Many days, I forget I have cancer. 

Then I see my bald head in the mirror each morning and think, "What the hell happened??"

I swear, it shocks me each and every time. 

Not that I'm in denial, or refuse to accept my diagnosis. It's just too surreal that I have cancer. It doesn't make sense, and it doesn't seem real, because I don't feel or act "sick". 

And because it doesn't resonate with me, I was afraid that cancer would consume my life.

On many levels, it has. It has become my new normal for how I live and work and plan my life.

But much of my life has also stayed the same: I am still able to work (thank God!), even if it's an abbreviated schedule; I still meet friends for coffee and dinners out; I still practice yoga; and I still pay my bills, make plans for my future, and make time for my adult-kids and grand babies. 

Then every 21 days, I spend a full day hooked up to my "poidicine" (poison/medicine) at the Cancer center and try, as best I can, to weather through the next 10 days of recuperation.

And just like that, after a somewhat grueling and exhausting post-chemo recovery period, I return to work for a full, forty-hour week as if nothing has happened.

My body and mind return to their normal, healthy, joyful states where there are no lasting effects from the previous week. It amazes me that my stamina, my energy, and my mental clarity are fully intact as if my whole system has been rebooted (perhaps it has!).

And although I can remember feeling badly after each chemo, and can even remember writing about about how awful it was, I am like the woman who has gone through labor who "forgets" how bad it was when she declares with confidence and excitement, "I want another baby!"

By the time the next chemo session rolls around, I am usually ready for it, "forgetting" what the previous treatment was like and how I weathered through it (or didn't). 

Thankfully, I am not consumed by my diagnosis, nor do I worry about it being a death sentence.

Because in my mind, it isn't.

I forget I wear a wig until it shifts on my head (or tries to fly away in the wind!), and it doesn't even occur to me that I have very few eyelashes until I try to put mascara on the ten I have left each morning (who am I kidding?).

And although my life has remained much the same, it's still not easy squeezing four weeks of life into two each month. 

During my eleven days feeling "normal", I am able to enjoy a weekend catching up with family and friends, then return to work another three days before beginning the process of chemo and recuperation all over again: 10 days of cancer destruction and repair; 11 days of feeling normal; then the next chemo. 

It is obvious why I am not able to reach out to others very easily or often: I am busy resting, working, or catching up on the life I'd missed while strung out on the couch for ten days.

And mostly, that includes catching up on housework, going to Costco and Target, buying groceries, doing laundry, getting my oil changed, curbing the weeds in my yard, etc--you know, the daily life stuff that I'd usually have 30 days each month to complete. Couple that with acupuncture appointments, walking, massages, and new holistic practices--all meant to ensure a speedy recovery.

Or to save my own life. 

Many people in my situation have a spouse or partner; I do not. Early on, my niece asked why I don't take time off from work during months of cancer treatment and my answer was, "Because I have a life to pay for." I'm not bothered or resentful of that fact; it's just another way in which I live with cancer as a single person. 

And because I am single, my life depends on only me, so when I am well for those 11 days, I am busily (and happily!) getting myself and my life all caught up for the next round of chemo. 

It is obvious why I appreciate being able to lean on others for meals, errands, donations, company, or friendship. And I am grateful when my friends and family show up for me in so many big and consistent ways. 

In case you aren't aware of this simple truth: I need you.

But please understand that without warning, and without my consent, my life was abbreviated.

And in the aftermath of that, I am trying my best to live gracefully with a hefty diagnosis while I continue to work as a nurse, hang with my kids and grand babies, write blogs and newsletters, and keep my big life in order. 

I'm damn proud of myself for doing so well this far, and for enduring so much alone. 

But despite this, I still need you.

I need you to keep reaching out without any expectation that I will reciprocate. Because most days, I simply can't. 
I need you to understand that I am only one person, balancing cancer on one shoulder and my life on the other. 
I need you to simply be there because I can feel your healing energy and your boundless love and support. 

​So even though not much has changed in my life, everything has. 

Well, folks, it's official! My CT scan from two weeks ago shows "marked improvement" in all areas where lymphadenopathy was found! ALL tumors were reduced by 75-90% after just THREE treatments.

So, after my 4th treatment last week, I will undergo another two chemo sessions, then redo a PET scan. If all looks clear, I will move onto radiation; otherwise, I will get 2 more treatments (total of 8), then radiation.

