Happy anniversary to chemo and me

February 4th is...

February 4, 2015 was the day I started chemo. 

Happy freakin' anniversary!

Last night, for kicks, I did the math: 466 hours. That's how many hours I've spent hooked up to a chemo drip in the last year. (And I took just over a six month break.)

It hasn't always (or... uhm... ever, frankly) been fun, but I'm still here. 

The good news? The damage to my nails from the first four rounds has almost grown out. Another month or two, and the soft and flaky part of my previously super human nails will have grown out. Woot!

The not-so-good news? This is what my skin looks like, 10 days into this new regimen. 

And that's WITH copious amounts of super expensive lotion, applied daily. My body is falling apart. Literally. 

The last twelve months have been doozies. Chemo's turned my life on edge in a way that I couldn't have possibly prepared myself for. It's been an unspeakably difficult year, but I'm grateful for modern medicine. Even as I spend our anniversary in bed with a heating pad on a broken rib, I am grateful for multiple doctors and several chemotherapies that have been successful in other patients with my diagnosis. 

Hope springs eternal that this time next year, February 4th will be chemo-free for me. That my nails and my hair and my skin will be restored, and that some version of this drug that I hate with my whole soul will have, at the very least, stopped the growth of the tumor that is currently trying to kill my body. (I mean, I'd take total eradication in a heartbeat, but... I'd also be pleased as punch if it would just stop getting worse.)

Six months

Six months ago, on May 18th, I sat in Dr. H's office and he dropped the 3-6 months bomb on me.

Aaaaaaaaaand, turns out his timeline was pretty right on, as far as me not being able to live more than six months without major medical intervention.

I was in Houston last week for tests, and... this bad boy is growing like a weed. The hot spot in my back has roughly doubled in the two months between scans, and I have another spot in the front that is showed hot on last week's pet. We're not sure if that's a new tumor growing among my bowels, or if that's an indicator that the previously well-differentiated mass in/around my bowels is now progressing to de-differentiated. (As much as we all know that I do love buying myself a fancy purse for every tumor, my fingers are crossed that this isn't a new little dude. I'm hopeful that it's the mass progressing to de-diff, because that means chemo may be able to impact what is generally referred to as "the amorphous mass" on my medical reports.)

Anyhoo, the long and short of it is... It appears that my body is out to kill me again. So, I'm going back on chemo next week. (Yes, it's crappy to start chemo the week of Thanksgiving, but listen. If it'll save my life, I'll give up a pecan pie and some potatoes and gravy.)

Dr. Z gave me some options. I'll show them to you, for the medical people out there.

I'll do another post on another day that goes into more detail on the treatment plan I chose to go with (#1), but the long and short of it is that it'll be outpatient this time. Different drugs, with a different treatment plan = a different way to deliver the meds. Instead of living on the cancer floor at the hospital for a week out of every month, I'll be hooked up to an IV pole in the infusion center for about 3 hours twice a month. Just as before, the plan is two rounds of chemo then a scan to make sure it's working, then two more rounds and a scan, ad nauseum, until it stops working and then we'll go to a different chemo blend.

I've had a lot of people reach out this week, wondering what's going on and how I'm doing, because I haven't been posting as often. Well... this is what's going on. And I'm alright.

I am tired, but I'm alright. In many ways, I'm grateful for the timeline that was handed me six very short months ago, because it helped me realize, on a deeper level, how important it is to truly LIVE every day. I have had bad days, for sure, but there have been so many more good than bad. I've been able to go back to work (only part time, but it's been such a blessing to have something I can do with my time that yields measurable results), I've been able to travel and spend time with friends and family. I can't eat all of the delicious foods in the world, but I have loved the crap out being able to eat like a semi-normal human again.

I have been living and loving. Every day. For six months. I may not have written much about it, but that's because being out there, doing all of the things, took so much energy that I didn't have anything left to write with.  Maybe next week, when I'm tied to a recliner in the infusion center, I'll start going through the pics in my phone and I'll catch ya'll back up. (Big. Fat. Maybe.)

In the meantime, let the record show that I made it six months. And I'm so very glad that I did.

Four months

It's one of my favorite days of the year!

That would be: International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

AKA: Get a Dozen Free Donuts if You Dress Up Like a Pirate and go to Krispy Kreme Day.

