I've known about this appointment for three months.

My last post-cancer check-up on May 14th revealed that my LDH level was back to normal at 199, and a follow-up appointment was made for today's CT scan with labs.

I was told that for the first two years post-cancer, I will be monitored every three months, either by a scan of some sort (PET or CT) every 6 months with labs, then with labs and an office visit during the in-between appointments. When I hit year three, monitoring will be cut back to every 6 months, then yearly at the five-year mark. 

Essentially, I will be closely monitored until I hit the "cure zone" of five years, and I've been aware of this all along.

But when faced with the reality of what it all means, it's a different story.

Usually an emotional one. 

I arrived early for labs this morning, then had a CT scan with contrast done.

Yes, I drank the Kool-aid.

But flavored with a raspberry twist, the radioactive poison actually went down easily. I sipped on my 32-ounce drink for an hour (ample time for it to coat my innards) before I was taken back to the scanner. 

I've had a few of these already, and not all of them have been for cancer. It was quick and easy, just as expected. When the technician asked when I would be having my follow-up with my oncologist, I told him "Two o'clock today." 

"No pressure," he said. Something in his voice caught me off-guard. Was it sarcasm? Or a hint of knowing how that appointment would turn out? I couldn't grasp what I'd intuited, but it felt just a smidge off-kilter. 

But I've learned not give into my own paranoia so I went about my day running errands until my scheduled appointment. Soon after I returned to the Cancer Care Center, I was taken much earlier than my alotted time. It pays to arrive early.

When I stepped onto the scale, I was proud to report that my 9-pound weight loss had been intentional. Health professionals become a bit skiddish when they see a weight loss with cancer patients as it's often one of the first signs of there being a problem, but not this time. 

In fact, as a result of cancer, I've tweaked quite a few habits and one of them is my food. I have significantly decreased my sugar intake, switched to gluten-free breads, and cut out coffee and dairy. In just a few months, the pounds melted off of me, even after cheating during my week-long eating binge on a cruise last month. Once I was back on dry land, I resumed my previous eating habits and the 4 pounds I'd gained were gone within a few days. 

Easy peasy. 

After (happily) weighing in, I was taken back to a room where my vital signs registered as normal, but I was already beginning to tear up. Not real tears, like I wasn't ready to sob, but I had to keep wiping my eyes at the corners. 

As usual, I had also walked into that room with a list of questions:

1. Why was a CT done instead of just labs? (Because a scan every 3 months is protocol with my type of cancer and there were a few areas in my body that were "questionable" on my PET scan in February, so this CT was done to monitor those areas); 
2. Why does the CT cover my neck to mid-thigh but not my head? (Because lymphoma normally doesn't metastasize to the brain); And
3. What if...? What happens next if today's information goes south? 

While I was reading over my questions, the PA walked in, breathless, like she'd just ran from upstairs. "I have only part of your CT, so we're still waiting on the other half, but your labs are all normal." 

I wiped the corners of my eyes as I shifted in my seat. Then I got down to business. After all, I am not just a patient, but a Nurse. 

"My LDH level?" 

"178."

Wow, I mused to myself as I kept my eyes on my note pad. That's so much better than 199 in May!

"And the upper half of the CT--your neck--is clear. All clear."

That answered my question about the nagging aches I feel every so often in my neck. It's like waking up with a stitch after a deep sleep; each time I turn my head left, the twinge stops me from rotating all the way around so instead, I often have to rotate my whole upper body. 

My massage therapist has been working on these twinges since long before I finished my treatments and although they've improved, they haven't gone away entirely. I've been passing them off as "radiation aftershocks" and the PA agreed that I could still be experiencing some minor issues post-chemo and radiation. 

No biggie. I've never had to medicate myself for them and I've become used to the aches. As long as it's not cancer returning, I'm good. 

Then she left again in pursuit of the other half of my scan, and returned a few minutes later. 

"Yep, all clear!" she sang as she entered the room. "The areas we were concerned with earlier have improved, too."

I looked down at my pad of paper and casually crossed off "What if...?"

Then I reached for another Kleenex. 

She rambled on about something, but I didn't hear much. I hadn't realized until that moment that I went into my appointment feeling a little bit more than worried. I had been keeping a tally of symptoms that have been feeling out of the norm for three months, worried that it may be a sign of cancer returning. Even though I don't normally think about cancer, a slight variation of some bodily function can jerk me back into "uh-oh." 

It wasn't until I heard the LDH level that my shoulders relaxed, it wasn't until she said "all is clear" that I breathed normally again, and it wasn't until I was walking out to my car that I realized how much I base my life off of these appointments. 

I have been planning a trip to the southwest for this Fall, but I wasn't willing to book a flight until I knew this scan was clear. If the scan was not in my favor, I had already mapped out in my head what my next steps would be--both at work and on the home-front. 

It's like I have a "Yes, Cancer" or "No, Cancer" plan quietly hanging out in the back of my thoughts for when I may need to retrieve either. 