One of the drugs was discontinued with this latest treatment because it causes neuropathy, and the tips of 8 of my fingers are having issues with work-related tasks (and this typing!). Doc is not worried about eliminating it since my cancer has already responded so well.

I'm now on day #10 post-chemo #4 and it has been more challenging than the previous two, probably because the side effects have lasted a few days longer than expected, and that makes me nervous. 

The first few days were much the same: feeling mostly fine on day #1, with a steady decline in stamina over the next few days, but this time with more nausea than usual. That never affected my appetite, however, since I've been eating pretty much around the clock with nary a weight gain. 

I know it's most women's dream to lose weight without trying, but I never thought it would be so difficult to have to eat so often. I was not eating to keep my weight up; I was eating because I was starving constantly. Ten days later, I still am, and I've yet to gain any weight.  

As usual, I also slept well; in fact, very well. Two nights this week I slept 13 hours straight. It's obvious my body has been in healing-mode. 

I'd established after earlier treatments that after taking a massive amount of steroids for five days, my body normally collapsed on day #6, but that didn't happen this time. I was encouraged that maybe I was getting the hang of this chemo-thing and my body was compensating better than the previous three. 

Nope.

It was merely delayed, because for the next several days, I was not a happy camper. I am assuming that the drugs had little to attack since the tumors had been so significantly destroyed; instead, they were going full combat on my gut. I never got sick, but nausea settled in and made itself a permanent visitor while light-headedness was my constant companion. I couldn't stand for more than a few minutes without feeling the need to collapse to the floor from dizziness and exhaustion.

Now, this was also happening as the same time the smoke from Canada was covering our skies with a thick haze and we were being properly warned to stay indoors. Yes, this probably contributed to my overall ill health, but something else was at play: my body felt consumed by poison.

After previous chemo sessions, it was apparent that my body felt like a smoldering inferno. I could actually feel the tumors getting destroyed where parts of my body felt ignited from the inside. Days later, the smoldering feeling would waft up from inside of me as I smelled and tasted chemicals (oddly, this never deterred my appetite!). 

This time, my body never felt ignited, nor did it smolder in its own destruction. That felt like happy news, since maybe I had little (or none!) left to destroy. But the chemical aftermath was all too present, which made me leery.

Each time I tried to stand, my body seemed to rebel, summoning me to sit back down. When I didn't, I got this hot blast to my bald head that felt clammy to the touch, accompanied by a wave of nausea and light-headedness. 

My body seemed to be trying hard to compensate for the extra poison swimming around my innards by keeping me upright, but its efforts lagged. I sometimes stumbled, worried that I would actually fall. I felt woozy. A headache would suddenly appear. My thoughts felt jumbled. My words incoherent. 

This must be what it feels like to be poisoned. And I was becoming afraid that it would never go away.

This lingered for four miserable days before quietly and slowly abating yesterday, day #9. Even today, I can still feel that the reactions of my body are slower than normal, and my head doesn't feel quite right yet, but I trust that I'm resuming my normal steadfast-self. It helps me trust the process more, even though I remain worried about the next treatment that's looming just 11 days away. 

Yes, the debilitating symptoms have mostly gone away, which means my body knows how to properly assimilate the chemicals and excrete them. It means I am able to bounce back to my normal-self without any permanent damage. 

But what will the next two chemo (or god forbid, four!) treatments bring, especially as these tumors decrease in size but the amount of chemo drugs I receive do not?

I am nervous about what an over-abundance of poison in my body will find to destroy instead, and how I may be rendered more impaired than the neuropathy that tingles the tips of my fingers. 

Each time I think about this past week, my body shivers in response and nausea tickles the back of my throat. If I thought this week was tough, will I be strong enough to endure more?

But if I am to trust this process, my body, God, and even my own resilience, I must be willing to embrace all of it. 

As a Registered Nurse for 28 years, one would think that I'd be very well versed in everything related to health consciousness, especially when it comes to my body. 

But sadly, you would be wrong. 

In fact, I've always had a blase attitude about my health, most likely because I've never had to worry about it. I'm sure I've inherited this attitude from my 94-year-old mother who swears she enjoyed good health because she used to pick carrots straight from the ground, then eat them with the dirt and grit still attached. 

Of course, that was eons ago during the depression, but still. I did adopt her no-nonsense ways of looking at my health, and I'm grateful that I am the furthest thing from a hypochondriac. I am more apt to ignore a cold than to deal with it, and I don't stress about viruses, the flu, or being exposed to germs and bacteria, even as a nurse who is exposed to such contaminants (and more) daily. 

