Radiation ended on November 16th without much fanfare.

I received a certificate of completion, signed by all of the radiation nurses, and stuffed it away into my binder full of cancer paraphernalia. Then three days later, the skin on my chest and back finally began to turn pink, then dark red, then tan, with lots of itching in between color changes, which needed lots of lotion to curb the annoyance. 

The burning in my throat lingered for a week post-radiation, causing distress with each swallowing, then it suddenly disappeared. I can't even recall when it really went away because it happened so quickly, practically healing itself overnight.

Then...

I noticed a minuscule, light blue bruise on my left arm...

And I've had a variation of the same cough for months. It probably came on the heels of a cold from a few weeks ago, but...

Last weekend my back began to feel strained, like a knot was forming in the muscle around my right scapula. It came out of nowhere and kept me up for most of the night, pinching...

Hot flashes appeared again, lasting a few minutes throughout the day, with night sweats that have been different in nature from the menopausal ones I'd been used to before cancer hit. 

These are some of the minor symptoms that I had when I was first diagnosed. The cough, hot flashes, and bruise can easily be written off as symptoms of a cold, lingering menopause, and clumsiness.

But the same kind of pinched muscle in my right scapula that first began on my left scapula eight months ago? That's what started the whole symptomology that lead to my diagnosis in May. 

My mind runs wild with worry. And questions. 

My sister reminded me that I have a choice to feel paranoid, so I tried not to panic. And thankfully, I had a scheduled appointment to see my medical oncologist two days later where I would have an opportunity to ask all of my silly and paranoid questions. 

Like: can cancer recur this quickly, just ten days after treatment ended?

And if not, that would explain these symptoms as belonging to other reasons, but the muscle that has constricted into a knot? Well, I suppose that can be attributed to stress, which I've been trying really hard to steer clear of. Stressful thoughts, that is.

Like paranoia and worry. 

The day before my appointment, I had to ask for an emergency massage from my therapist. The knot had tightened its grip, making my workday long and uncomfortable. Thankfully, after a deep-muscle work out, I felt a bit better, but it didn't last long enough. I had another fitful night of sleep, awakening every few hours to re-heat my heating pad or take pain relievers. 

Hmmm, this was beginning to resemble the weeks before and after my first chemotherapy, carrying around my heating pad as my constant companion, while taking analgesics round-the-clock. 

By morning, it wasn't any better. In fact, within a few hours, I was feeling electric shocks in my right shoulder. It seemed to run along the course of my radiation line, so I assumed that my nerves were being jolted back to life. I was to see my doctor that day, so I went about the day as planned: Christmas shopping, acupuncture, then MD. 

When I explained the symptoms to him a few hours later, I struggled to find the words that didn't make me cry from worry, and he politely cut me off. "I'm 99% sure that this is a residual side effect from radiation, that's all."

I sighed with relief, mostly because it made sense. 

He prescribed some Prednisone to ease the pain and reduce any inflammation, then asked me: "Have you ever been in a serious car accident?"

"No."

"People who are in accidents are afraid to get back into a car for days, weeks, sometimes months. You're going through the same thing. Your body has been under attack for nearly a year and it only makes sense that you're paranoid about new symptoms that may resemble the old ones." 

"My job," he continued, "is to make you feel comfortable, not just medically. And when you're not comfortable, I need to figure out why. It's my job to get you back into the car."

I nearly cried.

"The prognosis for your cancer has a 3-5 year cure rate of 85-90% and that's really, really good," he continued. "In the meantime, I will be seeing you every three months, then every six months, probably for 2-3 years." 

My paranoia quieted down, and my trust in my overall health and emotional wellness returned. 

Besides, he and I were very impressed with my perfect blood work. Not one single value was abnormal. 

So I filled the prescription, returned home, and was surprised when I had another fitful sleep. By morning, the intense pain in my back was gone, but it had also traveled to my ribs and underarm.

Then it hit me.  

Oh shit! This is how shingles started!

Twelve years ago, I'd had a similar experience of pain that started in my back, then within days, had traveled to my ribs.

I can't believe my doc and I missed this.

I had been so consumed with worry that lymphoma was returning, that no other possibility even entered my brain. ​Our discussion did not even veer into other considerations. 

I immediately phoned the office and a triage nurse answered. I explained what I believed was happening and within an hour I had received a new prescription. By days end, I was feeling a bit better. 

