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...

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."