I've been blessed with my mother's good genes, which means I rarely get sick.

​It was my Chemical Engineer ex-husband who was fastidious about making sure the kids had their vitamins and antibiotics. I trusted that their bodies were hard at work healing them, just as I'd believed the same about myself. 

So when cancer appeared a few months ago, I was stunned. After all, even though I've spent my adult life not worrying about my health, I've also made wise choices on my own behalf. 

​I've never had any major illnesses; I do not ever suffer from pain (not even headaches); I never have had the flu and my colds last a day or two each year (without missing work). I delivered three babies without medication, and my menstruation and later, menopause, were uneventful and stress-free. 

I don't smoke, do drugs (never have), or drink much alcohol; I've never taken birth control pills, I don't readily reach for medication, and I get regular MD and dental check ups with good reports. I have been drinking apple cider vinegar drink every morning for several years; I switched to aluminum-free deodorant over a decade ago; I use homemade detergents/all-purpose cleaners for my house; and vinegar is my all natural cleaner of choice, even on my weeds and in my laundry. 

After a rash appeared on my face from an allergic reaction to lotion twenty years ago, I switched to an all-natural cream that is made of honey, beeswax, olive oil, and bee pollen. I've never had blemishes, acne or many wrinkles since. Many say I look much younger than my 55-year-old self. 
​
I changed jobs three years ago to a stress-free environment on purpose. My work is close to home so I don't have a stressful or long commute; I work 4 days a week so I can put ample time into working with coaching clients; and I enjoy my work, and feel appreciated and loved by the staff and residents.

I plan lots of down-time into my daily schedule--reading, writing, practicing yoga, walking, and spending time with my friends and family. I also take vacations often, even for short weekend jaunts. I own a home that is definitely my sanctuary, filled with good energy, bright colors, and belongings that bring me daily happiness. My car is reliable, and after nine years, it still feels like new. 

I have three grown children who are happy in the world as they navigate their own futures, and grandchildren who bring me great joy. I have been a Registered Nurse for almost three decades and have practiced self help for two. I am a Life Coach who believes in manifesting (I'm really good at this!), angels, God, serendipity, and facing struggles head-on with a positive slant. 

My point is this: I have been practicing healthy behaviors and habits for a very long time, and despite this, cancer still found its way in. It's not necessarily true that keeping diseases out is a function of a healthy diet and lifestyle, though these definitely increase your chances of remaining strong and vital. 

According to my Naturopath, there is also the rule of thirds when it comes to disease: "genetics play one-third, lifestyle plays another, and the final third is rotten damn luck."

So I guess this means that I have pulled the WILD card of rotten luck.

But instead of believing that my card is destined to be a negative experience (or a death sentence), I have chosen to see it as just another chapter in my life that I must face and overcome. This experience is calling me to practice patience, and execute trust that my very healthy body is capable of tackling the bigger job of getting rid of the cancer that is trying to kill me.  

After all, it is because I have been so healthy all these years that I have been able to withstand chemo with few side effects; that my body has compensated well by keeping all of my blood levels within normal ranges despite the infusion of poison every 21 days; and that my attitude has remained positive and light-hearted. 

I am not interested in what caused this cancer, and I'm only mildly intrigued that it appeared despite my healthy habits and behaviors.

What I am interested in is remembering that while life may be fragile and random, we who endure our own personal hardships are anything but fragile. We are capable of handling, and thriving, anything that is thrown our way, and we are much stronger than we give ourselves credit for. Humor and a positive outlook go a long way in keeping ourselves sane, happy, and healthy--even despite a crisis. 

It has certainly worked for me. And I intend to thrive beyond this cancer with my life, sanity, and humor intact. 
​
​

I was concerned that paranoia would accompany cancer, but during the past eleven weeks, I haven't felt any.

I've been upbeat and optimistic about my health, even if I have Stage III Lymphoma, a potentially scary prognosis. But I haven't been at all worried about my future because it's a highly treatable, even curable, cancer. 

But, then...

I began to wonder if during the interim, between chemotherapy treatments, cancer would begin its battle within me again. I was assured that it would not because the drugs kill cancer cells while my body flushes my system of them between chemo sessions. 

But when I began to cough again this past week, while feeling a familiar ache in my left chest as my voice started to croak like a teen-aged boy going through puberty, I felt unsettled for the first time. The last time those symptoms appeared, I was diagnosed. 

I then began to worry.