But new paranoia was trying to settle in, too. 

In May of this year, just after I was diagnosed, I was told by my first oncologist that there is a definite link between having shingles and getting lymphoma later in life.  

So if the shingles on my left side from over a decade ago caused lymphoma on my left side this year, might this right-sided shingles be a precursor to getting right-sided lymphoma later? 

To ease my concern, one of my coworkers posed an interesting theory: the first time shingles appeared, I hardly knew I had it since it never produced a rash, only pain. This time, the pain is much less intense from what I  remember, but the rash is obvious. I have a line of pink dots running from my sternum, across my right breast, ending at my right scapula. 

It was a bit itchy at times, but after a few days, it and the pain in my muscles and bones is finally subsiding. 

Perhaps, my coworker theorized, because shingles stayed "trapped" within my body last time, never appearing on my skin as a rash, maybe that's why lymphoma erupted 12 years later. Now, this episode is clearly showing its presence, so maybe it will not have to morph into lymphoma later. 

I like that explanation, whether it fits or not. 

But either way, it quickly dawned on me that fretting about future events now is simply futile. It's a huge waste of emotional energy that I cannot afford to entertain. 

So I plan on not allowing my fears to overtake me. 

After all, I am well today because of my vigilant efforts that complemented medical technologies. And if cancer should return one day, I am well-equipped to handle it. 

Isn't that the point of hardships, to discover what we're really made of? We have an innate capacity to endure whatever life presents, and that's very good news, indeed. 

So if you'll excuse me, I have a bold and beautiful life to live. 

I'll start by getting back into my car...

It's interesting how good humans are at adapting to loss.

When I was first told that I had lymphoma, my immediate thought was that cancer kills. But that was quickly usurped by the idea that it wouldn't be me dying, at least not then. 

Even though I was smacked with a diagnosis that leaves many dead, I felt blindsided for only a few minutes before I made the decision to be one of the survivors, no matter what it would require of me. 

Fortunately, it has so far been my fate. 

When my hair-shaving party was held just over four months ago, I didn't want to be there. I kept shoving others in front of me to get their hair shaved because I had no desire to do so, even while dozens of people who love me surrounded me in support.

I cried every time someone happily sat down on the stool to have their head shaved, like they didn't give a rat's ass that their hair would be gone with one swipe of the clippers.

Why not, people?

I was falling apart knowing that I didn't have a choice but to lose my head of hair. 

I had to fight back tears when it actually happened, and cringed with the sight of myself in the mirror. 

But now?

I flip my wig or bandana off of my head as soon as I walk in the door to my home and spend the rest of the evening bald. Sometimes, I even remove whatever I'm wearing on my head as I drive home, allowing cool air to soothe my hot scalp. If I'm really in the mood, I go in public with a bald head (I would do this more readily, but my head gets cold quickly!). 

I constantly rub the stubbles on my head in a weird, OCD-kind-of-way because I love the way it feels as I drag my hand across my scalp. And since my hair began growing back a few weeks before my final chemotherapy, my head feels like a baby chick's, all soft and fluffy, so it's even more enticing to touch. 

I was certain that I would feel mortified without eyebrows and eyelashes, but they fell off so slowly, I only noticed they were gone when I tried to put mascara on the few remaining hairs.

Now I highlight my eyes with a brown pencil, put on red lipstick, and call it good.

I don't fuss over make-up, nor worry about how I look before strutting out the door, confident as though I had a full head of my own hair with eyebrows and lashes to match. Even though my eyebrows have mostly grown back in, they are now very blonde so they still don't show up against my light complexion.

When I lost feeling in my fingertips within 12 hours after receiving my first chemotherapy treatment, I got used to it within a few days. When the same cotton-under-my-skin feeling reached my toes just a few weeks ago, I knew what to expect. This neuropathy may even follow me for a lifetime. 

Que sera.

The chemotherapy may have numbed-up the tips of my fingers and toes, but it also saved my life. 

I am sure I will even get used to the idea of dying should that scenario be my story before I'm ready. 

Although I just learned a month ago that the cancer could no longer be detected on my PET scan, my mortality was put into question during the months when I had no idea if the chemotherapy was working or not. 

Fortunately, my treatment went well and I am finally done with nary a trace of cancer. 

But while I was home recovering after each treatment, I missed 7 days of work each time, which also meant lost wages, sometimes twice in one month. You can imagine that I lost a lot of money during that time, and you'd be right. My absence totaled just over eight work weeks, which amounted to about 20% of lost income for this year. 

