-moved out of our apartment

-survived a hurricane on our honeymoon

-had a run away car crash into the neighbor's garage on day 2 in the neighborhood

In the past year, I: 

-lost my grandfather

-lost Craig's grandfather 

-lost Craig's uncle very suddenly (in fact, this is the first time I learned of Dr. Bernie Siegel as he actually spoke at Kevin's funeral)

-lost Craig's aunt to brain cancer 

-got a new job 

-made the tough decision to leave an old job 

-got a dog 

If stress and cancer are interrelated, then I guess I can see how it could have developed. 

Siegel then asks his patients: "Did he or she openly grieve, rejoice, and face the challenge, or try to be calm and stoical?" Damn, that stoicism again. At the time, I never felt stressed during any of it, but now I see that maybe I didn't let myself accept that I was. I was always worried about how everyone else felt and trying to be strong for them. Craig is just the same as I am. Together we rolled with the punches, made each other laugh and smile and didn't let the little stresses that got others down get to us. Together we're one positive, smiley, stoic team. Maybe that's not always a good thing. Some of the things we've gone through were very, very difficult, especially losing his father to a long-fought battle with brain cancer just a few years ago. But we came out okay and stronger for it, because we always do. 

The loss of my Peppe two bitter cold Januaries ago hit me particularly hard. We were very close and I credit so much of who I am to him. He, too, loved writing and this blog is dedicated to him. I felt a very deep grief for a long time, still do. It was the first close family member I've ever lost and being a very small family - no aunts, no cousins, just the now 9 of us, it was a big hit. It took every ounce of strength I had to write and read his eulogy, but it was something I needed to do. Of course, I smiled through it, laughed and shared stories and didn't shed a tear in front of anyone at the service. When I was alone, and only when alone, that was another story. 

The last in a series of four questions Dr. Siegel asks his patients is "Why did you need this illness?" This is what I'm exploring now.

Says Siegel: "Sickness gives people 'permission' to do things they would otherwise be inhibited from doing. It can make it easier to say no to unwelcome burdens, duties, jobs or the demands of other people. It can serve as permission to do what one has always wanted but has always been 'too busy' to start. It can allow a person to take time off to reflect, meditate and chart a new course. It can serve as an excuse for failure. It can make it easier to request and accept love, speak your feelings, or otherwise be more honest. Even a cold has a meaning. Often its message is 'You've been working too hard. Go home and nurture yourself.'" 

I by no means blame myself or how I've lived my life thus far for getting me to this place. But I do see the fact that cancer chose me as an opportunity, not a punishment. 

Craig's mom always talks about listening to the little messages. Sometimes you get a tap on your shoulder and just ignore it. Then, another tap. If you keep ignoring it, you may end up with a piano falling on your head. I think this is my piano. I just haven't figured out exactly what that something is that I'm supposed to learn or do yet, but I'll get there. 

Until then, watch out. My emotions are running wild and free into the wilderness that is self-discovery. There's got to be a reason why this is happening to me and I will find it. 

Will Enough Ever Be Enough?

There may be fleeting moments when I don't think about it, but my cancer is a constant presence in my mind and in my body. I think about it in everything that I do --- not in the sense that it controls everything I do, but in the sense that I think of how everything that I do will affect the cancer. Maybe others going through this can remove themselves from it, but my mind has always been a little overactive. Like a complicated orchestral score I have several tracts running at once, always one step ahead of the next. Now one of those tracts is a steady beat of cancer, cancer, cancer. 

More than ever in my life I view my body as a temple: I want the good things in and the bad things out --- now. I'm trying so hard to do all the right things for my body, but I worry that enough will never be enough or that what I'm doing is not the right thing. I want to beat this so badly that the ache for health actually hurts. The yearning to live a life even better, stronger, more aware than I had before cancer is ever-present within me, a constant echo in my head. I've always loved life and my presence in it, and I think that's what makes this that much harder. I wasn't looking for a way out. I wasn't looking for a change. I was perfectly happy and felt so lucky every day. Now every day I worry that it's all going to be taken away, like the beautiful life I had was so beautiful that it wasn't meant to last. 