And against my better judgment, I turned to the internet for answers. I was not happy to find that chemo drugs do not work for everyone. Of course, as a nurse I already know this, but I'd been under the expectation that the drugs were working diligently within me, killing any residual cells that weren't annihilated the first or second times. After all, the symptoms that took me to the doctor in the first place had disappeared after just one dose. 

But now, as I stare down a two-day countdown to my third chemo treatment, I have to ask: what if it's not working as I'd hoped and expected, and the old symptoms are reappearing because the cancer has continued to grow and invade my innards?

Oh, fuck.

I stare at my chest in the mirror each morning, wondering if the highway of veins has returned. Or if there is any new swelling in my neck or puffiness around my breastbone. When my upper back began to ache a few days ago, I think back to when that first began in April, just days before my diagnosis. 

Sigh.

It's in these moments when I have to reign myself back in, then turn inward to what I know to be true. 

And Breathe...

I have not only believed, but have felt certain since the moment this odyssey began, that I would be okay. I have to trust that when my mind wants to hijack the steady peace I have felt since the beginning. I also have a keen intuition that informs me of what I need to know and I have relied upon it for decades. I know it won't fail me now. 

I'm also feeling the best I have felt in several months. I have plenty of stamina, strength, and energy; I continue to eat and sleep well; I have bounced back quickly (twice) from a week of energy-draining chemotherapy; and I have the most positive outlook that I've ever had. 

It could also be true that my croaky voice and coughing may be the result of the same allergies everyone has been suffering from, and my backache could be from returning to yoga after a 3-month absence. I have to be careful not to race ahead of myself, giving power to a fear that isn't even real. 

For this, I know for sure: I am a strong and vibrant woman whose grit will see me through this experience, with a loving community that has rallied around me from minute one. I also have a supportive team of doctors who know what they're doing. 

I can trust my life, and put my faith in what I know to be true. That truth is not only gleaned from the facts, but from the feeling I have when I turn inward. 

I am at peace.

​And that is enough. 

It is Day #7 post-chemo and I can happily share that this go-round has been so much easier. I did not have the throbbing jaw/teeth pain associated with the Neulasta shot early on, nor did I have any burning/aching in my chest that signals rapid cancer annihilation.

I've been tired, that is all. I was feeling so good this week, that I decided to return to work a few days early. 

But my body, in all its cleverness, had another agenda. I didn't sleep well the night before executing my plan, and when I got up Thursday morning, the burning/aching had returned, along with a subtle and annoying headache. Day #6 was my worst day last time so perhaps I was still in the throes of post-chemo effects, where anything goes. 

When the burning appears, it is subtle. The best way to describe it is a feeling of hollowness inside of my trunk, from my head to my gut, with a small flickering flame burning on the left side of my chest, my gut, and sometimes my back. I either feel nauseous or hungry, so in order to break any possible bout of nausea (because I cannot stand to feel nauseous), I eat. I ate so much yesterday that I thought for sure I would tip the high side of the the scale, but I did not. I can only imagine that the can of garbanzo beans I ate in bed late last night was used as instant fuel to burn the cancer to smithereens. 

I know that the chemo drugs leave my body at approximately 48 hours, but I wanted to know what happened from day 2 through day 21 when I return for more chemo, so my oncologist explained it this way: he said, picture your house just burned down--that's the chemo killing the cancer cells while it's causing damage to other fast-growing cells in my body.

Now picture all the cleanup that has to happen once the fire is out. My body rids itself of the dead cancer cells while it's also shifting organs that might have been pushed aside by the tumors, while my body is resting and restoring itself.

Yes, yes, yes, I know that my body is in clean-up mode right now. I can literally feel it, which in some sense should give me hope. But after a relatively easy week, I did not expect a setback. 

By nature, I am a lousy sick person. We nurses inherently make poor patients, but it doesn't help that I tend to be impatient with how my body is trying to heal itself. I don't resonate with being sick, much less having cancer, so it's challenging for me to readjust my thinking and schedule to accommodate cancer's timetable. 

But I'm learning to listen to what my body needs. 

And that, in itself, has been hard work. I want to move way of ahead of my own healing and predict how my days and weeks will turn out. But I cannot. Living with this is like living with an infant: unpredictable, tiresome, and aggravating, with many, many flickers of hope and smiles and good days. 