I had cancer last year, a statement that still doesn't make sense, but I am healthy today--very healthy. A friend of mine died of breast cancer the day after my birthday last month, and a gentleman-friend has developed Multiple Myeloma seven years after having leukemia. Two other friends have brain tumors, another has prostate cancer, and one of my favorite residents is dying on Hospice. 

Cancer is all around me, so it is not lost on me how blessed I am that I am well. 

But it doesn't mean that I am beyond the trauma of having had cancer.

I imagine that that worry may quietly hang out in the back-drop of my life, maybe forever. 

I just don't plan on allowing it to stop me from enjoying every last minute of the days I get to be on this planet. 

A friend of mine died a week ago today. 

She had been diagnosed with breast cancer two summers ago, but I'd had no idea because we mostly knew each other only through our businesses.  

I later learned that she had heavily researched healthy treatment options and ended up choosing a cancer center in another state. She stayed there for three months in an attempt to heal using alternative methods.

She returned to town just a few weeks before my diagnosis, so as I was enduring my own bout with cancer last summer, she offered helpful tips and shared her own story of hope. 

She resumed working two jobs, running 2 on-line businesses, making jewelry, and was in the beginning stages of remodeling an old school bus to live in as her own Tiny House. 

She felt healthy and looked vibrant during last summer and fall. 

Then boom!

As winter turned to spring, she casually mentioned on Facebook that she had cracked a rib while working on her bus renovation. 

Several weeks later, I was scrolling through my news feed when I noticed a GoFundMe account with her picture attached. 

Stunned, I messaged her. Is it true? Is the cancer back??

Yes, it was. 

In fact, cancer was the reason for the cracked rib, and now it was taking up space all over her body. 

My heart sank. 

And it was hitting waaaay too close to home. 

Her BFF set up a round-the-clock bedside vigil to keep her company, so I began to visit her. I was initially shocked to see how much weight she had lost, but she was still able to accompany me downstairs where we talked about her life in this new stage of cancer metastasis. 

That was in mid-June. 

I just didn't believe at that time that cancer was most likely going to claim her life. She seemed hopeful about her next healing option, and it seemed so attainable. 

And despite her condition, she still looked and sounded so...alive. 

Several days went by before I visited her again, and this time she was bed-ridden, but she was still bright and cheery as I walked into the room. 

Over the next hour, it was also apparent that she struggled a bit finding the right words to get her point across.

Sometimes it was even hilarious. Or poignant. Her friend shared with me that one day she told the people in her room, "There is plenty of plenty." 

I was still hopeful that her dire outcome was going to turn itself around. 

Upon my return from a week-long vacation at the end of June, I immediately went to see her. 

She recognized me instantly, but this time she was definitely more sleepy. I mostly chatted with another friend who had shown up at the same time, then kissed her g'bye, confident I'd see her again. 

Two days later, she was on my mind throughout the day and I thought about going by to see her again, but I didn't.

I felt strangely happy, even giddy, for most of that day. 

As I ran my errands, she was not far from my thoughts, which made me feel enormously grateful for the life I was living. 

I was grateful for the boring errands I had to run; the ability to drive on my own and pay for groceries and clothes without a financial struggle; grateful for the sunshine, and my crazy work hours, and my beautiful home with a stunning water view. 

I felt giddy in love. With LIFE. 

Because it was so damn obvious that my friend was stuck in bed with few options. She was able to swallow to stay hydrated, listen to soothing music, and speak a few sentences before returning to sleep. 

But despite those limitations, she was still smiling, talking, and giggling at her morphine-induced language. 

At least that's the way I had remembered her. 

The next morning, I received a text that my friend had passed away peacefully, and without pain, at 11:07 the previous night. 

Sigh. 

Lyn's passing reminds me that I can live my life feeling giddy and in love with what I have, even in the mundane, boring tasks and moments. 

I choose life. I choose happiness. I choose fun. I choose contentment in the small moments. I choose bliss. 

​I choose plenty of plenty. 

I hope you do, too, because there really is no guarantee for tomorrow. 

My bout with cancer showed me that we are all closer to death than we realize, and I believe it's our responsibility to live every moment cherishing our gift of life. 

So as I mourn the loss of a vibrant friend who passed much too early, I have just one question for you: 

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" ~ Mary Oliver

"I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud...I want my everyday to make God belly laugh, glad that he gave life to someone who loves the gift." ~ Shauna Niequist, author of Cold Tangerines

May 8th marked one year since my diagnosis of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, I can hardly believe it.

The year has sped by so quickly that it's hard to imagine I had cancer for most of 2018. 

In fact, I was showing pictures of my bald head to family recently and the sight of myself without hair caught my breath. 

Did that really happen? 

You've all been privy to how cancer showed up one afternoon and kept me hostage for months on end. It was real. It was scary. It was heavy. 

And yet, the not-so-easy details are a distant memory to me now. Somehow, in a quick blink, it is all over and I couldn't feel better. 

All that's left is the love that kept me afloat.

YOUR love. 