This morning (after having had a sleepover last night with Maggie (7) and Sally (5), during which very few people got any kind of decent sleep), the Wood kids and I (sans Roomie, because she had a soccer game and thinks her priority needs to be with her team and not with us and our glazed donut pirate booty - lame!) dressed up and went to claim our goods.

One dozen donuts per person in costume = 5 dozen donuts. That's 60 donuts for five people to eat, kids.

And while we didn't eat all 60 of them, we ate... a lot of them. Like, until we all felt sick.

It was a very awesome morning.

And then, this afternoon, I met back up with the Woods to see this Mormon movie.

And, you guys... IT WAS FUNNY.

As in, actually funny. Not just laugh-at-Mormon-culture, funny. (Okay, mostly it was that. But I think it would be funny even for people who don't know about camp songs or ridiculous, totally contrived, but still somehow effective spiritual object lessons.)

I laughed. I cried. I thought about my life, about the people I love the most and would do anything for (including putting myself right back on chemo, even though it made me wish I could just die, in case it'll give me more time with them... but that's a post for another time). And then I laughed again.

At one key moment, I had just taken a swig off my ever-present water bottle and something happened that made me laugh. I mean, out loud. ... After spitting my entire mouth full of water into my hands and then letting it fall into my lap. (It was a super full theater, and I didn't have any napkins. Or warning. What was I supposed to do? Spew water on the kids sitting in front of me? ... I felt like spitting it into my own hands and then dumping that popcorny spittle into my lap was the right thing to do.)

You guys. This movie is funny. If you live somewhere that you can see it (which, mostly, is... Utah), you should. It was a good time.

And, when the movie was over, I walked outside to see this. You can try all day long, from wherever in the world that you are, but I'm telling you straight up that you just can't beat an Arizona sunset.

Pirate costumes. Free donuts. Harkins popcorn. A movie that made me laugh and made me cry. All kinds of quality time with my favorite little weirdos. A gorgeous sunset.

Topped off with the fact that, as of today, I'm officially four months into the 3-6.

It's been a really good day. ... And, so far, I am winning.

Happy Anniversary!

Guess who moved to Mesa eight years ago, today?

That would be me.

I cannot believe I've been here for eight years. In some ways, they've been the fastest years of my life. In others, they've been the longest. ... But no matter how I look at it, I struggle to believe I've been here.

For. Eight. Years.

It's a funny story, actually, how I ended up here. I knew it was time for me to make a move (pun intended), and for several months prior to making a final decision, I was weighing Provo, Utah and Louisville, Kentucky as my options.

You heard me: Kentucky.

What can I say? I read a lot of horse books when I was a kid, and Kentucky was painted as a very lovely place. Rolling hills, thoroughbreds, white picket fences, etc. Also, I had a good friend and former roommate who lived in Louisville who I'd been to visit a few times. I'd fallen smack in love with the architecture, the rolling hills, the fall color, the general kindness of anyone/everyone I met. ... I'm telling you, southern hospitality is a real thing, people.

Utah was tempting, because it was familiar. Kentucky was tempting because it WASN'T familiar. In Utah, I'd be surrounded by extended family. In Kentucky, I wouldn't have family for, literally, thousands of miles. I felt like they were both great, viable, options and I just needed to make the choice between two really good sides of a coin.

And then I prayed about it. ... And couldn't get confirmation from The Man Upstairs on either plan. (And I'm here to tell you, I made QUITE A CASE for both of them. Nevertheless, I couldn't get a warm fuzzy to save my soul.) So, I asked a flat out, open-ended question about where I should go. And it came flying at me: Phoenix.

I'm pretty sure that I rolled my eyes and thought something along the lines of, "Yeah. Right. Sure. Move to the desert. That's gonna happen." And then I thought about it for a minute - just long enough to ask, in prayer, for confirmation that Phoenix was the right place for me to be - and I had an overwhelming feeling/recognition that I needed to be in the valley of the sun.

I went home and went online and, within hours, found an apartment in my price range online. I went to work the next week and arranged an interview to transfer with the company I was already working for. Maybe six weeks later, I packed up my car and drove myself down to said apartment and moved in over President's Day weekend.

And I've been here ever since.

