Broccoli · Landers

Which inevitably leads me to wonder, where would I be without cancer?

Pretty certainly, I would not work for Planet Cancer, nor would I be accepting a position with the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I'm even more certain that I wouldn't be doing triathlons. So do I owe a debt of gratitude to cancer for these things? That hardly makes any sense. And why me? Why am I OK, whereas so many others did not make it?

I think, in the end, the why is irrelevant. Things are, and that's that. I don't get to know why. And I can live with that. But it's weird to think that so much good has come of something so terrible.

I ended my entry last year with:

Yesterday was this:

And that's my cancer -- it's growing into something different (not growing growing -- I just had a checkup a week ago and everything is great!); it's hard to describe. But like I was saying, it's like I try to forget it all happened and live like a normal human. And I will; I do. But then it keeps popping up in strange ways, and I can't be dissevered of it. Friends I've made through it; experiences I've learned from it. These are part and parcel with the cancer. And while I'm doing well -- and maybe here is the crux of what I'm trying to get it -- many aren't. I want everyone to be doing well, like me; I want everyone to be done with treatment, and be given a good prognosis, and go out there and do your thing, and move on. But it doesn't happen like that. In fact, I'm the minority.

People will continue to be diagnosed with all kinds of cancer. For every one of me, there are unfortunately quite a few others without the same happy ending. And I don't get to forget about them. Just this evening (just this one evening), I've read a blog post from a friend with breast cancer, herself angry and bitter (and who wouldn't be?) at the upcoming surgery on her left breast; after a mastectomy; after chemo; after radiation. Another friend just got the results of her PET scan, and while things are stable, the scan showed that they are, in fact, still active. Another friend just wrote me, telling me about his life right now, which involves recovering from surgery and cyberknife radiation; recovering from another round of chemo, while waiting for the next; working; and applying to grad school. And then he told me about a friend of his who -- just today, he found out -- died of cancer. This is today, people. One evening.

And meanwhile, I'm emailing a myriad of patients/survivors/caregivers to obtain their permission to reprint varied forum posts, pictures, drawings, etc., for an upcoming book about young adults navigating a cancer experience. And the sad surprises that I encounter hunting down these people include running into MySpace pages and blogs, now defunct due to the passing of the author.

I'm harping on the negative here, which is not all of what I encounter, but the point to be made is that you don't leave cancer behind. It's yours for the long haul. And that's not a bad thing; it's just a thing. It's my thing. This is my baggage, and it's mine to carry. So find a way to make it work for you, I suppose is what I'm getting at.

I signed up, and have begun training, for this.

It was a year ago on this day, this holiday, that the ball began rolling on cancer.

"11/23 - Visit to Urgent Care. Dr. Babcock does a chest x-ray and makes a pneumonia diagnosis."

You know where it goes from there. What a strange day last Thanksgiving was; actually, it wasn't strange. I thought I had pneumonia -- that's serious stuff! I remember feeling quite relieved at the diagnosis; I had been having the aforementioned night sweats, fevers, fatigue, achiness -- and here was the answer. Pneumonia! He copied the x-ray he took (that showed a massive spot on my right lung), and I remember showing my mom and telling Elizabeth on the phone about this huge spot on my lung and how I had pneumonia.

Thanksgiving went off as usual after that. I had gone with my dad to the Urgent Care facility at maybe 11, and we returned after several hours -- antibiotics in hand -- to do what you do on Thanksgiving: gorge. Around 3:30 or so, we sat down to eat, and we were all thankful. We were thankful to be together in Austin; thankful for the beautiful weather and great food; thankful I had diagnosed my pneumonia, and would be well on the way to recovery in no time. For in 4 days, I was to return to New York; I had just signed a 2-year lease on a great apartment in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn, across the street from my pal Hanna, and I was to move in later that next week. I had had 2 phone interviews with a publishing firm in Manhattan -- I was to follow up on those. Everything was falling into place in NY, after the turmoil and discombobulation of the breakup. Everything was falling into place...

But it wasn't. Or, at least not how I thought it was going to fall into place.