The above quote makes me laugh out loud. I hope that in the wake of my diagnosis, I have given God a daily belly laugh, glad for giving me the gift of my new life.

Because I so love the gift. And I do not take it lightly. 

Nor do I take my relationships lightly, and I am in awe of all of you who showed up. 

I did not understand how big a tribe I actually had, until you all showed me, through cancer, that my tribe was more steadfast and resilient than I ever knew, and that my place within that tribe is secure.

I have never before experienced such an outpouring of pure love. 

So here, in my humble and grateful way, I want to share my warriors with the world. Single-handedly, you have each contributed some piece of yourself to make sure I was not alone.

It all began when I shared my news with my boss, Christina, and with tears in her eyes, she leaned across her desk, pointed her finger at me, and said some of the wisest words I'll ever hear: “Don't do this alone.”

Fortunately, I took her advice and gathered my people.

Then one-by-one, you all began to show up.

A hair-shaving party was quickly organized where Kim sat at the front of the line, eager to be the first to shave her head with me and for me. She volunteered her cafe and supplied snacks and goodies for the party-goers, while Laurie gave her time, free of charge, to shave everyone's heads; Tara and her daughter, Savannah, along with Ty, Travis, Ian, Brad, Missy, Maryann, and Audrey were among the 13 who shaved their heads in solidarity on a day when I didn't feel very brave. 

Maryann spear-headed a Team Katie campaign and handed out bracelets to many in town who proudly wore them upon my return from my biopsy surgery. She also spent many of her mornings (after working the night shift) with me at the Chemo Bar, driving me there and to other appointments when I needed an escort. She also spent many Friday evenings cooking dinner for me in my kitchen. 

My boss allowed me to miss work as I needed to (9+ weeks!) and welcomed me back each time, fully trusting me that I would catch up on my nursing duties. She also delivered balloons, pie, and presents when I spent my 55th birthday on the couch.

Kathy sent meals and love-wrapped gifts home with me several days a week, for several months, and graciously donated to my GoFundMe; Carmen brought fruits and vegetables to my home when I was needing sustenance the first week of chemo, and prayed over me and with me as I healed. She also donated PTO and money to my fund.

Amanda and James made food to order (potatoes!) anytime I called with a craving and made sure food was delivered to my home each day, and Amanda and Jessica brought said meals to me for lunch almost daily and kept me company while I was on the couch recuperating; James and Tara donated their valuable PTO so that I could receive a decent paycheck; Cat took me to acupuncture and listened to me when my fears at work escalated; Dana made a delicious coconut cream pie that Christina delivered on my birthday; Cricket lovingly shared her own experience so that I knew what to expect with mine; Michelle often shared a wise-crack about how I could dress up my baldness; Lori welcomed me back with a big hug, saying, “It hasn't been the same without you.” And Tony showed us all that difficult news can be met with courage and grace.

During my first week of chemo, Robert lovingly wrapped me in his embrace and allowed me to feel the scariness of my new life; Gem performed Reiki on my body when cancer wracked it with pain; Kim kept a jar on her cafe counter for donations and brought me meals and popsicles with only a moment's notice; Stephanie volunteered to accompany me to my first surgery before I thought to ask anyone; and Tami walked "Relay for Life" last June in my name, the same event that I will be attending this year. 

Money began showing up in large sums, generously donated by friends and family (sometimes, strangers) around the globe: My sister, Diane; my brothers Jim and Marty; my mother and father-in-law, Fred and Marcella; my brother-in-law, Steve and his partner, Steve; Omar; Missy; my cousins Katie and Mike, and Claude and Chris; Roy Colquitt; Deana; Tracy; Jan; Sharon; Linda; Kathy; Lynn; Lisa; Terri; Luwane; Dann; Tiffany; Bobbi; Nancy; Julie; Betsy; Jennifer; Marlene; Walt; Monte; Missy; Zelinda; Robert; Marci; Bev and Kathy; Mary Fran and Tom; and Shelley and Nahum. 

My sister, Robin, sent cards and packages, week after week, from across the country as she traveled; My BFF, Kelleen, sent a Birthday package filled with healing goodies; Eve brought an "Angel" plant to my home quickly after diagnosis and shared a story of lymphoma that gave me hope for the road ahead; Bettina treated me and my daughter to a bountiful breakfast when we dined at the bakery where she works on one of my good days between chemo treatments; Dawn painted a beautiful tribute to me and accompanied me on my entire first day of chemotherapy; Jan brought me coffee and cookie on my first day of chemo and visited a few more times during subsequent treatments, while leaving a huge check tucked into a heartfelt card. 

Ashley gave me a necklace with a life-affirming quote; Adam and Courtney (nephew and niece) wrote heartfelt letters when I was first diagnosed; Ashlee, my niece and single mom of three daughters, donated to my fund; Steve created my GoFundMe account and became the first to donate; Lyn shared her own experience of cancer, while recommending treatment options for a healthier recovery; Lynn knit a hat that included pigtails; Jeanie brought me a hat and an oil-infused water bottle; Tara gifted me an angel statue to add to my collection; Mo gave me a snazzy shirt from her store collection; and Jo, my massage therapist extraordinaire, insisted that I pay less each session for the length of my treatment, then later gifted me an entire session!