I know to cherish the good days, but have I relaxed into the whole of it, knowing that my body is fighting really hard to heal me? Probably not. I only feel tension when my body shows me how it is working on my behalf, because it is uncomfortable and I am not used to pain. It also slows me down, which is probably more bothersome than the pain. 

There are many reasons I believe cancer has reared its ugly head in my life, and slowing me down is probably one of them. As a single parent for over two decades, I am used to running my own household, earning my own money, and living life on my terms.

But am I used to settling into the quietness of life, taking in what I have achieved and enjoying all that I've worked hard for? 

I mean, I practice yoga, I walk, I try to meditate, and I write often. But do I truly stop long enough to reflect and appreciate all that I've accomplished on my own before charging into the next big thing? 

Nope. 

I only tend to strive harder, push deeper, for things I want. And that, my friends, is where I begin to battle against my life instead of enjoying (and often, accepting) what naturally shows up. I've been building a business these past few years while working as a nurse and running a household as a new empty-nester. I am very used to being an independent and self-sufficient woman who gets it all done, alone. 

My body, undoubtedly, got tired. 

It probably had no choice but to slow me down so that I may be taken care of by my life and the people in it. Perhaps because I deserve a rest and I can, therefore, trust that life will see me through this, as it has so many times before. 

My one and only job is to listen to what my body is asking for.

​Because, after all, its only mission, its only desire, is to heal me.  

"If there's an upside to free falling, it's the chance you give your friends to catch you." ~ Meredith Grey

Everybody should have the privilege of experiencing what their own funeral might look like before they die.

I have cried daily since my diagnosis, but it is rarely--if ever--about cancer. It is typically about the beautiful people who keep showing up to hold me up, cheer me on, and encourage me. They've delivered meals and flowers; played chauffeur for my appointments; run errands when I could not; gifted me Reiki and massage sessions; sent me cards, packages, daily texts, and homemade gifts and hats; have come when I've reached out, no questions asked; and have donated money to my Gofundme campaign. Many, many people have me on their prayer lists, and offers of encouragement and love are commonplace. 

I have been cracked wide open by the goodness of my life and the blessings from the people in it. 

Even before I had the chance to digest the news of my diagnosis, one of my colleagues visited a website while she was at work during the night shift and ordered 300 lime green bracelets with an inscription that read: "Team Katie, Stay Strong, Never Give Up." Lime green, like the pink breast cancer paraphernalia, is the color for Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. She began handing them out to our co-workers just as I was heading into my biopsy surgery. When I returned to work a few days later, everyone was already wearing them.

I teared up when I saw a sea of green on everyone's wrist. 

On the day of my biopsy, the Operating Room Nurse came to get me, but before she wheeled me down the long corridor to the OR, she took my hand and looked into my eyes and said: "This is going to suck for a while, but you will be okay." Then she turned on her heels and gave my bed a push toward where my surgeon stood.

I choked back tears. 

Two weeks later, a different OR nurse came to get me for the surgery to put in a port, and on the way, we passed Sarah, my former OR nurse. She remembered me and stopped my gurney. Again, she looked into my eyes while she grabbed my hand, but this time she said nothing. She didn't have to. The love and compassion emanating from her expression was clear. 

I took a deep breath to hold back the lump in my throat as I headed into surgery for the second time in 2 weeks. 

Despite working the night shift, my colleague drove me to my first chemotherapy treatment and stayed a few hours. Another friend who is also a cancer survivor made sure that I was not alone during that day. She met me just minutes after I sat down in my recliner, and stayed the entire 11-hour day. Just before lunch, another cancer survivor visited with tea and cookies, and my kids arrived moments later. 

I was grateful to be surrounded by people who loved me for the entire day. I was not alone in this. 

When a good friend of mine first heard of my diagnosis, she immediately said, "I will shave my head with you." Weeks later when my hair began falling out, she was true to her word. She hosted a Hat and Hair-shaving party last weekend and she was the first to shave her head because I was too chicken to. One-by-one, others who attended the party sat down on the stool to get their hair shaved, too. After two hours, 13 people had joined me in solidarity. 

I couldn't hold back the tears. I let them flow freely while I looked around my party in awe.  

I am cracked wide open everyday by people selflessly showing up for me. I cannot believe my beautiful life, and the even more beautiful people in it. I cry hearing emotional songs; I weep when the sun shines; I cannot hold back sobs when I think about my children and grand-children. 

Whenever I share just how stunned I feel by the continuous outpouring of love and support, I've been told by a few: 
​
"You're just receiving what you've been giving out for so long. It's all coming back to you now."