That financial loss is a huge chasm that I will most likely never be able to recoup, but the upside is that many of you contributed money, while others donated vacation days, making my financial loss a bit more manageable. 

The external losses of cancer are obvious but they are also temporary, and will soon be just a distant memory.

Sadly, other losses have been more difficult to deal with and understand. 

During one of the most challenging times in my life, I was given an opportunity to see a real-live snapshot of how people behaved while watching my journey unfold. You've been privy to how beautifully so many people came to my aid. 

​As surprised and ecstatic as I was (and continue to be) by the outpouring of help and love, I am just as sad to report that some of the people I thought were part of my support network disappeared when cancer came on the scene. 

No explanations. They just never showed up. Or they quietly vanished. It was perplexing, but I just assumed each time that perhaps a diagnosis of cancer was just too much for some people to face. 

My chemo nurse confirmed this when she told me, "I've seen so many people lose best friends over cancer. It happens all the time."

And I was shocked. 

Because I lost one of mine, too. 

It was both heart-breaking and confusing when she disappeared because I didn't see it coming. She slowly started to fade into the background of my life, then her final departure was swift and harsh.

There are so many questions left dangling. 

And so much sadness left to face. 

Of all the losses that cancer has thrown into my life, losing trust in someone who was like a sister has been the biggest loss of all. 

A colleague recently commented that since I was deemed "cancer free" on my PET scan a few weeks ago, it seems like all the fanfare around me and my diagnosis has disappeared. 

And she is right.

Most people have stopped calling or texting to check in; meals are no longer delivered; bracelets have been taken off; fund-raising has come to a halt; and the focused attention on me is non-existent.

But I can hardly blame anyone.

After all, the minute there was no cancer found on my scan, my view of myself and my needs changed, too. 

We all sighed a collective sigh of relief, then jumped back into our lives--the ones we were unabashedly living before taking a hiatus to focus on me as I wrestled head-on with cancer. 

I dove back into my old routines as quickly as I could once I left the oncologist's office that beautiful day when she told me my cancer was gone. Within days, I returned to work full-time with the same energy and stamina I had before cancer; I resumed my walking and yoga routines; and I began to live life as though cancer was never a part of it.

I got so busy, so fast, that I haven't posted a blog in 4 weeks, and I rarely keep Facebook apprised of how I'm doing these days. I've barely had time to slow down with this new schedule. 

It has even been difficult for me to remember that just last month I was still flat-out on the couch recovering from chemotherapy #6. It feels like another lifetime, one that I was only vaguely a part of. 

I had cancer? 

It doesn't seem possible, nor real. 

But, wait a minute...

Although I'm clear of cancer, that doesn't mean I'm altogether out of the woods, either.

I am just finishing three weeks of radiation that has been uneventful and relatively easy. My 2.5 minutes on the "hot seat" happen at the end of my workday, five days a week. The most tiresome part of each day is driving thirty minutes each way to and from my sessions, just to show up for a few minutes. This new routine is boring and intrusive. 

But radiation is also potentially dangerous and I'm not entirely through with this cancer journey yet. Everyone keeps forgetting that, just as I do. 

Since radiation kills fast-growing cells (just like chemo), and the area of focus is my chest, I was warned that my throat may feel sore and I may experience heartburn as my esophagus' lining becomes vulnerable to breakdown. I was also told that if it happened, it would be near the end of my 20 sessions since my radiation dose was so low. 

But after just seven sessions last week, I felt a stabbing pain just below my throat when I swallowed a stewed tomato from my lunchtime soup. It continued every time I swallowed, like nails were scraping the inside of my esophagus. It wasn't exactly my throat that hurt, but the area below it, so I assumed I was experiencing the side effects I'd been warned about. But when I met with the MD that same day, he confirmed that it was too soon to be troubled by side effects. 

He also peered down my throat, but didn't seem concerned. He handed me a prescription for a lidocaine cocktail that would numb my esophagus so I could eat, and I was sent on my merry way. 

But the lidocaine didn't help.

In fact, the soreness only got worse. You'd think that as a nurse I'd be worried about Strep throat, but it never crossed my mind to consider it a possibility. Probably because never in my 55 years have I ever had it.