To the many others who supported me in spirit, or with food, donations, cards, calls, and gifts, I apologize that I have overlooked you by name. Your kindness and generosity were invaluable. 

Bradley, my son and wing-man, took me to chemo sessions, picked up medications, and stayed home from work to be with me; My son and daughter-in-law, Alex and Myca, kept bringing my grand babies to town so I could see them each week; and my daughter, Audrey, kept me company at the chemo bar and while I was on the couch recovering. 

To my grown children, Alex, Brad and Audrey, and to my grandchildren, Wyatt and Mavis, you are the reason I endured this past year. ​And I would do this year all over again if it means I get to stay on this planet with you for as long as I can. 

I will love you long after my heart stops beating, and I will forever be with you. 

You are all of my reasons for living.

My father died on April 17th, 1991. The day before he turned 68.

My father, a typically productive and active man, had become bed-ridden a month before. Cancer had stricken him eight months earlier and the road to recovery had been long, tedious, and unsuccessful. It was startling to see his transformation from a short and solid man of substance to a willowy and pale cancer patient. He was only 67.

He'd been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, a more aggressive form than mine. But it was 28 years ago, so the course of treatment was significantly less-advanced than the treatment I received just a year ago. 

I visited him in the hospital his final days. I had my four-month-old son in tow and I was due to fly home to New Mexico from South Carolina. Dad had taken a turn for the worse that morning and was rushed to the hospital because we could not control his pain at home. 

I'd gotten up early to get ready before my son woke up for the day, and realized that Dad had been up all night in pain. His stoicism masked his agony, but I saw it in his eyes. He was in trouble. I dialed 911 to summon an ambulance and called his primary physician. Dad had been on a mixture of medications that kept his pain at bay, so something new was causing him to writhe in his at-home hospital bed.

I followed the ambulance to the hospital and kept an eye on my watch. I wanted to cancel my flight but Mom insisted that this was just a momentary lapse. New pain medications would be administered and they'd be on their merry way within a few hours. Satisfied, I stuck to my itinerary and waited while Dad got admitted into his own room.

Trying to make small talk in the confines of a sterile, cold environment, I sat on the edge of Dad's bed. He looked small, vulnerable and sad. And I couldn't help him. Nor did I know what to say. 

Minutes dragged on like hours, when I glanced at my watch one last time. It was time to go, so I started to collect my belongings. When it was time for good-bye, I hugged him tightly and felt a longing to stay, but I was due to return in a few weeks for his birthday bash with the rest of the family. 

But as I blew him one last kiss from the door, I knew this would be my final moment with him. I felt nothing but peace so I had decided on the spot that my hunch was probably wrong.

Perhaps I couldn't fathom then that what I knew to be true would come to pass. 

It would be our final conversation. Our last good-bye.

Two weeks later, my then-husband and I were driving along I-25 in New Mexico on a balmy spring day en route to the airport. My father's 68th birthday was the next day and long ago we'd planned a family vacation to see him, probably one last time as he'd been in and out of the hospital for months already. Death was imminent.

Our five-month-old firstborn was strapped into his car seat beside me, fast asleep. I was going through a list in my head about all the details that would need to be taken care of once we hit the airport: tickets in left shoulder bag pocket; put ID tag on collapsible stroller; re-check contents of diaper bag—when I felt a puff of air, like a cloud, interrupt my thoughts, drawing my attention to the scenery outside the window.

I felt paralyzed as it floated deep within my body, then escaped.

My mind chatter froze as I stared out the window, watching the orange and brown landscape speed by. The laundry list was far from my mind when I quietly told my husband, “Dad just died.”

Several hours later we arrived in Chicago, found my sister-in-law, and settled into her van outside the airport. Before closing the sliding door she looked in my direction, her eyes tearing, and said, “I don't know how to tell you this but your Dad just died a few hours ago.”

“I know.”   

These final memories are as fresh today as they were 28 years ago.

Perhaps it is because April is my father's birthday month. Or because my intuition is often insanely accurate, scaring me at times. Or because my spiritual connection to my father has been intensely powerful since his passing. 

April 18th not only belongs to my father as his day of birth; it is also my brother's birthday AND my second son's birthday. He was born two years after dad died so I have often wondered if my son was a gift from his grandfather. 

The month holds so much meaning...and life. It was one year ago, on their birthday, when the sharp ache in my back started, which began the cascade of symptoms that led to my diagnosis.  

While I was under-going treatment last year, I was resigned to the possibility that I could die, too. Not only did the same type of cancer take my father, but it has also taken other friends and family members from my far-reaching tribe.

But just as I knew that I had spent my last moment with my father, and later knew the precise moment he had died, I also knew I'd survive cancer with a long life yet to live. 