Of course, this only makes me cry harder. 

But it has been very obvious to me that angels dressed in clothes have descended into my life to do God's work. 
​

Four years ago I purposely took on debt for the first time in my life. As I was easing from one career into another, it was necessary that I make some financial decisions that were previously foreign to me. It was uncomfortable, but I made it work. 

This past March, I finally paid it all off, including two surgeries that I'd unexpectedly had in the fall of 2016.

I was excited to put more money into savings, and to be able to share more freely with my kids. I was proud of myself that after a few years out of my high-paying job, I had finally recreated the same high-paying wage, but this time on my terms as I continued to build a new business. I got a bid to renovate my bathroom, and plans for more trips were underway. 

Not a month later, cancer showed up, throwing my entire financial picture into chaos. 

                                                       ************************************************

Did I mention that I am rarely sick? 

I get one cold per year, if any; I decline the flu shot annually even though I am a nurse who makes sure my residents get one; I have never had aches or pains, except self-induced by overdoing activity; I have always slept well; I have healthy skin, nails, and hair; I walk almost daily and practice yoga weekly; I am a Life Coach and RN who practices stress-free living; and I have built a beautiful life for myself and my family. I'm told often how much younger I look than my soon-to-be 55 year-old-self. 

I have had six surgeries in my lifetime and I have healed quickly and easily after each without needing any narcotics for pain relief. In fact, I don't do well on narcotics so I usually decline them when prescribed. I also birthed three babies without medication. My colleague said that if there was ever a poster child for healthy living, I am it! 

And besides having cancer, I'm a really healthy gal! Chuckle, chuckle. 

                                                     ***************************************************

On April 18th, my middle kid's 25th birthday, I finally, finally updated my will, feeling very adult that I'd completed it after so many years of it being obsolete.

​The evening before, I turned my head and felt an electric shock travel from my left upper back, through my neck and into my head where it immediately began pounding for about an hour, three days in a row. The headaches eventually went away, but the ache in my back lingered. I thought it was just a pulled muscle; a massage a few days later confirmed that I had many small knots in my upper back. 

I now believe that the odd muscle stitch was one of the first symptoms that morphed into the chest pains that took me to the doctor two weeks later. 

I kiddingly warn friends to never, ever update their wills!

                                                     ****************************************************

This is a newsletter I wrote in September 2017, which made my return visit in May 2018 feel like a premonition I didn't even know I'd had. 

As a nurse, I'm pretty fastidious about getting my annual check-ups. It's the only time I see an MD because I've been blessed with good health. But after my annual blood draw last month, I was referred to a hematologist, a doctor who specializes in blood disorders.  
 
I was surprised, but not worried, because when I asked myself if something felt wrong in my body, my immediate "knowing" was Nope.  
 
I also rationalized that if something was really wrong, I would've had an appointment immediately, but instead, I was given a date a month out. I promptly forgot about it until I had to rearrange my work schedule to go, but feeling concerned didn't even occur to me. Until, of course, I pulled up to a building today that read: "Cancer Care Center."
 
For the first time, it felt just a bit too real.  
 
As I climbed the steps toward the bathroom, I asked myself again: Do I resonate with having cancer? Again, I heard: Not one bit.  
 
At the check-in desk, my blase attitude began to lean toward concern as I was handed a large stack of papers to fill out. When I mentioned that this was only a consultation, the gal replied that everyone--whether diagnosed with blood disorders or cancer--gets the same packet.  
 
The visit suddenly felt a bit more worrisome.  
 
Everyone in the waiting room looked my way and I imagined them thinking, "There's the new girl. She still looks well, but everything is about to change for her."   
 
I sat next to a couple waiting for their loved one who was coming out of a procedure. I heard one of them whisper, "Thank you, Jesus" when a nurse informed them that all had gone well.   
 
I filled out the stack of papers in minutes since most of my answers were negative: I do not have any symptoms. I don't have pain or nausea or headaches. I have no history of problems, and I only take 3 pills a day, two of them non-prescription.  
 
Then I glanced at the TV screen on the wall that was showing a film about cancer survivors. I was surprised when I saw my sweet friends' face, her hair cropped close to her head, talking about her experience with cancer. She had survived, but her prognosis on that day was still unknown. I could see the sadness and worry in her eyes as she described life with cancer.  
 
I suddenly felt such love and awe for her and for the painful and triumphant fight she had endured. I was nearly crying.   
 