Maybe it's perfectly apposite that all this started on Thanksgiving, the one day a year where you give thanks for all you have. Well, I can certainly say -- a year on -- that I'm thankful to be here. But I think it goes deeper than that...

I haven't been writing lately. As I mentioned before, I think a big part of that is just walking away from everything as best I can, and taking a deep breath. Cancer was (ha! Like it's over!) such an all-encompassing experience that it's good to just step away and look. Observe. Notice. And I have precious little thus far. I know that it's going to necessarily take a while to realize the impact this experience has had -- like, a lifetime. But what I have come to realize is that it wasn't all bad, and not even close. That sounds weird, but I actually have some really fantastic memories and experiences that came of the experience. Don't get me wrong -- I don't know that I'd willingly choose to do it all over again, but it was such a...strange and exciting time.

I grew so much as a person during this experience. I fostered relationships, some that had been out of touch, some already strong; made new relationships and friends; learned a great deal about life. I'm not even sure how to express it, but there were feelings and emotions during this experience that I may never truly know again. You know how songs can bring back a feeling? Well, there are a few that instantly take me back to this time. Alala and Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above by Cansei de Ser Sexy, and Mushaboom and 1234 by Feist. I listen to these songs a lot still, so they're losing their recall abilities, but they still take me back to these moments, these nearly tangible moments...finishing chemo, coming home and taking an hour-long bath/shower; I'd emerge, refreshed, and put on CSS. Waking up at 5 in the morning, unable to sleep any longer, and go to my computer and read my friends' blogs or update my own, and listen to Feist. We'll Meet Again and In My Life by Johnny Cash, takes me to a very sad, sad place -- even now. Not a bad place, just sad.

All these songs and recollections help sum up my experience, in a weird way. I'm a very music-oriented person, and this recall is particularly strong in terms of music. Smell is a strong one as well, so if you can think of a smell that takes you back so specifically to a moment, think of that sense. But these songs bring me back to this time in a strong way; back to this experience, this Experience, which is so isolated and disparate in my life.

And this disparateness all begins a year ago, today. On November 5th of last year, writing about my night sweats, how could I have known? On Thanksgiving day, how could I have known? They say life is what happens when you're planning for the future. Well, I got a heapin' serving of Life, served up on Thanksgiving Day.

And what does all this mean? What am I getting at? That I'm OK. I can say that, a year later. I'm here. I'm happy. I'm healthy. And it's Thanksgiving. So thanks. Thank you all. Thank you so much. I'm typing through tears right now; tears of gratitude and relief to be here, a year later. It's cathartic and beautiful. I'm so happy and thankful to be here for another Thanksgiving.

OK, it was a "cancer retreat" hosted by Planet Cancer, a non-profit organization setup to assist young adults (i.e., ages 18-40) in dealing with cancer. And it was amazing.

I had high expectations going into it, but all were exceeded. I think what I was looking for was just a relaxing weekend with a bunch of folks who understood exactly what I've been through. And it was that -- and lots more.

It was held at a place called The Crossings, which was a gorgeous facility, built by Dellionaires, as I understand -- so it was pretty sweet. So right off the bat, we're good, because the place is just ridiculously nice; the food, the accommodation, the facilities -- everything.

Without getting too caught up in what we did each day, I want to talk about what I'll be taking from this weekend. Like I said, I was looking for shared experiences; and there were many of them. For starters, of the 25 participants, 6 (counting me) had had Hodgkin's, so immediately, I had a connection with these people. Which is not to say that I didn't connect with the other folks, but let's just call it a sub-bond with these people.

Over the course of the weekend, through many great conversations, I learned a lot about "survivorship" -- this is the 2nd loaded word for today! Most of the 25 people (22, I believe) were "survivors," in that they're not in treatment, and, well, they're not dead. I'm included in that figure. So when people say "survivor," it's not that it's not true -- I mean, I'm here, right? -- it's just that it's such a subjective thing. I "survived" my cancer, but it's never finished. I think this is one of the 3 big things I learned from the weekend...