For those whose fate did not have the same outcome, this post is for them. But most especially, it is for my father.

He died much too young and far too early. 

But in his final moments he was the epitome of strength, even in his skeletal frame. And his final words summed up a life bravely-lived: "It's all about love, that's it. Just love."

Spoken by a man who had endured a rough childhood with an alcoholic father, served in WWII as an Air Force pilot, and raised eight children while showing us the world from the back of our station wagon. Our father had seen his share of sadness and trauma, but he also imparted a thirst for knowledge and travel with his family. 

So as I remember his day of birth while celebrating my son's, I will carry his message forward.

It is no coincidence that just a few days ago, my 94-year-old mother and my father's wife of 46 years, moved cross-country to begin living just minutes away from me. 

More magic. 

I like to believe that my ability to recognize and experience magic is the legacy he left behind. It's the same magic that keeps my father and me intensely connected across the veil. 

I can even imagine that he made a bargain with God to keep me alive. 

It has been over a month since my last post, mostly because my life has taken off in a full-blown, frantic pace. 

And I do not like it, not one bit. 

When cancer had been shoved to the back-seat of my life just as the holidays were merrily beginning, I returned to work and resumed my former busy schedules. I couldn't wait to be myself again, enjoying the things I used to before cancer narrowed my life down to just a few good days per month. I needed to feel normal again. 

But I dipped back into my full life so suddenly, and so earnestly, that the pace caught me by surprise. And it's even more surprising since I only work four days a week. I have plenty of down-time to enjoy reading, coffee while writing, long walks with friends, lazy weekends with my grand babies, and massages on my days off. 

I have no reason to complain that my life is so frantically busy. 

And yet it is. I feel the pressure building within me day after day, and I'm not sure what to do about it. 

I do not believe that this internal stress is from wanting to live life fully in the wake of cancer, fearing that I'll miss out if I don't pack it all in while I'm in remission.

Instead, I sense that the rising volcano is from life whipping me around without my full consent: work is busier than it has been in the four years I've been employed there; medical bills and paperwork seem to be piling up around me more than usual; and the days/weeks/months are moving at a faster clip than normal. 

I'm good at managing the controlled chaos, but I don't like that I have to. 

While I was on the couch post-chemotherapy for four straight months, I was able to take in my life as it happened: I ate, I read, I wrote, I rested, and I visited with friends as much as I could. I chose not to worry about the extraneous paperwork and responsibilities outside of paying bills. I knew my friends were nearby, at the ready to help when necessary, and I trusted that my entire life was being taken care of as I healed.

My life felt narrowed by an outside force I could not control, but it also felt more wide-open than ever before.

I had just a few responsibilities to tend to, and the rest of my days were spent doing/seeing/taking care of what was right in front of me. I did not plan out my days and weeks; they were mostly choreographed by treatments and doctor appointments, so I was forced to stay more present in my life. 

While poison coursed through my body killing cancer cells, I was happily enjoying the enormity of my life that had been hijacked by cancer. 

Go figure. 

It's obvious that the antidote to the restlessness I now feel is to remain present in my life without worrying about my financial state, a recently broken washing machine, or a business I'm not sure how to resurrect. 

So why is that so damn difficult? 

Perhaps it's because my life is so wide open. I have so many opportunities to choose from, and so much I want to do. Just a few months ago, I was confined to only what I was able to do, but as a renewed healthy person, I have the world at my feet. 

Where, oh where, do I begin? 

It feels overwhelming to consider, and yet, the answer is the same as it was while I was propped up on the couch: take life one step at a time, staying present to doing only what's right in front of me. 

​Amen. 
​

"She silently stepped out of the race that she never wanted to be in, found her own lane, and proceeded to win."

On November 16, 2018, my seven-month odyssey with cancer ended. I'd endured six chemotherapy sessions every 21 days, followed by daily radiation treatments over four weeks. Just before Thanksgiving, it was all over.

But that's not the whole story. 

Even though my treatments were finally behind me, the fall-out of facing cancer was not. 

Just seven days after radiation, my back began to ache. When I visited my oncologist a few days later for an-already scheduled appointment, he spent our time making sure that I understood how my body would shift and change in the wake of such an assault over many months. 

That made sense, so I left there feeling more settled. 

Until the next morning when the ache radiated from my back to my sternum, with an obvious line of lesions forming across my torso. Yep, shingles!

But you guys already knew that. I wrote about it (here). 

Days later, I celebrated Thanksgiving with a house full of people who love me. It was difficult to get through the day with dry eyes; my gratitude list was so long, and I was so overwhelmingly thankful...for everything. 

December flew by with Christmas preparations, which included the infamous Christmas tree lighting at the center of our town square. I joined my oldest son with his family and we enjoyed hot chocolate, pictures, Santa arriving by fire truck, visiting with friends, and Christmas music. It was a festive night and I felt healthy and strong. 

But as I walked back to my car, alone, I began to cry. 

"What if this is my last Christmas?" 

The question nagged at me the entire month. 