By day #5, I was still choking down food while wincing, so I finally called the doctor. She wasn't worried about Strep, either, but recommended Ibuprofen to curb the pain. I am not one to reach for medications quickly, so that hadn't crossed my mind, either. She described my symptoms as the "perfect storm": a possible cold virus combined with the beginning of radiation side effects. 

It is moments like these when I want to raise my white flag. I'm no longer is severe distress, but I'm tired of this on-going, seemingly never-ending journey. I want to quit walking and sit down and rest. I want my life back. I want to quit worrying about new symptoms while feeling paranoid about old scary ones. 

This transition into the life I lived before cancer has been slow.

I jumped back into parts of it, like work, but the rest still feels disjointed with several pieces dangling. I feel overwhelmed about how to move forward. And there are so many people to contact after falling off the grid for six months. 

My house is disheveled after 6 months of ignoring it. There are birthday balloons from July still floating around my ceiling, and the weeds in my yard are choking whatever has been trying to grow around them.

My coaching business feels dormant, ready to spring anew, but can it be revived considering the lull it has taken? 

I've had to remind myself to take it easy through the end of the year. After all, it has only been six weeks since chemo was completed. I've experienced a severe trauma that needs patience and tender loving care as I navigate my way back into my life while I create a new future. 

But I have no idea what that future looks like, or what I want it to be. My coach thinks that's a good thing, to not have a clue about my next steps. While I find it somewhat freeing, I am also a woman who likes to plan. And I have no plan this time. 

As quickly as cancer stole my life, it also gave it back to me when I wasn't exactly expecting it. But more than feeling jubilant about it, I mostly feel lost. 

There is a need inside of me that has to know what this was all for. There has to be a reason that cancer interrupted my life and I don't want to miss or waste that lesson. I've written my theories about what it meant, but what do I do with that information now? 

My world view has changed, but little else has. I work the same job, live in the same house, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things. 

I feel an enormous responsibility to change something, or do something in a big way, but as I see the finish line just 6 radiation sessions down the road, I can't help but choke back tears of immense joy. On November 16th, just a week before Thanksgiving, I will be done.

​This journey will be officially over.

The best I can muster today, as I see my future opening up, is to bow on bended knee in deep gratitude that I was given another chance at life. 

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

​Today I got tatted up for the first time ever. My kids will be so proud. 

Upon my 6th chemo on September 27th, a PET scan was scheduled that would determine my next steps for treatment. If no cancer was found, I'd go right into radiation; if any trace of cancer was still detected, I'd have 2 more chemo sessions, resuming next Thursday.

Three appointments were set up for today: meeting with a radiation oncologist, followed by a possible simulation of the radiation procedure, then finally, meeting with my oncologist to read the PET results. 

I had the PET on Tuesday, then I had to wait two whole days.

But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself...

As a life coach, I have learned the practice of talking to my body when it is in distress, then listening for the "answers" it gives me. This is such a powerful exercise, and I have received such insightful answers, that I decided early on to engage in conversations with the largest of my dozen tumors. 

It is the reason the side bar of this blog identifies my tumor as a "he," because from the get-go, he introduced himself as "Rupert".

Immediately, I pictured a nerdy gay guy with glasses, hardly someone to be afraid of. He actually looked like Waldo, red striped shirt and all. I think I even chuckled at the thought of him as my bad-ass tumor, an intruder who was trying to kill me. 

Him?

I liked him from the start, and kind of felt sorry for him, which made it easy to talk to him. 

"Hey Rupert, what's going on?" I began a week after I was diagnosed. "Why have you been schizophrenically destroying my healthy cells?"

His response surprised me: "I had to get your attention in a big way because my subtle hints haven't caught your attention."

"Subtle hints for what?" I asked again.

"Carrying your mission to the world. You are so much bigger than you think and act and it's time for you to step into your power in a big way." 

Ignoring his instructions, I asked: "What can I do to make you stop your cell division frenzy?"

"Start looking inward for your answers. They're not 'out there'. You are so close to everything you want, yet you keep retreating. Stop retreating and RECEIVE." (Yes, he really did speak in capital letters).

On August 4th, just before my 4th chemo, I asked what my next steps were and he told me: "BELIEVE. Believe you will be healed--not by medicine, but by you and God. Your body is a fast healer."

If you recall, my 4th chemo was the worst post-recovery out of all six chemos I had received. I felt poisoned and I was even worried that I wouldn't fully recover. Fortunately, I did. 