Here, where I fell into the lap of the most incredible church community I ever could have asked for. Here, where I've met and worked with some of the most quality people I've  known in my entire life. Here, where I am - at most - three hours away from my parents. (They've made a trip down more than once because they knew I needed them, and I'm beyond grateful that I haven't been 6,000 - or even 600 - miles away from home.) Here, where my brothers and their families live. Here, where Jo is only five minutes away. Here, where I have had access to medical treatment in facilities that were fully equipped and able to handle my bizarre needs. Here, where my beloved Dr. H practices. Here, in an apartment that has never been too expensive for me to justify staying in my own place, even when I couldn't work.

Eight years and two months ago, I was pretty hellbent on making a wildly different decision than I ended up making. Now, I'm sure I would have had a heck of a support system, no matter where I'd ended up in the early winter of 2006 (I have a knack for attracting the best people, everywhere I go), but I'm so glad that I stayed in Arizona, that I ended up here.

Happy Anniversary to me and my teeny tiny (600 sq ft) apartment, my city of residence, and all of the people who've been along for the ride in this phase of my life. Life is good. Even when it's crazy, it is good. I am blessed.

Ahhhhh....

I can't tell you how awesome it is to know that the bulge in my stomach really is just my guts trying to come out through my bellybutton.

Seriously. It's awesome.

I woke up last night in the middle of the night because I was thirsty. That's it. Just thirsty.

No bad dream. No anxiety. No nausea. No headache. No panic attack. No crying. No hysteria. No need to get out of bed and make a list of all the things I'd need to do, the people I'd need to contact, if the PET was positive for new growth.

Just thirsty.

I'd never been so happy to get out of bed at 3:00 AM for a glass of water in all of  my life.

Of course, one of the effects of the release of all the stress that scan week makes me carry around is that I'm tired. As in, dog tired. I cannot get enough sleep and I'm completely worn out. (Maybe because I keep interrupting my own REM, waking up because I'm thirsty or something? ... Just kidding.)

Anyway, I'm relieved. And happy. So, so happy.

I've been cancer-free for 18 months now. I'm only one check up (since we moved my PET scans to every 6 months, so as to appease the insurance company) away from having been cancer-free as long as I ever was sick.

I cannot tell you the down-deep joy this brings me. My goodness, I'm so grateful for modern medicine - for the men (multiple) who've saved my life. I am the luckiest person I know.

(Oh, and... something fun I learned yesterday when I was blogging from the cancer center, between appts with H and G... typos abound when I'm using my phone keyboard. So sorry about that. I just wanted to get the information out as soon as I possibly could. ... And the typos (at least, the obvious ones) have been fixed now. All is right with the universe once again.)

365 Days

That's right, it's been one whole year since I had cancer growing inside my body.

Happy Anniversary to me!

Three years ago, tomorrow, I had my first cancer-related surgery. One year ago, today, I had (what I am hoping and praying was) my last cancer-related surgery.

6-22-10, Tumor #1
3-22-11, Tumor #2
6-21-12, Tumors #3 and #4

Call me OCD (go ahead, I promise you won't be the first), but I love to see patterns in numbers. It's (and I know this is going to sound a little weird, but it really is) comforting to me when I see patterns like this in my life. (Sidebar: my birthday is 10/21 and I had oral surgery to remove my wisdom teeth on 10/22/12. Again, with the 21st and 22nd. Awesome, right?!)

Here is what I know: the Lord loves me, and He knows me. He knows that, for someone who is truly TERRIBLE at math, I sure do have an appreciation for numbers lining up.

For me, the funny little coincidence of surgery dates (dates scheduled by staff in several different facilities, mind you) falling so closely together is not so much a coincidence, as it is a sign that there is a higher power out there.

To me, the dates are significant.

So many details of so many experiences have been significant, in their exact match to what I had asked for. (And I'm not just talking about that single, age-appropriate oncologist that I wheeled and dealed for with the Lord when I found out about #3.)

So many words that have been said, gifts that have been given, prayers that have been offered have been EXACTLY what I needed. So many friends have called, written or stopped in to visit over the last three years. So many nurses, so many doctors (and way too many anesthesiologists), have been exactly where I needed them to be, when I needed them to be there.

I haven't always gotten what I wanted (see above multiple surgery dates - I would have been fine, sticking to the first surgery in 2010 and never going back for more), but I have always had what I needed.