Then the thought hit me: This could be me, too. What if my world changes today, in an instant, just like Annie's had?  With blurry eyes, I returned my packet to the desk. My mind tried to imagine what life would look like with a diagnosis of cancer but I quickly dismissed it.    
 
There is nothing wrong with me, I reminded myself. Instead, I imagined what I wished I had done before today, before a possible and sudden change in plans.  
 
And that's when I felt a powerful surge overtake me. It was the same surge that ran through my body when my life was altered some years ago: I was standing in my living room, "knowing" that divorce was imminent. All that we'd planned for, saved for, and fought for was going to be lost. My only regret was that we'd wasted so much time doing things that barely mattered.  
 
In that moment, I no longer cared about our money, our cars, or nice home, because it would soon be gone. What mattered was our happiness, our dreams, and living life fully.  
 
That profound experience turned me around, pointing me toward a future of chasing dreams instead of merely wishing them to happen. I began to live boldly for the next several years.  
 
Until I stopped. The details about why I stopped aren't important here, but the sentiment to continue living boldly was with me today. There is little time to waste. It's time to go for everything I want. NOW.  
 
My reverie was interrupted by someone calling my name. I was taken to my room where (no surprise) my blood pressure registered 150/100. I told the CNA how unfair it was to take it minutes before a consultation in a cancer care center. She agreed and we shared a good laugh.  
 
Minutes later, the doc came bounding in and his first words were: "What are you doing here?" Assuming he was commiserating with me about the possibility that my life could change for me today, I answered, "I haven't a clue; you tell me."
 
He wheeled his chair close to me with his face inches from mine and said, "Nothing is wrong with you. Not one damn thing. You shouldn't even be here." I almost cried.
 
He opened his computer screen to show me an eight-year history of labs. Although I had an obvious trend toward falling lymphocyte values, my overall hematologic trend was perfect. I took my first normal breath since seeing Annie on the screen.  
 
And then it was over.   
 
Doc led me to the check-out desk where he put my paperwork down on the counter in front of me. With his pen, he drew a slash across the page. "No charge" he told the receptionist, then turned to me and reached for my hand. "Nice to meet you; I never want to see you here again." He winked as he walked away.  
 
I teared up: for his generosity, for his humanity, and for my relief. I knew all along that I was okay.  
 
But the possibility that today could have just as easily ended in a different outcome scared me enough to consider how I live my life. It also proved that I know, without any doubt, that I am aware of what is right and true for me and my life. 
 
I have changes to make, big things to create, and places I want to go. Coming a bit too close to an altered future shook me up enough to expedite my roadmap. I refuse to waste another minute indulging in fear or hesitance before venturing forward.    
 
So this is my message for you: What do you already know to be true for yourself and your life?  
 
Listen to it. My experience today also begs the question: If you had six months to live, what would you change today? What would you do, where would you go? How would you live?  
 
Then go out there and do it.   
 
Because your life can change with a single blood draw. 

                                                *****************************************************************

When I returned to CCC in May 2018, I saw the same doctor, who reiterated that he would have still sent me home today had he seen my blood work from September. 

Perhaps, on that day in September, cancer had not yet started to invade my body. Perhaps it's why I felt so grounded that I did not have cancer. Perhaps this visit was just a "dry-run," meant to get me used to the idea of the cancer that would become alive and active just eight months later.                                          

                                          

Once the preliminary diagnosis had been made via CT on May 8th, I was ready to get the ball rolling. But as is often typical with all things medical, that time-table took a bit longer than I was comfortable with. I thought for sure I'd be put on someone's schedule for the following day, so I was surprised when I had to wait a week to see an oncologist and a surgeon.

I still hadn't notified anyone of my diagnosis, so I was carrying on my normal routine as usual. I had to keep reminding myself that "a lot has happened already," but I was still antsy. 

But after meeting my new team of doctors, I trusted them immediately. A preliminary plan was drawn up with my oncologist, and a biopsy was set up for June 5th. But it was only May 16th, and that date felt so far away. My daughter's college graduation was foremost in my mind so I was insistent that I would be able to attend. Anytime I thought of or talked about my kids, I still broke down in tears. 

My surgeon was leaving that evening on a 10-day vacation so I asked to be put onto his schedule upon his immediate return. He led me to his secretary and asked what he had available a week earlier. When she reported that he had a 90-minute opening, he said, "Book it! Even if I'm late for the next surgery." I openly sobbed. 