And the aches in the body kept shifting. The shingles rash disappeared quickly, but the continuing symptoms did not. 

Today, nearly three months later, I still feel like my entire upper back is sunburned. It has a faint tan to it from radiation, but I am not at all sunburned. But whenever someone hugs me, I feel it; when my clothes rub against my back, I feel it; when I stretch, I feel it. It feels like I'd just spent a week on the beach. 

My doc told me that I actually am burned beneath my skin, so stretching my back is a curative exercise. It helps pull at the places that feel taught with scar tissue and soften them so I don't feel so achy. 

I guess it's critical that I return to yoga more consistently, then. 

My right breast, where the shingles rash began, feels numb with intermittent jolts of electric pain stinging my chest, if only for nanoseconds at a time. Since shingles is a virus affecting the nerves, this makes sense, but it's still frustratingly annoying. 

There is a muscle on the inside of each of my scapulas that cramps up, on-and-off throughout the day, usually without cause. Fortunately, the knots never appear at the same time, which is reason to celebrate. 

My sternum aches throughout the day, which gets my attention since it's the same kind of ache that I'd been experiencing, off and on, for months before diagnosis. 

I'm hypersensitive to this area of my body since a muscle cramp started the cascade of obvious symptoms last April, just before diagnosis in early May. I sometimes still sleep with a heating pad, either on my chest or under my back, and every day I wonder, "Does this new ache mean the cancer is returning?" 

I try very hard not to entertain that worry for long. It's both futile and a waste of my time.

But it's there, just the same.  

After a post-chemotherapy and radiation PET scan last week, I met with my oncologist this morning to discuss the results. He also put my mind at ease (again!) regarding the ever-changing, annoying, and perfectly normal aches in my torso. 

Happily, it is all a result of radiation, and my body's attempt to repair itself. 

I am in awe of my body's capacity to restore what was once covered in cancer. 

So it came as little surprise that all of my labs were within normal ranges, my LDH level was still normal, and my PET scan was still clear!

I don't have to return to my oncologist for THREE. WHOLE. MONTHS! 

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

On February 23rd of last year, I took my first and last vacation of 2018. Just a few days before getting on a plane to fly over the Pacific, I had what I thought was a nose bleed, but when I looked at the tissue, the color was highlighter yellow.

I'm serious. 

Knowing that only cerebral spinal fluid is that color, I immediately called my doc. I certainly didn't want to board a plane if something was terribly wrong, but she assured me that I probably had a bit of a sinus infection. I didn't really believe it since I've never had one in my life, and felt no other symptoms, but I accepted her casual diagnosis and spent a beautiful ten days in Hawaii with one of my sisters. 

I now wonder if my body was already trying to alert me that something was, indeed, terribly wrong.

It would be two more months before my back began to ache, and another few weeks after that when I experienced the pain across my chest that took me to my doctor. A week after that, I was diagnosed. 

But next week, exactly one year after this all began, I will again board a plane to the other coast to be with my family.

I have come full circle. 

With a second cancer-free PET scan behind me, I have successfully found my own lane. 

And I have won. 

"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." 

Today was my third PET scan, and for some reason, I was more worried than usual.

I'm a nurse; I know how to do this. I'm also a patient who knows what to expect.

I had my first scan upon diagnosis last May, and a second one on October 9th that showed I was cancer-free. It's an easy test: much less confining than an MRI, but much longer than a CT.

Still, it's a breeze. 

There was no reason to be scared, but I could feel it bubbling beneath the surface as today came into view. 

I had to fight to keep my appointment since it had already been cancelled once due to an insurance issue, then I stayed on top of the issue until it was resolved and today's appointment was made. I wanted this test done. 

When yesterday's snowstorm blew through our state, I was worried that my scan would again be postponed. 

But as I cautiously eased my car out of my snow-packed driveway this morning, I was also wishing that I would not be able to make today's appointment. 

I wanted a good excuse not to go. "Sorry, my car couldn't make it up the hill due to ice" I would say to the receptionist without having to lie.

Instead, I could go to work and not face the inevitable, at least not today. 

But my car did make it up the hill, then through town on snow-mixed-with-ice laden streets, then to my appointment. I even arrived thirty minutes early.

So I puttered around in my car until my appointment time, and to my surprise, I had to fight back tears as I watched my smoky breath in the frigid air. 

What was I so afraid of? 

The chill of the car quickly became unbearable, so I dabbed my eyes with a Kleenex, grabbed my bag, and went inside where I updated my medical history, then asked for a copy of my labs. I had arrived with a mission to check on my LDH level that had been drawn a week ago.

LDH stands for Lactate Dehydrogenase, an enzyme that can be found in almost every cell in our bodies. When LDH levels are increased, it's a sign that there is tissue injury or a disease, such as cancer, brewing somewhere in the body. Normal range of LDH is 100-190. 

My initial LDH level last May was 261, which was deemed a "mild increase" by my oncologist. Within a month, and after Non-Hodgkins's lymphoma was officially diagnosed by biopsy, my LDH shot up to 331. 