Like the end credits of a movie, there is a continuous scroll of things I must do to beat this: eat, breathe deeply, exercise, stretch, meditate, love, live, learn, educate, listen, let out your emotions, control your emotions, disinfect, drink water, push yourself, don't be too hard on  yourself, don't ask why, find out why, remember to breathe ... over and over it echoes. 

When I shop for food I refuse to put anything in the cart that has an ingredient that I can't pronounce. All of the fat-free peanut "spread" or butter substitutes that I used to eat sicken me now when I read all the chemicals listed in the ingredients. Give me raw, real vitamins and sustenance. My diet has become like a second job. I snack throughout the day on raw peanut butter, steamed kale, raw almonds, Greek yogurt, blueberries, bananas, strawberries, soy milk, crisp bread, lots of cereal and granola, whole grain anything, spoonfuls of flax seed. I've started cooking more meals. For me, a kitchen illiterate, this is a big deal. Recipes from Real Simple magazine are my new favorite experiments. I've taught myself how to grill salmon (big Omega-3 booster), craft many salad varieties and work fresh veggies and herbs into most of our meals.

I've become probably over-paranoid about contracting some kind of germ. More than the fear of the lymphoma spreading is the fear of contracting something that my body cannot fight as my white blood cells are few and far between and the ones there are occupied with the cancer battle. Craig is building me a fantastic walk-in closet as a birthday present. Last night he was sanding down the joint compound on the sheet rock without a mask on and when I walked into the room the air was filled with white dust. I freaked and pulled off all the sheets and covers to throw them in the wash and completely lost my cool yelling that I can't be inhaling these chemical toxins and that I'm fighting so hard to beat this and something stupid like this could kill me --- or worse, get him sick. Afterward I felt awful. This morning he wore a mask and I slept downstairs. I was never a germaphobe. I was a firm believer in the "five-second rule" and I confess that a quick sweep under running water was enough to wash my hands, soap was a bonus when I had time. Now, I sing the entire tune of "Happy Birthday" in my head to know that I've scrubbed and lathered enough every time I wash my hands ... which is hundreds of times a day. 

Yoga class has become a sanctuary. It has done wonders for my strength and flexibility. After each chemo treatment my muscles knot like nothing I've ever felt and the achyness doesn't subside until a few days before the next treatment. Yoga has taught me how to breathe so that my body is filled with the oxygen that it needs to push out the toxins it is holding onto. It has allowed me to elongate my sore body and become conscious of my tender and my stronger areas. The meditation and relaxation aspect had also been extremely beneficial. Every time I'm getting closer to clearing my mind, pushing out that cancer, cancer, cancer drum beat. It'll take much more practice but I truly believe in the link of mind and body in overcoming this. I like that in class I don't have to talk anyone but you can feel everyone's positive energy and peaceful auras. The silence of only the gentle music and common breaths feels unworldly. I can go at my own pace and I never feel judged if I have to revert to extended child pose or don't have the perfect posture. However, I've found that my balance and core strength has remained and I've been proud of the poses I can master. 

My walking/jogging/hobbling continues. I try to get out every day. This weekend I want to try breaking out the bike and see how that goes when I hit the trail. When I feel my blood pumping I try to imagine it pumping out the cancer cells. The more oxygen I get in there the freer it flows. Every day in the shower I scrub with a detox mineral scrub to give those bad toxins a better chance of escaping. I then slough with a natural bristle body brush removing dead skin cells that might block the way for what I imagine is the constant escape of badness for my epidermis. 

Today I go check in with Dr. Dailey and I have a slew of questions for him and hope to come back with some new plans of attack ... and maybe an appointment for a port insertion ... as my phlebitis is flaring up again. Looking forward to my mid-way PET Scan where I hope to see some assurance that all of this effort and writhing chemo side effects are worth ever bit of the pain and more. 