It's never finished. Yes, I've finished treatment for Hodgkin's lymphoma. The doctors hope I never have cancer again. And certainly, it's not impossible that I'll never have another cancer experience. There's absolutely no way to know. I could recur in the next 2 years, in which case I'll need a stem cell transplant; I could develop a secondary malignancy, like leukemia, any time from now on (as one girl in the group had). In which case I'd probably get a stem cell transplant. I could develop cardiac problems from the adriamycin; I could develop pulmonary problems from the bleomycin; I could get God-knows-what from the radiation; the point is that, yes, I "survived" Hodgkin's, but it's just never done.

I want to point out here that I'm not angry about this; I'd obviously rather be alive now with all these risks, than dead at this exact second. Which is -- say, 40 years ago -- what I would be. Dead.

The point here is that there was lots of good talk about "survivorship," and our journey through it. I'm finding -- both through my own experience, but mostly from the others I met -- that people really want you to be "done," in large part because they want you to be fine and live, of course, but also because it's a reflection of their own fear; you want me to be OK because you want to continue to see me, but you want to know that your own mortality is OK for now. If I can survive this, then you'll be OK, in a twisted sort of way. But that's just it -- people don't seem to understand that this is never finished. Even with an excellent prognosis like Hodgkin's or testicular cancer, you're never finished. Even if the doctors say the cancer is gone, you're not done with the process. That's why "survivor" is so loaded -- sure, I'm a survivor now. But I'm as much a survivor as any of you out there are -- it just means you're not dead of cancer right now. Yes, I'm in "remission," but I'm only in remission until they know if the cancer is back; cancer could be festering inside my body right now, but until I'm told otherwise, I'm "in remission." And even after 5 years -- when I'm "cured" -- I'm not finished. It just still means I'm not dead from Hodgkin's. But what if I get leukemia? How cured am I? Am I still a "survivor"?

I'm probably coming off as ungrateful or pessimistic, but all I'm trying to elucidate is that "survivor" is a very loaded and subjective word, and people who have not had a cancer experience just need to understand that it's never finished; it's going to be a challenge the rest of my life, and will almost certainly affect my lifespan at some point. Again, not trying to be pessimistic, but my life is irrevocably changed, and probably for the shorter. So before you say that I "beat cancer," just remember that I'm always going to be trying to be cancer from now until the day I die. I am a "survivor" right now, but it's subject to change without my approval.

I think the greater lesson here is about learning to let go and to "live in the moment." These are things I learned about this weekend. And not because everyone there had learned it, either. One of the participants there really impressed upon me a great deal about this philosophy.

Learning to let go. We've all heard something similar to this, and we all probably try to do it. But he really impressed me with his ability to do this. He had no spite, no anger, no resentment, no anything negative about his cancer. In a nutshell, he was told that if he did not undergo a stem cell transplant, he would die. He was 23 when told this. He got second opinions, he did his research, and he refused. His doctor got very angry with him, even threatened to not treat him, if he would not undergo the transplant. But he had made up his mind that he would not -- he believed he did not need it. He understood that he could die, and he was OK with that. And here's where it gets interesting -- we could all say, with 20/20 hindsight, that we made the right decision about something a life choice -- because we're here; he's alive, so you could say that he's just saying that because he didn't die. But I could see in his face, in his eyes, that he really, truly had accepted the possibility of death, and was OK with it. And yet he knew he wasn't going to die.

I'll pick up further along with his story, but here's where we start on "living in the moment." I think this means accepting your fate without question, and living otherwise. Something I can't do -- haven't even come close to doing -- is accepting the possibility of death. This is a possibility for me. I'm seemingly OK right now, but if I relapse, I could die. Even if I don't relapse, I could get leukemia and die. These are not at all impossibilities. And something I've done all throughout this blogging experience is shield myself -- and, ultimately, you, the reader -- from this word. This concept. This finality. But it's time I talked about it.

What I want to learn from his experience is to accept death. This is not saying I'm hoping to die, obviously. But I think I'll live my life much more comfortably and happily if I can accept death. I mean, we're all going to die. It could be tomorrow, it could be in 85 years. Somewhere in there, each and every single one of us will perish. Death is inherent to life. None of this is news to any of us. But my death might come sooner than yours. And I want to learn to be OK with this.

I know this is probably very morbid to some of you; it might be making you uncomfortable. But I need to deal with this, because I've been putting it off. I'm greedy. I made it this far, and I don't want to stop now.