So I carried on this 2-sided conversation for months, then one day before my 5th chemotherapy, I was driving (where many of my intuitive hits happen) when I heard him chattering in the back-drop of my thoughts. When I began to pay closer attention, I clearly heard him say "I'm dead."

I knew, right then, that the cancer was already gone. I told only one other person, Carmen. "Of course it's gone," she responded. She was as confident as I felt.

But, still. What if we were wrong?

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

So, back to today. I met with a radiation oncologist before meeting with my oncologist. This was an introduction to the radiation treatment, so I was surprised when she nonchalantly announced as she walked into the room, "Your PET scan looks good." 

"What does that mean?" I asked, startled. I wasn't expecting to hear this news until I met with my oncologist in a few hours. 

"I think you're done with chemo."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding in. 

"It's gone?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell, but let me check with your oncologist so he gets the final word before we move forward." 

She left me alone with my thoughts and I nearly broke down in a laughing-crying sort of way. But a few minutes later she bounded through the door again, excited. "Okay! We've got the approval to move forward!"

IknewitIknewitIknewitIknewit

"So if there's no cancer, is there any chance I could receive less than 6 weeks of radiation?"

"Six weeks? Oh, no! It will be 3-4 weeks, max."

ThankyouGodThankyouGodThankyouGod!

As she described the treatment and side effects, she quickly followed it with "but your dose will be cut in half so any side effects should be minimal." 

​The good news just kept coming: No more 10-day recoveries; no more missing so much work; no more feeling poisoned; no more steroids; no more baldness. NO. MORE. CANCER!

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

This morning as I walked into work, Carmen showed me her green bracelet. All of the writing was gone. She slid it onto my wrist and said, "Your cancer is gone, too." 

You may not believe me, but... 

I knew this was coming, though I never could've guessed that it would be in the form of cancer. 

It was five years ago when I became an empty-nester and I turned 50. It was a year to celebrate having raised my three kids alone for the previous fifteen years, and time to celebrate venturing off into a new career.

I felt ecstatic, hopeful, and empowered to begin life anew, this time on my terms since I no longer had anyone to be responsible to. I'd raised my family and they were all off to promising futures of their own. 

It was my turn. 

After two decades single-handedly raising a family in a conventional way, I was branching out into my more unconventional nature. 

I'd already quit my high-paying job because I couldn't see spending the rest of my nursing career behind a cubicle, and I wasn't willing to comply with a large company whose managerial practices were less than stellar. It was time to jump ship and I was ready. 

That's when I sensed it.

It wasn't the first time I'd been informed by my intuition that something was up.

I have even heard a Voice that has spoken to me directly. In fact, when my life caved two decades ago, the Voice was loud, clear, and consistent. I knew I was being spoken to and guided by God as I navigated my way through unending grief, while trying to make sense of how the life I'd known had just exploded. 

I often had to look over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. The Voice was so close, so present, and so...real. 

So when I sensed during the summer of my 50th birthday that death was circling nearby, I took it as a warning. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but I was under the impression that I would be dying before my 51st birthday. 

Oddly, it held no fear, just understanding. Like I'd been notified that the pizza would be delivered in an hour. 

But, still, I didn't change anything.

I had already decided to take more chances in my life, so after taking the summer off, I enrolled in a program for life coaching. When I graduated the next spring, I had lofty plans to make my nursing salary that first year, so when that didn't pan out as quickly as I'd anticipated, I panicked.

My savings had sprung a serious leak after leaving my job, so I had to swallow my pride and find work again. I did, but because my heart was no longer in nursing, I eventually left that job, too. For another half year I hobbled along between coaching clients and savings, but still managed to pay my bills and keep up with my house. 

I was growing more impatient and frustrated with how my plans from a few years earlier were not working out. Empty-nesting was panning out to be more challenging than I'd expected it to be. 

My 51st, 52nd, and 53rd birthdays came and went, and each time I was surprised that I was still alive.

But by the time my 54th birthday rolled around last summer, I realized that perhaps I was wrong. Either I misunderstood my intuition, or the Big Guy Upstairs had changed his mind. I thought I'd been let off the hook. 

So I finally dropped the idea of death happening.

Then just eight weeks before my 55th birthday this past July, cancer arrived, bringing with it a momentary shock that the Grim Reaper had finally arrived.

It was finally my time, and I'd been warned.

Ruh-roh.