And you, my dear readers, have been a part of that. Thank you for having been invested in my life. Thank you for having shared the journey with me. Thank you for having given me what I needed, on so many levels, in so many ways. Over and over again, you have taught me so much about love and kindness and hope. I will be eternally grateful for the life lessons you have taught me by showing so much love. Thank you.

One cancer-free year down. ... Here's to 40 or so more!

The Results

Because it's late (and I'm super tired - see multiple blog posts over the last couple weeks, detailing my inability to get a solid, decent night's sleep), this won't be long...

But for those of you who aren't on the immediate family phone tree, texting aficionados, or FB friends to have seen the news....

THE SCAN WAS CLEAN!

Wa-freakin-hoo!

I'm one week short of being a full year cancer-free, but I'm still counting it as a year.

I've been cancer-free for a year. ... That is all that I've wanted since, oh... about 2 seconds after I found out about my second tumor in February 2011. (Effective immediately: All I want is to be cancer-free for 18 months. Oh, and maybe some peanut butter/chocolate ice cream.)

When Dr. H gave me the news, he told me that I needed to shout it from the rooftops, so...

I AM CANCER-FREE!

Tomorrow, or maybe Sunday or Monday (once I've had some time to catch up on some sleep), I'll do more of an official update. (By which I mean: a full report of the conversation had between doctor and patient this afternoon. It was a doozy. Be looking forward to that.)

For now, this short little post with all manner of all-capped and fragmented sentences will have to convey my joy at the results of this scan, my gratitude towards doctors who tried a different approach - and saved my life - and the awesome people out there (the original 13 and beyond) who've cared enough to keep tabs on me.

I love my life. ... I always have. ... But knowing that my pants don't fit anymore because I've been eating too much cake? Oh, man... That's, like, a whole new level of loving my life!

Today has been a great day.

I am happy.

I am humbled.

I am grateful. So, so, grateful...

I am cancer-free.

Happy Anniversary!

Kids, it's official.

Razzzberries and I have been together for five years.

True story. Here's a link to my first post ever.

And what a glorious five years it has been!

I wasn't kidding when I said that this blog would be an outlet. (The Prophet Laur strikes again!)

I've told silly stories. I've talked about serious stuff (the cancer, anyone?). I've regaled you all with tales of me driving away with gas nozzles and peeing my pants in theaters. I've written about my family, my friends, my beliefs and all manner of other things near and dear to my heart.

This little blog has been a blessing in my life; as have you been, dear readers.

Thank you for giving me so much of your time and attention over the past five years. ... I sure hope my talking about my poop so often post-surgery didn't ruin your lives.

Here's to another five years of online craziness!

(I'd go buy me and Razzzberries an anniversary present, but Wikipedia told me that the five year anniversary is marked with gifts of wood and/or silverware. #Lame.)

November 21

I had my followup with Dr. H today. ... I'm sure you'll all be pleased to know he's as handsome and charming as ever. ... This is how it went down.

Dr. H: Hi. How are you?

Me: Well...

Dr. H:  (Grinning) Besides the fatigue, I mean.

(The first thing I ever tell anyone who asks me how I'm feeling is how tired I am, because heaven forbid that my doctors start to think my energy level is anywhere near where I'd like it to be. ... I'd already told the nurse all about it, and she'd prepped him before he came in to see me.)

Me: (Laughing) Besides that, I'm pretty good.

Dr. H: Really?

Me: Yeah. I was happy to hear that I have some new tissue growth.

Dr. H: (Incredulously) You were?

Me: I was! ... I've been having this weird pain in my lower back that I couldn't explain. I'd wondered if I was losing my mind and/or having a phantom pain experience, but it turns out that I have new scar tissue back there.

Pause...

Dr. H: Where is the pain?

Me: Uh... Where I don't have a kidney.

Pause...

Me: I don't know how else to explain it. It's a familiar pain, in a familiar spot. I couldn't make sense of it, but now that I know I have scar tissue again, it makes sense that I'm feeling what I used to feel back there

Dr. H: How often do you feel it?

Me: Not every day, but often. In the morning, when I first wake up and get out of bed.

Dr. H: When did it start? How long does it last?

Me: I first noticed it about three weeks, maybe a month, ago. I feel it for about an hour or so after I wake up. Once I get ready for work and out the door, I'm not really aware of it anymore.

Dr. H: Do you think it could be a muscle ache? Is it sharp or dull pain?