Again, don't get me wrong -- I'm going to fight for my life. I don't want to die. But if I'm going to live in fear of death, than I don't think I'll be living my life. It's as simple as that. And I really think he's living his life as fully as one can, in part because of his acceptance of his fate; his mortality.

And this feeds into "letting go." His personal philosophy seems to be about "living in the moment." We've all heard that, and it triggers different ideas in everybody. But what I think he means is that you just try to enjoy what you've got, right now, right here. Whatever it is. It doesn't mean cramming in a bunch of stuff in your day, or making sure you see everybody you ever knew again. It could be a car ride to work. But enjoy the moment for what it is. You're alive now, and that's all that matters. What will happen in the future is entirely out of your control (more on that in a bit...). So just be happy right this second. Sounds easy, but is perhaps one of the hardest things to do.

I think cancer "survivors" need to really embrace this idea. And part of that -- as he showed me -- is letting go of the past. If our time here is limited -- which it most certainly is -- what's the point of carrying around negativity about the past? Anger at past relationships; spite for former bosses; jealousy about former girlfriends; resentment about past choices. If anyone can tell me something good that has come of carrying around a negative emotion, I'd be happy to know about it. But what's the point? If it doesn't do good in your life, let it go.

And this has to do with cancer, for me. It has to do with everything else to, but I've got to start with cancer. I don't want to be angry that I got cancer. I don't want to feel cheated, or like my life is unfair. I got cancer, and that's it. I had it; I might still have it; I may have it again. It doesn't matter. There's nothing I can do about it, so move on. I don't want to harbor anger or resentment because it will do nothing to improve my life. Moving from there is being selfish; I had cancer, so I'm entitled to so-and-so; I was sick, so people should treat me better; I could've died, so my life is more valuable than another persons. None of these are true, and I don't want to think that way. I want to be happy for today. And that's it. I want to leave the past behind, and not worry about the future. I want to be happy right now, because it's right now and I have it. I may not have "it" tomorrow. And that's OK. I have right now, and that can be enough.

And the thing about all of this is that it shouldn't be specific to cancer "survivors"; anybody can live this way, and -- I think -- be happier as a result.

I can't say I've made a concrete change in my life this way yet, but I'm really going to work at it. I really want to learn to just embrace right now, and not let the past or future get in the way of that.

And now, the future. When I say there's nothing I can do about what's going to happen in the future, that's also a very loaded, subjective statement. It's true that I might get cancer again in the future, and -- in many ways -- there is nothing I can do about that. But what I can do, I should do. And that has to do with health.

3 people out there this weekend -- including the guy I've been talking about -- made extreme health changes in their lives, and while it's impossible to say whether or not that will make an ultimate difference in the near or far future, it seems to have helped greatly up to this point, and may very well continue to help them in the future.

One girl had an essentially not very treatable cancer, and after the doctors told her that there really wasn't much else they could do for her, she (and her husband) took it upon themselves to look past the doctors and western medicine, and see what alternatives there were. In a nutshell, when she goes to the doctors now, they say everything looks great; they're not going to say she's cured, nor does she know that it will never come back. But the health choices she's made seem to have greatly impacted her current situation, and she feels much better as a result.

Same with the guy I've been discussing; when he was told that he'd need a stem cell transplant or he'd die, he did not believe that. He believed that -- after the chemo drugs had shrunk his tumor to a much smaller size -- that engaging his own immune system to its fullest would provide the remainder of the work to be done.

So I think the idea is the same for all 3 of them -- it's not that they tried to fight cancer without doctors or medicine; instead, it was a combination of traditional and non-traditional methods. They all believe that, but making their bodies as healthy as possible, that their own immune systems could provide the further resistence they needed. And it's hard to say they made bad choices, because they all seem to be doing very well, and their doctors agree.

So I'm not talking here about just eating more veggies and that being enough; these guys have made some pretty drastic changes in their mental and physical approach to health, and I'm very impressed. Where exactly that's going to take me, I'm not sure; but what I learned is that I think there's a lot more that can be done -- in many, many cases -- for future success than just what the doctors say. And I'm going to leave it relatively open-ended there...