Chemo Day Five

Another one down. And as always, another surprise occurrence, but I survived. However, everything was just a little bit off for this treatment. 

On the way there, my mom and I saw a woman bending in the middle of busy Route 10 to peel a hot, fly-covered dead opossum off the double yellow line of the street. Gloved hand alone, no mask or bucket, she picked the thing up by its rubbery tale and carried it to her truck. An unmarked truck, mind you. We weren't sure if she was planning on cooking it up in a stew or adding it to her taxidermy collection. Whatever she was doing, all I could think was: "and I thought I was having a bad day ... ." At least I wasn't scraping road kill off the steamy pavement. 

It was a Thursday, not the customary Wednesday, which means that the entire staff at the Cancer Center was different and I knew no one except the oncology nurse who gives me my Neup shots every other week. Luckily, she is the sweetest nurse I've met and I was so happy to have her inject me. When we arrived, all of the computer systems were down so they did not have access to records of my prescribed dosages, nor access to my past blood counts. My white blood cell count was low and they considered not giving me treatment, but it was decided that I could go ahead with it ... thank God. Nothing worse than getting yourself pumped up for something only to not get it over with. I didn't see the doc since my doc wasn't working, but 

somehow they were able to draw up my dosages and all was good. 

Also different, I did not wear my Minnetonka moccasins and I wore cropped yoga pants. This was not good. I forgot how cold I tend to get with some of the drugs passing through me, plus the AC was cranking. Next time, I will not venture away from my moccasins which always keep me feetsies at the perfect temp, despite the July heat. 

Despite all of these elements being out of whack, I received a flawless IV insertion ... a one shot deal. No wriggling and failed attempts. This made me breathe easy. She again felt through many of my veins noting the hard and collapsed ones, but was able to find a useable entryway to my circulatory system. She also gave me preventative Tylenol, which she said helps to counteract the flu-like, achey symptoms that I end up with as a result of the Bleomycin. I was then instructed to take Tylenol every six hours for the next 24 hours ... this was news to me. But I guess that's the bonus of getting to work with another nurse and getting another opinion. 

Though the insertion was good, the vein couldn't hang with the Adriamycin. I had what is called a vein "flare." The Adriamycin is one of the chemo drugs that is so strong that the nurse needs to administer it as a slow, push syringe, rather than through the IV drip. The nurse needs to sit with me through the process. Suddenly my arm started developing a red rash as a result of this "flare." She had to stop administering the drug and coated my arm in hydrocortisone cream then also started me up with an IV bag of Benadryl to decrease the flare-up reaction. Though the Benadryl didn't make me fall asleep as she suspected it would, it made me feel very woozy and uncomfortable. I was ready to leave after that, but still had the long and slow Decarbazene to go, my least favorite of the four. This is the one that burns through the veins, but with the help of a couple instant ice packs, the feeling is numbed. 

My mom and I popped in the DVD of the final Broadway performance of Rent. This helped greatly to pass the last couple of hours of what felt to be a marathon chemo session. I've seen the show I believe five times --- on- and off- Broadway, but now I see it in a whole new light. The songs and the lessons have always been meaningful and moving to me, but now being in a similar state of life, a person "living with, living with, not dying from disease" the lyrics ring true all the more: 

"No Day But Today." 

We hit up the Simsbury Farmer's Market on the way home (after a delicious bacon, egg and cheese on cheddar everything from Brookside, obv.). I picked up some snap peas, but had to sit on a bench shortly after getting there. The Benadryl really wasn't settling well. Then we had to pick up my meds at CVS and I thought that I might hurl right there are in Pharmacy "Pick Up" line. I did my yoga breathing and grabbed for a pack of peanut M&Ms, which instantly curbed the nausea ... crisis averted. 