Me: I don't think it's muscles. It's inside, if that makes sense. ... And it's neither sharp or dull. It's steady.

Pause...

Me: Maybe I'm sleeping wrong or something. Who knows? I'm just happy to know that there IS something growing in there. New scar tissue explains why I'm feeling something I've felt before.

Pregnant pause as Dr. H leans forward, places his elbows on his knees and smiles...

Dr. H: I think your cancer might be back.

Me: (startled, but not surprised, necessarily - since Friday, I've been feeling like I couldn't officially latch onto the "mostly good" news of the PET scan until I met with Dr. H and he told me the same thing Amanda had told me) Thank you for smiling while you said that.

Dr. H continued to smile, while I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation. I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs and started questioning him...

Me: Really?

Dr. H: Yes. ... It's the pain you're talking about that has me concerned.

Me: Huh. ... I told Amanda about the pain, too, and she didn't think it was a big deal.

Dr. H: Of course she didn't think it was a big deal. She's a surgeon. ... Surgeons cause pain!

Me: (laughing - OUT LOUD) True. ... Is it sick that I've been secretly happy that Dr. G had to have surgery?

Dr. H: No. It makes sense.

Me: Please don't think this means that I secretly hope you'll get cancer. I don't need all of my doctors to experience what I experience, but it does help me to know that my surgeon has become acquainted with the pain of recovery.

Dr. H: Of course not. (Then, getting us back on track.) I see two options. The first is to biopsy the tissue. There are always risks associated with an invasive procedure, and there's a chance that we'd biopsy the wrong area and the results would be inconclusive...

Me: (Interrupting) What do you mean, "biopsy the wrong area"? Are we talking, my right side instead of my left? ... Do you not have any faith in your staff? What are you saying here?

Dr. H: (Smiling, on the verge of a laugh) There's a chance that it's scar tissue, and a chance that there are cancer cells mingled with scar tissue. We could do a biopsy, but we might pull only scar tissue and have a false negative.

Me: Okay, that makes more sense. Thank you. ... Or?

Dr. H: Or we could do an MRI, which would allow us to get better pictures of what's going on in there. I'd rather do the MRI. It's non-invasive, and whether what you have now is only scar tissue or scar tissue mingled with cancer cells, I'd like to have a baseline picture to compare against your next scan in 2-3 months.

Me: So, you'd be able to tell, just by looking at a picture, if this is scar tissue or something more?

Dr. H: Yes.

Me: That is amazing to me. (Seriously. Amazing. It blows my mind that these people can look at MRI images and know exactly what they're looking at! I have nothing but respect for medical students. They have to learn SO MANY things!)
..............................................................................................

A quick break to relay what I learned today regarding the an MRI v. the PET of last week. The PET scan was to look for cancer cells that may have spread to other organs/areas (I'm pleased to report that my lymph nodes and lungs are A-OK!), but it doesn't show up close and personal pics of each organ. While the tracer does show how various organs react to the sugars in the radioactive injection, the PET doesn't give the kind of detailed pic that an MRI would give. In an MRI, the contrast they inject you with creates an actual contrast in how the organs/tissue show up in the pics. That contrast helps give more detailed and specific pictures than you can get otherwise. ... Interesting, no?

..............................................................................................

Dr. H: What do you want to do?

Me: I will do whatever you want me to do. (Anyone who knows anything about me and how I handle the cancer as it comes at me is that I will do what my doctors tell me to do. I have been given very specific instruction from the Lord, multiple times, that I am to trust my doctors and follow their counsel.) ... I say, let's do the MRI.

Dr. H: (Smiling) Okay. Is your work schedule still crazy?

Me: (Laughing) Of course it is. ... It always is. ... But they know that this is the most important thing in my life, and are really great about letting me rearrange my schedule so I can do what I need to do. It won't be a problem.

Dr. H: I need to get pictures, soon, so I can develop a surgery or treatment plan if I need to. I would like to have the MRI scheduled in the next two weeks.

Me: Okay.

And that, my friends, is where we are right now.

Five months ago today, I had surgery to remove two tumors (and a slew of impacted organs). This morning, I was told that my new tissue may be more than scar tissue. Awesome. I love it when I have momentous occasions on anniversaries - makes it so much easier to remember/track. (I'm not kidding even one little bit. I really do love it! And I'm pretty sure the fact that things keep happening on anniversary dates is another sign that the Lord is invested in the details of my life. He knows I like to track things, and He makes things as easy for me as He can in that way. I love Him!)