So I imagine you can hear in my writing the impact this weekend had; I made some really, really strong connections with some people that I honestly believe are going to continue to affect me long from now; I learned the start of some valuable lessons that I think are going to continue to shape me and my life philosophies from now on. I feel emotionally recharged, and I like that. I went to the retreat hoping for something, and got it tenfold. And I think I'd be ungrateful if I didn't use that experience to enhance my life from this point on.

While at the retreat, we watched a documentary that will be debuting on TLC later this month about a girl who video journaled her cancer experience from diagnosis through present day. She was diagnosed with an incredibly rare cancer, one with no known cure, and with -- ultimately -- a death sentence. It's an incredibly slow-moving cancer, and her doctors compared it to a game of chess; they would wait for the cancer to make the first move.

The documentary is about her life from that point on, and everything she did to find treatments, and how to live life knowing that you have cancer in you. She says something in the beginning which I think can be applied to any cancer experience -- In looking for a cure, I found my life. And that's what I'm doing -- I'm finding my life.

I had spoken with my friend about her earlier this year - in some detail - and had wanted to meet her ever since.

And then, there she was. The first Hodgkin's survivor I would meet after I had been diagnosed. Needless to say, I was very excited.

And to make a long story short, she was not excited. She did not want to talk about it, apparently. But she did not tell me this. Instead, she was self-righteous, rude, curt, drunk, and condescending. This is her right.

What I took from this is that not everyone will be interested in talking about his or her story. I assumed she'd want to talk to me, to connect, to relate; boy was I wrong.

So in the future, I'm going to remember that, and not press you to relate to me. Just because we had the same life-threatening illness that most commonly strikes people our age. And because we went through a 6-month poisoning regimen, followed by gene-mutating radiation for weeks on end. I will not assume you feel the same way, even after our lives have been unalterably changed. No, I will leave you to your own "speed bump," as you put it, and not bother you with mine. I will get on with my life, as you so obviously have. How insensitive to assume that you'd have any advice for me, any thoughts about life, how you've grown and changed as a human being; how you've taken on a different thought process altogether because of the thing you faced, the cancer you had, the disease that could have killed you, and in fact kills 1 out of every 3 Americans, but did not claim us. The cancer we both beat because we are very lucky and doctors have made incredible advances in the treatment of it. The chemotherapy and radiation that has damaged your body to the point that it will never, in certain ways, repair. The same drugs and radiation that may cause secondary malignancies later in life. No, I won't assume that we have anything in common. I'll just sit in the corner and make chitchat about something less serious. Sorry.

Not to imply that my year was any more important than yours, but what a f*&king year it's been.

Within this last year, I moved from Austin to Lubbock, Lubbock to New York, New York back to Lubbock, and now an impending move back to Austin.

I was engaged to be married. Then dumped.

I lived in the Village, and then on a couch in Brooklyn. I signed a two-year lease on an apartment in Brooklyn.

I flew home and was x-rayed on Thanksgiving. I never went back to New York.

I underwent a surgery, CT and PET scans; chemo- and radiation therapy; medical and radiation oncologists; pediatric cardiothorassic surgeon, pulmonologist, and a doc-in-the-box.

Hair, no hair, hair again; Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, (what would have been) a wedding date, and a birthday while sick.

Night sweats, pneumonitis, urinary tract infections; bone marrow biopsy and aspiration; sperm banking; 4 minutes total (on both sides) of x-rays penetrating my body; photon burn; port-a-cath insertion.

Countless pints of blood drawn; toxic chemicals pumped into my body.

I'm still standing. And hopefully it will be a less exciting year this time.

As you've perhaps gathered by my last post, I've finished treatment for cancer. I've finished treatment for cancer. This is quite an accomplishment.

I've been hesitant to write because I don't even know what to say anymore. I haven't known what to say for a while. For most of treatment, I was able to summarize what was going on, and throw in bits and pieces of how that made me feel. As less and less was happening (leading up to now, i.e., nothing), I had less and less to say.

I think my documentary of what was happening was my interface with not feeling what was happening. I mean, obviously I felt all that shit they pumped into me, but it was a way of putting off emotion, saying that I'd deal with it later.