After an excellent response to several months of chemotherapy and radiation, my LDH level was down to 201 just eleven days after radiation ended in November. My oncologist expected it to be a tad elevated (above 190) since radiation had just damaged my tissues during the previous 21 treatments. 

Today my LDH level was 209, an 8-point increase from November. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, considering it had gone up since last time. It was expected to be elevated after finishing radiation, but what about now, almost three months later? 

Does an increase of 8 points signal that the cancer may be returning, or does it confirm that my body is still healing from the trauma of chemo and radiation? (And shingles, to boot!). 

My first instinct when I read my lab results was a positive one, that at 209, I was still in remission. I felt it as I smiled in relief. It was only when my mind started wandering with questions because of my rising fear that I began to doubt myself. 

I decided not to second-guess my intuition and I settled into the lobby seat as I browsed through the newsfeed on my phone. I was called into radiation where I cozied up in a recliner under several warm blankets while my nurse (whom I had last time) inserted an IV into my arm, checked my blood glucose level, then injected radioactive sugar into my vein. 

Then she left me in the dark for an hour, my favorite part. 

The reason for this, you ask? 

Cancer cells feed on and attract sugar, so as the radioactive substance began to disperse within my body, cancer cells lie in wait, hungry to eat up the sugar. I was left in the dark so that I wouldn't move about the tiny room, causing my muscles to take up the sugar and use it for fuel. Instead, it was free to be taken up by cancer cells, or to be eliminated from my body should there still be no cancer. 

Thirty minutes in the PET scan machine would determine if any cancer remains in my body. If so, all the places that have cancer would light up banana yellow on the screen; if no cancer remains, the screen will remain black without any hint of color. I will get those results next week when I see my oncologist. 

In the meantime, I figured out why I felt so shaky about today. 

When I'd had my second PET scan in October, I'd already had six chemo treatments. If my scan turned banana yellow anywhere in my body at that time, I would've continued with two more chemotherapy treatments for a total of eight. If nothing turned up on the scan (which is precisely what happened), I would go right into four weeks of radiation. 

And I did. 

But on that day, October 9th, I was deemed cancer-free!

Had it not been that result, however, I still would've had a "back-up plan" to continue to rid my body of cancer. I still would've had the option of more chemotherapy, followed by radiation. 

But this time? 

If this scan shows cancer at all, there will be no chemotherapy or radiation available as "back-up" options. 

In fact, if I thought chemotherapy and radiation treatments upended my life in a big way, then the next course of treatment will surely blow my life out of the water, because the next step would be stem cell transplant.

At least that's what was explained to me when this whole event started last May. 

No wonder I was close to tears this morning. The next step is too monumental for me to consider. Too scary to think about, and too overwhelming to wrap my head around. 

Especially since I have felt so well. I have made peace with the cancer that needed to take up space in my body for a while, and am grateful that it eventually left. 

So instead of giving into the fear that wants to rise up and think the worst, I will choose to put faith in my God-given intuition that reminded me today how I remain cancer-free.

The same intuition that told me last May that I would heal through this bout of cancer quickly and relatively easily, with no residual cancer remaining once last year's treatment was over.

And so far, that has been my beautiful story. 

"...You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." 

Amen. 

As a woman with cancer, I've noticed how often I have felt part of a special group, like I did when I was pregnant. 

Much like a growing belly that tells an obvious tale, so does my short hair and doo-rag. It's clear to others that I have probably gone through chemotherapy, and when their faces register that reality, something in them changes. 

I see it immediately. 

They meet my gaze with a compassionate "I'm sorry" look, followed by an almost tangible sense of pity--until I smile back at them, reassuring them that I'm on the mend. 

Most people take extra time to help me at the store, in the check-out lines, and at work. They seem nicer, more like who they want to be all the time, or who they are meant to be at their core. 

Many also reach out for my short, bushy hair and can't resist running their fingers through it. Much like others reach out for pregnant bellies to touch. 

I think my cancer tends to bring out the best in others.

Even in me. 

My goal has been to be a good poster-child for cancer. I want to help others understand that cancer has a soft side, one that teaches us how to be more ourselves, more authentic, and more real. 

I also want to make it clear to others that cancer does not equal death. We have so much life to live, and my being positive about my future despite a hefty diagnosis helps others understand that I'm not taking life sitting down. 

The healing, the joy, and the challenges have made me stronger than I've ever been, even though I started this journey as a pretty tough cookie.

Cancer has so much negative stigma and fear associated with it that I'm committed to teaching exactly the opposite. 

As I've learned how to live life differently because my schedule and energy level have become usurped by treatments, appointments, and a new routine, I can still be full of life. It may be an adjusted life, but it is also (most likely) a temporary experience. 

Dealing with that has made me more relaxed, and more in-tune with what my body and soul want and need. 

Perhaps that is what people are drawn to when they see beyond the military cut on my head that signals my having had cancer.

They see Hope. Future. Love. 

Then there are others who know exactly what I've been through.