The good news is that there's still a 50/50 chance that it's just scar tissue. And I have this fabulous, aggressive (and super dreamy, single) doctor who's not wanting to waste any time when it comes to figuring out exactly what's going on inside of me.

I'm incredibly grateful for the way my oncologist thinks; that what a surgeon took for residual pain associated with surgery recovery, he sees as possible symptomatic pain, and he wants to check it out.

I'm so grateful for a team of doctors and health care professionals who see things from a multitude of different angles, and collaborate to find the best treatment plan for me. (I also had PT today and learned a lot - again - about my body. But this post is already too long, so I'll save that info for another day.)

As always, I am grateful for my support system, for all of the people in my life who I know love me.

It has been interesting to me today, how many people have said something along the lines of "What crappy timing!", or "I hope this doesn't ruin your Thanksgiving!" in response to my sharing this information with them. I can promise you that it won't ruin my Thanksgiving. And  the interesting thing is that, for me, this isn't crappy timing. In fact, for me, it is perfect timing.

Nothing - and I do mean nothing - makes me as grateful for my life as the days/times in which I am made aware that everything can turn on a dime. Days like today help me recognize the blessings in my life in a way that few other things can.

I am so incredibly grateful for the miracle of modern medicine, for the fact that I was born - in this body - in this dispensation of time, when we have access to so many awesome diagnostic and treatment options.

I am grateful for technology: for the cell phone that allows me to talk to my family while I'm on the road, for texting that provides a quick and easy touch stone with friends throughout my day, for the www and this blogspot that allow me to share my life in real-time with my people who live all across the country and on the other side of the world.

I'm so grateful for family and friends who I know are with me - some literally, some virtually - every step of the way.

I'm so grateful for all of the love that is in my life. ... Some days, I am simply astonished at the warmth I can feel coming at me from all directions.

Today, I was told that the cancer might be back. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for. Much. (And I'm not just talking about that 13 lb turkey that I get to eat all by myself!)

My life is blessed. Truly, blessed.

September 10 - Late

I just realized what today is. (Today, meaning September 10th.)

It's the two year anniversary of my last day of radiation treatments. Happy Anniversary to me!

It has been exactly two years since I had to go into a room marked with biohazard warnings, and pull my shirt up (and my pants down) so they could get laser-on-skin for the full treatment area. It has been two years since I've had the tattoos on my stomach lined up with red lights coming from every corner of the room. It has been two years since I've felt the vibrations of the radiation machine moving around me while I concentrated on being completely and utterly still for 10-15 minutes while they shot poison into my body, lest I breathe wrong and they hit me somewhere that they shouldn't have.

(I'll tell you right now that I had some pretty excellent Nathan Fillion fantasies play out in my head while I was lying there. Listen, a girl has to have something to think about when she's been abandoned and left for near-dead in a biohazard contaminate room...)

In about 10 weeks, it will have been two years since I would lie on my couch and think that I would rather die than try to take a deep breath. 'Round about the first week in November, it will be two years since I involuntarily screamed, due to the insane amount of residual pain associated with the radiation burns.

In the two years since I finished six weeks of radiation treatments, I've had three surgeries, one to remove cysts that formed on my tailbone, associated with the first abdominal surgery, and two more open, abdominal, surgeries to remove three more malignant tumors. My little (okay, not so little...) body has been through the ringer and back again.

On days like this, when I have a slight cramp in my side where my left kidney used to be (scar tissue, it's a delight and a pleasure), I think back to the days/weeks/months when all I could eat was either 4 Ritz crackers or 5 saltines at a time, and I am grateful for how far I've come. (Yes, that was an either/or diet situation. My stomach could not handle more food than that at a time, for months. ... When people joke about what a great weight loss plan cancer is, I want to punch them in the face.)

I may be a little sore and achy, but I'm not fighting nausea 24 hours a day anymore. I may have a cramp in my side, but I don't have the constant, shooting pains that I was living with two years ago.