Did it work? Sure. Was that a good way to deal with things? Sure. Why not. I mean, in some ways, I wish I had more documentation of my raw emotions and what I was really going through. At the same time, it got me through it; it was a way to vent enough to get it over with.

And now I'm at a very awkward stage where I don't feel a thing. And that's because it's going to take a long time, I think, to really realize what I've just been through. I don't know if it'll be weeks, months, or (most likely) years, but I have no real perspective on what's happened to me. And I'm sorta OK with that right now.

Right now I'm really excited about just not having cancer for a little while. I was in Austin this last week, and people would ask how I was doing; I'd say, I'm having a great time, not being in Lubbock, and not having cancer. Did I really need more than that? Not a bit. That was WORLDS after these 7 months.

So what now? people ask. And that's a damn fine question.

I suppose now begins a very precarious time in a cancer survivor's life; remission before "cure." "Cure" comes at 5 years. Until then (and specifically the first 2 years) I think I'm going to be looking over my shoulder a little bit; every ache, pain, bump, bruise, malaise, etc. is going to be a "uh oh...what if..." I think it's inevitable. Whether I change my life for that is my choice, of course. And I'm really going to try my damn best to not live in fear of its return. Because, in reality, what the hell can I really do to avoid it? Nothing. There's absolutely nothing that I can do; either it's going to come back, or it's not. It's that black and white. And if it comes back, it will happen in these next two years. And that's about all there is to it.

For those of you who know me well, you'll agree when I say that I'm a "plan-oriented" individual. As a karmic joke, I was adopted into a family that was introduced to the word "plan" when I learned it. Procrastination is a philosophy of life for them, not a "fault." And this is difficult for me right now...it's hard to plan ahead at the moment. But I'm going to. I'm going to get on with my life as best I can. I want to establish some kind of normalcy in my life again. I'm looking for work. I'm thinking about moving (I've realized I cannot stay in Lubbock much longer...). I just want to get back to life.

OK, fine - I went to Wolfforth twice.

6/7/07

6/19/07

She's'a growin' fast. Now that I see that, I don't remember a receding hair line...And OK fine, I don't have much. But I shampoo it anyway. So there.

Sorry for the post drought...I guess now that I've been feeling better, I've been out n' about much more, i.e., the pool, doing yoga, getting out of town, etc. Planning to go to a 'Stros game in Dallas this weekend with the old man. Feeling much, much better overall; more and more like my old self everyday, for the most part. And it's an excellent feeling.

This radiation really is a cakewalk compared to the chemo. I'm starting to get a little "sunburned" from the radiation, and my esophagus gets irritated, but it's still nothing compared to what chemo was like.

Lots of thoughts on lots of things, that I promise I'll put in a post soon...just wanted to at least pop in with a hair update and let everyone know I keep keepin' on...

Sorry for the nearly 2 weeks off...as the last post would suggest, I've had some down times lately, but I want everyone to know that I'm not on the brink of suicide or anything. It's just a funk that I've been dealing with, a funk that I understand to be very much the norm for someone who's just finished treatment, be it chemo or radiation. Actually, my new oncologist said that the worst is when you're ALL done, which for me is still a few weeks away. So I've got that to look forward to.

No, I think I'm already dealing with the depression, anxiety, etc. that accompanies the end of cancer treatment. It seems very counterintuitive that someone would go through a spell of depression after treatment, but that seems to be fairly usual, or so my doc would have me believe. And I don't want to suggest to anyone that I'm really stuck in the midst of a deep, dark depression - I'm sure depression is a very real and terrible affliction, and I think I've just got a touch of it, and I feel certain that it will be temporary in nature.

I think a lot of it comes from the fact that I'm very low on energy these days. Again, the doc says that it takes about a year to get back to 100%, although hopefully I'll be at about 80% in 3-4 months. According to him. So I'm sure it's a give and take between physical shape wearing on mental, and vice versa.

