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​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!

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

You may not believe me, but... 

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

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

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

It was my turn. 

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

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

That's when I sensed it.

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

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

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

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

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

But, still, I didn't change anything.

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

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

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

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

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

So I finally dropped the idea of death happening.

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

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

Ruh-roh.

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

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

It was my dying that had been. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until death had momentarily arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Many days, I forget I have cancer. 

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

I swear, it shocks me each and every time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because in my mind, it isn't.

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

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

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

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

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

Or to save my own life. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But despite this, I still need you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But sadly, you would be wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, then...

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

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

I then began to worry.

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

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

Oh, fuck.

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

Sigh.

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

And Breathe...

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

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

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

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

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

I am at peace.

​And that is enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope. 

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

My body, undoubtedly, got tired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I choked back tears. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, this only makes me cry harder. 

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