The irony is that when the diagnosis finally settled in to my consciousness, I knew for certain that my death was not at all imminent.

For five years I'd been expecting the final countdown, but when it finally arrived in the form of cancer, I realized that it wasn't my death that was predicted.

It was my dying that had been. 

I was already, in some respects, dying a slow death. Or rather, my life was slowly dying.

The fun and adventurous woman who had taken her kids on countless road trips to places far and near for the past two decades was no longer traveling as much as she'd wanted; the woman who had taken every opportunity to explore felt too timid to venture far without an ally, and her friends were usually too busy to accompany her; and the woman who encouraged her kids to try new experiences felt too fearful of trying anything new by herself.

She was withering--the exact opposite of what she'd expected when each of the kids flew the coop. 

​Did she know how to be a fully-engaged woman in the world after tending solely and fully to the needs of her family for so long? Had she been hiding behind her children all these years so she could no longer be in the world alone?

I had looked forward to this moment for decades, and suddenly I was too leery about branching out very far beyond my comfort zone. 

Don't get me wrong--my life continued to be fulfilling and adventurous upon each of my kids' departures. But once I began taking risks with my career, and those didn't work out as I'd hoped, my usual optimism turned to cynicism, and my excitement turned to fear. 

The new life that I was trying to create on my own had been feeling too hard and exhausting, and little seemed to be working out. I was putting forth so much effort with little in return.

So I turned to binge-watching TV, snacking on too much junk food, and feeling complacent. All of my efforts seemed fruitless so I adopted the attitude of "why bother?"

Like I'd mentioned in a previous blog, I was feeling like my old, dysfunctional self from decades ago again, and that was unsettling. I'd already molded her into someone different years ago, but she was leaking out again, messing with my Mojo. I didn't really know how to tame her anymore, because believe me, I'd tried. 

In a very strange way, it seemed easier to passively allow death to find me than to continue fighting against my life. 

Until death had momentarily arrived.

​Then I wasn't at all ready, because I have no desire to leave this planet, not yet.

Perhaps I'd been informed way back when that cancer was on its way, and if I didn't pay attention, it could very well be my demise. 

But instead, I'd been slapped upside the head, maybe just in the nick of time.

Somehow, this life coach needed another wake-up call. And I've been listening with rapt attention ever since.

Not often, but just every once in a while, the thought of death will sneak in.

I'm usually caught off-guard. After all, cancer is synonymous with death, yet it is not really on my radar, and nowhere near my point of fear. I don't really believe that cancer will be my demise. 

But the reality that it could happen does remind me how vulnerable we all are. It also grips my fear in a different way: I want to make sure that I've lived a good life that has been upheld to the truths of who I am and what I've been trying to accomplish. 

I want to write love notes to my children, in particular, to let them know that their time with me mattered. That birthing them and raising them was the cornerstone of my life. It is one of the reasons I believe I was put on this earth, to be their mother, no matter how spectacularly I failed. 

What is my legacy? And how do I want my kids and the world to remember me? 

I can happily admit that I've already achieved this.

​I have lived a life full of integrity, especially in the face of hard choices. I am proud of my courage, emotional strength, and steadfast convictions. I have erred on the side of fairness, I have stood up for doing what's right (even when it wasn't popular), and I've been committed to recreating myself, constantly. 

Oh, I have failed miserably, more times than I care to remember. 

​But I have also triumphed boldly. And that is how I want to be remembered, especially by my children. 

They have seen me stay with their father when it was the unpopular choice, then divorce him when he could no longer provide the emotional stability that my children and I deserved. They watched as their parents formed separate lives without hurting each other, and witnessed their mother blossom while she ventured forward on her own with three small children in tow. 

They packed their courage when I moved them cross-country to new lives that were not guaranteed to be like their old ones, but their trust in their mother was complete. They learned to thrive under new circumstances and challenges, and were made stronger by them. 

I have finally learned how not to settle for just a "good enough" life, but have learned instead to create something great, on my terms. I have accepted my trials with grace while trying to make the best of the lessons they came to teach me (usually!). I have loved fully, I have been a loyal and steadfast partner and friend, and I've tried my best to be a better person with each new day. 

My children have walked beside me as I have faced life head-on, with my head held high and my courage intact. They have already been shown the best parts of me, which means they have been given the tools to live their own lives--with our without me--with integrity, grace, humility, and grit. 

I have already left my legacy, and for that, I feel at peace. 

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.