And yes, the radiation has begun. So far, it's very easy, and hasn't affected me at all, so much as I can tell. I got my very first tattoos as a result - seriously. Because I have to be lined up in a very precise way each morning, they went ahead and gave me three little dots on my chest/lower neck, and one on either side of me. Honest-to-God permanent ink-and-needle tattoos. I like the idea that there's an intersection between medicine and tattoos. Who knew?

So every weekday morning at 9, I go in for a quick radiation treatment. I started last Tuesday (5/29), and I'll go until Monday (6/25). In theory, that's it. After that Monday, I'll be done. Done. Like, really done. And I'm sure hoping it stays that way.

As I said, the radiation is very easy. I haven't felt a thing yet. It's actually only about 10 seconds of radiation on each side of me (top and bottom), and then I'm out. They're x-rays, and you don't feel them. I'm not radioactive afterward (sorry - I know y'all were hoping for that), and they don't anticipate many - if any - side effects from the radiation. It's easier perhaps even than I thought it would be.

So other than that, I'm just trying to get my life back together. Not that it was a shambles, but it's like being told that I can go back to what I was doing before, but everything is (obviously) different now. So I'm trying to get back in shape (well, slowly); I started a yoga class; I hit some golf balls; I go for walks. No marathons yet, but I'll get there. I'm thinking about what I want to do later - this year, next year. School. Moving from Lubbock. Y'know. I'm hanging out with friends, trying to go out and do stuff. I went out for drinks and music Saturday night - it was marvelous. It felt like it had been so long since I'd been out; I don't know how long it'd been, but it had for sure been some time since I'd been out and actually feeling well, which is something I'm really starting to feel.

Oh! And my hair is coming back! I actually have real face scruff, and my head hair is standing on the verge of getting it on, so to speak. I'm starting to look like my old self again. Well, not nearly so hairy, but y'know - it's getting there. Perhaps more importantly, I'm starting to feel like my old self again, which is nice. It's not like I was a different person during treatment, but everything is just different. For obvious reasons. But I feel like life is slowly descending on me again - in a good way - and I'm looking forward to delving back in.

I'm not even sure where to start, as there has been some break in my posts. The last time I posted was over 2 weeks ago, and much has happened in that span.

The most important of which is, of course, that I am finished with chemo. To be honest, the initial exhilaration of that news has worn off a bit, and it's not that I'm not happy about it, but I think I'm already focused on the next task at hand, which is radiation therapy; I will be starting that Tuesday (5/29).

So, that kinda answers that whole "will you be getting radiation?" question I suppose. 4 weeks, 5 days a week, for a total of 20 days of radiation.

A large part of why my last round of chemo was called off was because I was laid up with a fairly nasty cold, probably of the viral sort. It was just The Crud, really - fever, fatigue, body aches, headaches, etc. Along with that I also had a bad cough that was very uncomfortable. It was this sickness, along with the fact that, with each passing round, new and worse things were happening to me, that caused my doctor to halt treatment after the 7th round, and I didn't argue. And as he pointed out, the 8th was hardly the "make or break" treatment; I mean, either we got this thing or we didn't; 8 would've just been overkill. And I'm still getting radiation, so it's not like we're even done beating this thing into submission.

Like I say, the initial happiness of the stop of chemo has kind of worn off; again, it's not that I'm not happy, but I think I'm entering a very strange time in treatment, which is to say, the end. This will probably sound weird to most of you. But the thing is, during treatment, you have a definite goal, and you know you're doing something every day to reach this goal, and you don't really have time to think about anything else. But I'm quickly finding that being finished is a whole new ballgame, and one that doesn't come with the same guide and support.

Survivorship. That's what I'm embarking on. And there's no support group for that. If life has been on pause for the last 6 months, then the doctor is pressing play again. But it's not so simple as just going back to what you were doing before, I'm finding. Again, it's a strange sensation, and I'm not saying I'm unhappy with my lot; of course I'm thrilled that treatment has gone so well, and I'm hoping to receive a great prognosis by the end of my treatment, which is to say, so far as I know, they will expect everything to have gone as well as could be hoped, and see you in 3 months for a check up. But how do you return to life after something like this?

I'd like to say that every day has meaning to me now, that I recognize the fleeting and fickle nature of life, and now I'm going to appreciate every moment I have to the fullest, and not flutter away a single moment. But it's not really like that.