The surgery to obtain a biopsy on May 29th went without a hitch. The team of professionals were compassionate, kind, and loving, and my dear friends came through in spades. That was probably one of the easiest days recently. I tend to have a high tolerance for pain so the 4-inch gash across my neck never gave me a problem, nor did I have to take anything stronger than a Tylenol for pain relief. I also have a fast rate of healing so I returned to work a few days later, almost completely healed, and with a good (fake) story to share. 

Let me remind you that I am the only RN at an Assisted Living Facility where we are one big family. The residents are my adopted parents and grand-parents, and I am considered one of their own. They sense when something is out of the ordinary, so my absence did not go unnoticed. Once I returned, a few of them asked guarded questions, but I was unable to share my story completely. In this population, it may be considered "burdening" our residents with our own personal issues, but they still found out, anyway.

(By the time word got around the facility, I was already out of the building for a week post-chemotherapy). 

I was told that the biopsy results would take 7-10 days, so imagine my surprise when the preliminary results came in just three days later, confirming the diagnosis of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. I felt a wave of relief knowing that we were ahead of schedule. A plan-of-attack appointment was set up with my oncologist for the following Monday, just three days later. By then, we'd have a plan to begin the process of poisoning the hell out of this cancer.

Good thing, since my symptoms were amping up. I was now coughing almost all of the time and the aches in my back were worsening. Some nights were a constant up-and-down, reheating my microwaveable heating pad and doping up on Tylenol. I knew the tumors in my chest were having a field day, proliferating out of control. The "knot" on my chest grew puffier. Even friends and colleagues were noticing. 

But when Monday morning came and went without a call from my oncologist, I felt impatience welling up again. When he finally got a hold of me, his voice was somber. "Katie, I'm being told I cannot treat you. Something about insurance..."

Whaaaaaat? 

Long story short meant that the oncologist who was already overseeing my case couldn't continue, and I had to be switched to a new team, at a new building, in a new town--immediately. 

Now, up until this point, I'd been a fairly cool chic about this devastating blow to my life. But this was too much. I felt like I was falling through the cracks of bureaucratic bullshit while the cancer grew exponentially. I called my PCP to expedite matters; at least she could begin the process of ordering a PET scan and getting my port surgery scheduled. 

I was at work trying to negotiate all of this, when I finally gave in to the heaviness I'd been carrying. My colleague noticed my heaving shoulders and quietly handed me a box of tissue while she closed the blinds to our office. This fucking cancer was already taking me down. 

As it turned out, my PCP was able to expedite an appointment at a new facility not much farther away from my home. She was also able to talk me off the ledge when I felt everything around me collapsing.

When I met with my new oncologist, he immediately ordered the PET scan for a few days later, and set up a treatment date for June 14th. 

Overall, the delay was only 3 days. 

A new plan was underway. But when my doc mentioned that all of my symptoms should disappear after the first treatment, I was both shocked and elated. He was convinced that the tumor would be reduced by 50% because the treatment, which turns out to be composed of rat antibodies, is so good at targeting and killing lymphoma cancer cells. 

I think I will adopt a rat as my new mascot. I may even design a t-shirt with a rat in a cape. 

And as promised, that prediction came true. Just days after my first chemotherapy, the collateral veins in my neck and across my chest grew more faint; the pain in my back subsided; my cough disappeared; the knot on my chest dissolved.

When I visited my oncologist yesterday, just a week after chemo, he reported that I probably dissolved up to 80% of the tumors, which was evident not only by my appearance, but by my 7 lb weight loss in 3 days. 

The tumors had been taking up space deep within my chest's lymph system, causing a back-up into my neck and face. New veins wormed their way across my chest, creating new highways to carry blood around the tumors. My face and jaw swelled, but it had happened so slowly, I never noticed. Today, it's quite obvious. 

I am now 8 days from my first chemotherapy session, feeling much better, though I am just now nearing the end of the most hellish week of my life. I still have pain, but it has lessened by about 85%, and I am taking Tylenol about 20% of the time that I'd been taking it just a few days ago. 

I am grateful, happy, gobsmacked, and humbled. Not only by the awesomeness of my body's ability to assimilate poison and create something good from it, but by my ability to have endured it. I am also brought to tears daily by the outpouring of love, attention, and compassion from people in my life. 

I have been buoyed by texts, visits, prayers, meals, company and some days, a tight squeeze when all I could do was cry. My heart is full, and my outlook continues to be positive. 

And I am profoundly grateful that you have come along for the ride. ​