Then it was home, finally home. I curled up with my prayer shawl and a Guiness glass of Miralax-filled apricot juice and settled in for a long, hard drug-induced coma. Sammy by my side as always. 

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. 

Settling Down & Gearing Up

It's been a fantastic past few days. I've felt very strong, both physically and emotionally and I've been going through my bi-weekly exercises in chemo preparation. This means drinking lots and lots of water, packing in the fruits, veggies, antioxidants and fiber, walking (I'd even venture to say speed walking) every day and back to yoga tonight. On a non-health related front, pre-chemo prep means checking that I have all my meds refilled, doing what housework, bill paying, medical info filing and tying up of work projects I can in preparation for my remission back into mental and physical weakness after the next whop. 

My phlebitis has subsided. It was about three days of terrible pain and now it's completely gone. This is good. My fissures? Well, that's another story. We're working on it. Lots of prescription medication, fiber rich foods and fiber supplements. The goal is to regulate despite all the chemo effects and this will be the key to healing. My pain tolerance is getting better. 

I went into the office twice. I kind of decided for myself that it was safe to do this ... but I figured with my Neup shots and feeling strong it was okay. When the doc's away, the patient will play, right? My oncologist is on vacation this week, but I'm sure he would approve. He just wants me to limit my time in the office as much as possible so that I don't contract some strange hospital borne infection, which realistically could kill me ... so let's not play with fire. But I steered clear of the hospital proper and pumped frequent Purell squirts onto my hands. 

I put in a full day on Friday. It was great to see everyone, to be in my office, and to see the hospital farm stand that I've been working on come to fruition, but I could hardly stand up by the end of it. It did take a lot out of me, but I survived. Plus, I got to be there for my co-worker's baby shower, which I really wanted to make. 

Then it was right to the highway on the way to D.C. for my college roomie's engagement party. As my husband is an angel, Craig did all the 7 hours worth of driving and didn't even complain when I reclined the passenger seat and snuck in a few much-needed naps. I'm trying to challenge myself and test my limits when I am feeling good. The test results are not too hard to interpret. I probably did too much these past few days, but to me it was worth every minute. 

We had such a great time. Frankie and Steve are two of our favorite people in the world and when you're back with the person who lived with you day in and day out for four years, cancer is all but forgotten. We ate at our favorite D.C. joint: Chipotle. Yes, the 

chain. Why we don't have these in CT is a mystery to me. It is the best burrito in the world. We walked along the Potomac River and watched the planes take off. We got to hang out with Frankie's hilarious mom, step-dad and cousin and meet the rest of her and Steve's fam at the party. Her father lives in Virginia and his home is gorgeous. We celebrated outside on her Dad and stepmom's pool patio eating, drinking and laughing, a lot of laughing. I even had a glass-and-a-half of Pinot Grigio and a flute of champagne and was feeling pretty good. I guess I'm becoming a cheap date with my significantly reduced, if nearly nonexistent, new drinking habits. At least I didn't end up in the pool. 

It was great to meet her friends from down South. I realized quickly that they knew an awful lot more about me than I did about them. Her relatives, friends and perfect strangers were coming up to me remarking how they read my blog daily. They knew all about Sam-a-lam-a-ding-dong and all my chemo adventures. When they told me they read my blog, I usually answered with a laugh and "Oh, so you know all about my anal fissures?" I figured better to acknowledge the elephant in the room. I felt like a G-list celebrity or something. I'm not too hard to pick out of a crowd being the only one with a scarf on my head, but it was so touching to have so many people feel comfortable enough to say how glad they were to meet me and how much they were rooting for me. 

I learned that there are even more prayer circles than I thought that are including me in their talks with the "big guy." In Virginia and all over the country ... it's pretty crazy. One good thing about cancer is that it allows you to have instant connections with people and truly understand how powerful that is. I can literally feel the warmth and my spirit lifting when I hear that these perfect strangers truly care so much. How can I let them all down? It just adds fuel to the fire to fight this.