So I'm just embarking on this part of treatment, or really, I'm just getting close, as I still have a month to go with this. But I'm quickly finding that it's different than perhaps I thought it would be. Maybe it's like this for everyone.

Again, I don't want to come across as somehow ungrateful; I know how lucky I am; I know now the nature of this fucking disease, and it's not pretty. I really am one of the lucky ones. So I'm not intimating that life is unfair, and how am I supposed to cope, or something like that. No. All I know is that I had to make myself write this entry, because I haven't been interested in updating. I haven't had much of an interest in anything lately, and that's a strange and foreign sensation for me. I've been down for the last week or so, and it's discomforting, to say the least. The only guess I've got for this is that a lot of things are catching up to me, and it's affecting me both physically and emotionally...

Throughout treatment, I think I put on a mask to help me get through; this was both physical and emotional. I tried to keep normal hours, do normal things, continue to work - physically - and kept up my spirits and didn't appear worried - the emotional aspect. I think that stuff was important for me; while it may not have been how I was truly feeling at the time, I think it was more or less imperative to the process. I'm not saying the treatment wouldn't have worked without my spirits up, but it certainly made it easier for me to get through it and - I know this is true - for others to get through it with me. I know that that's a 2-way street - people around the patient have to be upbeat, optimistic, and unafraid; the patient has to reciprocate, I think - not at all times, but I think anyone who has been through this knows that you put on an airs sometimes, to help others get through it; you don't want them to know how you're really feeling; you don't want them to see what it's really like; you want them to think you're handling everything just fine.

And all this has caught up, I figure. Now that I don't have to put on that front any more, to just drive forward without looking around or thinking about it, I think it's all catching up. And I'm tired. Tired physically, emotionally, morally, psychologically - you name it. I mean, it's the chemo, it's my cold - those are contributing physically, but everything else I think is finally venting, seeping through from where I had it bottled up, and it's made me very tired. It will pass, I assume. But right now, everything that I couldn't touch, face, feel, and live during treatment has been allowed out, and I think this is going to be important in the healing process, in the pressing play and getting back to "life." Getting back to life.

I'm just tired.
I'm tired of feeling like shit.
I'm tired of feeling tired.
I'm tired of trudging through the shit.
I'm tired of cancer.
I'm tired of the word cancer.
I'm tired of treatment.
I'm tired of doctors.
I'm tired of needles.
I'm tired of blood.
I'm tired of CBCs.
I'm tired of shots of Neupogen and Procrit.
I'm tired of saline.
I'm tired of waiting rooms.
I'm tired of pills.
I'm tired of trying.
I'm tired of insurance letters.
I'm tired of CT scans.
I'm tired of barrium shakes.
I'm tired of chemo drugs.
I'm tired of taking my blood pressure.
I'm tired of scrubs.
I'm tired of drives to the cancer center.
I'm tired of anemia.
I'm tired of smiling through it.
I'm tired of not crying.
I'm tired of staying home.
I'm tired of low white blood cell counts.
I'm tired of myelosuppression.
I'm tired of secondary malignancies.
I'm tired of prognoses.
I'm tired of abnormal cells.
I'm tired of nuclear medicine.
I'm tired of oncology.
I'm tired of blood diseases.
I'm tired of bulky mass in the chest.
I'm tired of lymph.
I'm tired of mediastinum.
I'm tired of pulmonary function tests.
I'm tired of scheduling.
I'm tired of Day 1s.
I'm tired of Stage IV.
I'm tired of Hodgkin's disease.
I'm tired of lymphoma.
I'm tired of tumors.
I'm tired of metastases.
I'm tired of statistics.
I'm tired of wristbands.
I'm tired of the ER.
I'm tired of the smell of disinfectants.
I'm tired of bloody noses.
I'm tired of on call oncologists.
I'm tired of nurses.
I'm tired of bruises.
I'm tired of being hairless.
I'm tired of steroids.
I'm tired of pneumonitis.
I'm tired of antibiotics.
I'm tired of picking up prescriptions.
I'm tired of death.
I'm tired of hurting.
I'm tired of being scared.
I'm just so tired.