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. 
​