I hated radiation. Hated it. ... I did it, because I had been told that it would give me 25% less chance at a recurrence. But I hated it. I hated the daily drive to the treatment center. I hated lying on the table, waiting for what was coming, knowing that the techs who positioned me on the table would have to leave the room to give the treatment, because the laser beams that flew through my body were toxic, and they couldn't risk getting caught in the line of fire. I hated the sudden surge in (what was already constant) nausea that would hit 40 minutes after treatment every day. I hated the weekly weigh-ins, and the lecture I would get for losing between 4 and 8 pounds every week. I hated having to defend how my body was reacting to a doctor who hadn't expected the side effects to be that extreme. Radiation was horrible. I hated it. ... Even now, I can't let myself think about it for too long, because my body starts to remember what all of that felt like, and I can't help but cry.

Radiation was hard. It may have given me a 25% leg-up, it may not have. I'll never know for sure. What I do know is that it was so hard and so painful that it's put so many other things into perspective, and for that, I am grateful.

And today, it has been two years since it was over, which merits a celebratory piece of Nothing Bundt. (I told you back in June that I was freezing that dang cake, because I knew I'd want/need it later. Today is that day.)

Happy Anniversary, Body! (The good news is, you'll never have to do THAT form of radiation again. Ever!) Now, I'm off to have a little chocolate-chocolate-chip-with-cream-cheese-icing nightcap... Because that's how I roll.

March 22 - Morning

I woke up this morning at 5:00 and my first thought was "This time, a year ago today, my alarm was going off so I could get up and get ready to go to the hospital." ... Luckily, I was able to fall back to sleep instead of just lie there obsessing.

I woke up again at 6:22 and my first thought was "This time, last year, Jo was here to pick me up to head in for surgery." And then I took a deep breath, rolled out of bed and got up and started to go about my day.

................................

This year, all I have to do on March 22nd is get up and go to work. Much less dramatic than knowing that I'll be going under the knife in a few hours. And yet, I am flooded of memories of this day last year. All week, I've been flooded with memories. Having the memory of an elephant is both a blessing and a curse. (Having the ankles of an elephant, on the other hand, is just a curse. So, I guess I'll take the memory.)

The good/best news about today is that I have plans tonight to go out with some friends for Jo's birthday celebration. I'm so glad that I have something super fun going on tonight. This concert is something that I've been looking forward to for a couple months now, and it's been a blessing to have had something on my mind other than what was happening in my world a year ago.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

One year ago today, I had a 22.5 lb tumor removed from my abdomen. It is true. 22.5 pounds. That's a lot of tumor. When the surgeon walked out of the operating room to report to my family and friends in attendance, he told them it was "22.5 pounds, roughly the size of a large watermelon".

My friends, I did not want to eat watermelon for quite some time.

And then I got over it. Why? Because watermelon is FREAKING delicious, and I didn't grow a watermelon, I grew a tumor the size and shape of a watermelon. Big difference!

Today, in celebration of my one year anniversary of the first major surgery I ever had, my mom and I went on a field trip to Safeway to buy ourselves a 22.5 lb watermelon.

It was a bust. (Pun intended.)

It turns out they don't make 22.5 watermelons. Or maybe they do, but they're so big and unsightly that they can't be sold at Safeway. (We should have gone to WalMart, is what I'm thinking.)

Anyhoo... The goal was to have a photoshoot with a heck of a lot of watermelon, and that's what we did. Behold:

This was our first shot. Two just over 10 lb watermelons. Takes up a lot of room in one's abdomen, yes? But also a little bulky, and I didn't want to drop a melon and then have to eat what we'd broken there, so we went for a slightly different approach.



Here are four just over 5 lb each watermelons, end to end. (Yes, they were all weighed so we could be SURE that, together, they hit the 22.5 lb mark. We're nothing if not scientific in our research. Grandad would want it that way.)



To prove their weight, we piled all four watermelons onto a scale. (Yeah, I know, it's a bit of a skiddywampus pile. Don't judge. We did the best we could do.)



And in case any of you Doubting Thomases out there can't read the numbers on the scale and want actual proof, here ya go:



And here's one last shot of the 22.5 worth of watermelon and me. I can't tell you how glad I am not to have 22.5 lbs of foreign matter in my body. I mean, I cannot tell you, how horrifying it is to look at 22.5 lbs of something and know that I used to have that much tumor (read: cancerous growth) in my body.



Nuts!

But those days are over. The watermelon sized tumor is gone, and we are celebrating in style! (Watermelon and chocolate cake.) We Evans girls sure know how to throw ourselves an anniversary party!