There is a silent code with other cancer survivors I see out in public, much like motorcyclists who give each other a middair "high-five" as they pass each other on the highway.

Without having to say a word, there is an immediate camaraderie. Our eyes meet with a knowing smile and nod. 
We understand each other.

We are sisters in the same experience.

We belong to the same club, one that no one wants to be a member of, but one we are grateful to be included in. 

Something in me changes, too.

I come alive with compassion for them and for myself for having endured such a monumental blow. 

I say a silent prayer of gratitude, as I square my shoulders and grow a few feet taller.

​I am damn proud to be part of an elite group of cancer survivors who have shown more than just an ability to endure. 

We have faced cancer head-on and it was no match to our grit, heart, tenacity, compassion, and love. 

As long as cancer continues to stick around, it will not have the ability to thrive in this kind of environment. 

I, for one, plan to keep it that way. 

When my marriage fell apart two decades ago because of a hidden addiction that my husband had been living, I was, as one may imagine, devastated. I had no idea he had been straying for the length of our marriage, nor that I'd been exposed to potentially dangerous diseases and/or situations. 
 
Besides two miscarriages, discovering that he had another life was the single most tragic event that had happened to me (that I could recall) to-date. 

So it was no surprise that I needed lots of help from outside of myself, and that God--in all His infinite wisdom--showed up in a personal and gigantic way. 

I tried my best to capture that experience in my book, Coming Through With Grace, and pretty much failed. There was no way to adequately describe how I knew I was being guided, talked to, and taken care of by an entity outside of myself.

But while I was going through it, the experience was unmistakable. 

I had little energy to take care of three kids under five by myself in the midst of grappling with the truth that had just descended on my once-happy-little-life. But I quickly realized that when I couldn't muster up the energy to take care of them and myself, others appeared to help out, and instructions about what to do next were being downloaded straight into my ear, as if I was having a conversation with someone else.

Someone much more vast than myself. 

I heard a strong, steady, male whispering, You're going to be okay, just when I most needed to hear it. I felt guided, as if someone had a hand on my shoulder and was physically guiding me around my home, making sure all was taken care of. 

Magic was everywhere. I knew it and I felt it.

And it went on for months. 

So when the cancer diagnosis jolted me awake just 8 months ago, I expected God to personally show up again.

Good thing, I remember thinking; I knew I'd been on the outs with Him in recent years so I was excited about the prospect of His presence once again. I'd been feeling ignored as I was trying to navigate my way through the next phase of my life, which included empty-nesting and starting a new business. 

I felt alone too much of the time, trying to find my way in new territory. And it wasn't going very smoothly, so I blamed God for much of my angst and frustration. 

I need help! I'd cry out time and again. 

And all I seemed to hear were crickets. 

But with a cancer diagnosis, I was certain He'd appear in a big way again. Remembering the beauty of the magic that once showed up in my life, I was both relieved and elated that I would experience it one more time. 

But when God didn't show up like before, I felt confused. 

Where is He?

Cancer was a scary diagnosis, so why wasn't He around, comforting me? I needed help, dammit! 

Instead, a gaggle of humans began to show up, almost immediately, showering me with everything I needed just when I needed it. 

After days and weeks of people consistently showing up to support me in several ways, it was then that I realized what God may be doing (as if I knew, ha!): perhaps He knew that I had needed him so desperately last time because I was so broken.

I needed the Big Guy to appear before me because only He could ease my grief. And only that experience could help heal me. 

(Which, thankfully, it did). 

This time, I wasn't broken. Nor did I feel lost or afraid. I was emotionally intact, just a bit bewildered about how cancer was able to invade my life.

But mostly, I was strong. 

He didn't need to show up in a big way again. 

But He wasn't about to leave me hanging, either. This was a new experience, and a doozy of one, which meant I would certainly need some assistance and guidance.

So he sent his angels and warriors in to help me, guide me, soothe me, cry with me, and keep me fed. He sent all of you in His place because you were enough, and I would be healed by your support and my tenacity. 
 
I love this theory, even if I'm completely wrong or delusional. 

It was as if God realized that I was in very capable hands--YOUR hands and hearts--as you showered me with love.

SO. MUCH. LOVE. 

And the funny thing is, I have never once blamed God for cancer. I have not been angry with Him, not for one minute, for this intrusion into my life. 

In fact, I have sensed for quite some time now that cancer arrived to heal me in other ways. Specifically, by guiding me back to God, and back to myself. 

Because, you see, I had felt very shut off from God for far too long. It wasn't necessarily my choice to feel so separate, but it seemed that no matter what I tried, I couldn't quite reach Him. 

Then cancer appeared, along with all of you, and I felt Him everywhere: in your hugs; in your kind words and soothing prayers; in your smiles; your tears; your worry and concern; the food you prepared; the gifts you delivered; the donations you made, and in the time you lovingly took with me. 

You never left me alone, just as He didn't years ago.

God, dressed in people's clothes, showed up in a big, gigantic--yet different--way, guiding me back to health. 

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...