P.S. I had my 90 day check-up with my oncologist today and I am currently cancer free. (Again. Still. *Crossing fingers* Forever and ever. Wahoooo!!!!!)

All in a year's time

You may recall that last summer, Jo and I were pregnant at the same time. Oh, wait. She was pregnant. I just looked like I was. (Darn tumor!)



This year? Not so pregnant. (Either of us.) Jo has a stinkin' cute little baby named Sally and I ... well ... I am still wearing this same orange/pink/white tie-dyed style shirt. (Well, I've taken it in about 8 inches and now almost always wear it belted. But still, I am still wearing the same shirt. New clothes cost money. Altering clothes does not.)



You also may recall that, at the time, all of my doctors were under strict instruction not to share pictures, samples or even have conversations with me or my family members regarding said tumor. I knew, going in, that they were figuring it was about 10 lbs, and about the size of a volleyball in diameter. (They, of course, were dead wrong about the size/diameter, but that was the assumption.) Just this week, I sucked it up and asked for a copy of the dvd from the medical imaging company who performed the CT in June 2010. Mom and I looked though all 244 pictures of said tumor. Some of them made sense, some of them made us gag, some of them made us giggle. Almost all of them made us "see" things that weren't there. Here, I will show you.

Check this out. My guess is that this is a pelvic view (they did a chest/abdomen/pelvic CT) and those white arm-looking guys at the bottom are actually my femurs extended for that view.

But the thing is, even KNOWING that this is a pelvic view and the arms/legs are easily explainable, I can't help but think that it looks a little like a weight-lifting championship being held by maniacs. ... Seriously, check out the maniacal grin on Atlas there as he holds up the world. (The world = my 22.5 lb tumor.)



And then there's the balloon tumor, AKA: Pinky and The Brain. (It's wanting to take over the world.)



This was the first picture I saw, and it made my stomach fall right out of me. They'd shaded out all organs, so all you can see is the tumor, free-floating. It looks a little Hiroshima to me.



And, in the spirit of saving the best (or, at least, my favorite) for last. Check out the kitty cat tumor. The split spinal cord at the bottom of the shot looks like a cat, and the tumor looks like balls and balls of gray yarn stacked up in a bowl. Hilarious, no?!



Who knew that CT shots of tumors would be such a fun run down Rorschach Lane? I tell you what, if I am ever in my life given another Rorschach test, I will be thinking that every single ink shot looks like a tumor. Every single one. Hilarious!

It's been a nutty, nutty year. I've had three surgeries in twelve months, lost somewhere between 80 and 90 pounds (I don't believe in owning a scale, for reasons I will not go into here and now), mostly due to having spent months of my life last summer subsisting on crackers and air. (Not a diet I'd recommend.) I've gotten pretty good at altering dresses, skirts and tops to fit the new me. My mom has gotten even better at custom-fitting dresses that I'd shrunk right out of. (What do you think she does when she comes to "take care of me" after all these surgeries? I run quite the little dress-altering-sweat-shop here, folks.) I've modified my diet and my lifestyle. Not grossly (and any of you people who are cracked enough to think a triathlon is on the horizon for me are simply that - cracked - it took me getting cancer (twice) to start walking on a daily basis, I don't even want to consider what might happen in my life to make me start running, swimming and/or biking for miles on end).

I've said it before, and I'm sure that I'll say it again. And again. And again.

This year has been hard. In some ways, unspeakably hard. There are moments, days and nights that I won't ever talk about, because simply remembering those dark hours reduces me to a puddle of tears. But there are other parts, even other hard parts, that have made it all worthwhile. This year isn't something I'd have chosen out of a basket full of fun things to do (we all know I'd rather have a summer fling than a summer cancer treatment program), but I would never - never, not ever - consider giving it back. I have learned things that I don't think I could have learned any other way.

Relationships have been redefined. Friendships and family are the most precious things in my life. Time has new meaning. Risk isn't really risk anymore, it's more like just taking a chance or trying something that I've always wanted to do.

I have been redefined. (Not just my waist and my hips and my sad, old lady bosom and my bum full o' stitches.) I am different. Different in a way that I like to think is better, and stronger. (It's probably all those push-ups I have to do just to get down into and then up out of bed.)

May this year never feel the need to repeat itself so long as we all shall live.

Amen.