(re)mission accomplished!

 

in this case, a picture is definitely worth a thousand words! my imaging whiz of a brother pulled these before and after shots of my chest from PET scans. (in case my cropping makes them hard to follow, those are my raised arms and head at the top.)

'what kinda gone are we talkin' 'bout here?'

leave it to country music to embed itself in my mind, even on occasions such as these. whenever oncologists talk about these tumors being 'gone', this song jumps into my mind... and sticks around for awhile. but really, what kind of gone are we talking about? i have been very reluctant to throw the r-word around ('remission'....shhh!), understanding how fleeting it can be for lymphoma and, immaturely, not wanting to speak too soon and jinx myself.

i was under the impression that hodgkin's was one of the few cancers that could be 'cured'. so, i very proudly asked my oncologist if i would now be declared 'cured' of this cancer. she responded, 'if i was standing at your funeral confirming that you died of something else, then you'd be considered cured, but not until then.' since i'm not planning to do that anytime soon, i'll have to get more comfortable with my stage of 'complete response'. (it sounds does sound nice though, doesn't it!?)

the recurrence rates for hodgkin's are highest in the three years following treatment, then drop off to almost nothing. so, i'll be looking over my shoulder for the next three years, hoping and praying that this cancer doesn't return. if it does, i'd be going down the stem cell transplant path, and the odds of success there are definitely not comforting. so, i'll be focusing on doing (almost) everything right and keeping my fingers crossed until february 2014!

i'm participating in a study at dana farber cancer institute, piloted on new lymphoma survivors, aimed at instituting survivorship care plans. this plan will not only summarize all of the toxins and abuse my body has been exposed to on one handy sheet that can be shared with health care providers in the future, but it will explain all the risks of treatment and the precautions i should take. the phd-candidate who was working hard to sell participation (in hopes of making me patient 30 of required 30 in the study) explained, 'for instance, if you weren't aware that you can't scuba dive due to the amount of bleomycin you received, that could be lethal'. wait... no scuba diving?! while that wasn't on my to-do list, it also wasn't something that had ever been explained to me. i was well prepared to worry about my heart and lungs forever due to all they have endured during chemo and radiation, but am eager to get my hands on this plan in a couple of weeks to understand guidelines that will help stave off recurrence, secondary cancers and other health problems. i am hopeful that adhering to this plan, being closely monitored and channeling all possible good luck for the next three years will make sure this cancer is gone 'for the rest of my doggone life'!

like no tanning bed i've ever seen

... although the resulting warm, red burn is pretty much the same. this machine, the 'BW6', and i have spent some quality time together over the last month (radiating 16 fields every day in my neck and chest, to be precise). while I won't exactly miss having my face masking-taped to a table each day, i concur that radiation has been an absolute walk in the park compared to the good ol' days of ABVD!

this should be the easy part, right?

as i approach the end of treatment, i feel as though this journey has come full circle for me. i'm finding myself feeling as emotional now as i did at the start. perhaps i've been so focused on keeping my head down and in the game, looking to the next treatment, appointment, step, that i am finally now lifting my head back up and taking it all in. is this really almost over? i sure hope so.

while i've always been that friend who tears up upon hearing the first note of processional music at a wedding or during the end of a cheesy movie, i feel as though this experience has aged me emotionally and made me even more of a sap. ('is that even possible?' i know what you're thinking!) ;) i easily shed tears listening to the life story of the new friend i met five minutes earlier in the radiation waiting room, or, most recently, sharing the good news that treatment is almost over with my concerned neighbors at the gym and dry cleaners. this should be happy news, i know, but something about it seems very surreal.

the most frightening part of this journey for me happened right at the beginning. the week between receiving the phone call that changed my life and undergoing surgery, i would wake up in the middle of night consumed with whatever i was dreaming and found myself completely forgetting that my life had changed. i would startle myself with the realization that i'd just been diagnosed with cancer. i'd sit up in bed, look around my bedroom in the dark and think to myself 'is that real? did i dream this? is this really happening?' with no physical manifestation of this diagnosis, no new pain, no scars yet, i had no way to confirm. it would take me minutes to convince myself that, yes, this really was happening. and, for several nights in a row, i would lay awake for hours until i cried myself back to sleep. it was the most devastating feeling i've ever experienced; i was heartbroken for my parents, scared for my husband's future and overwhelmed with the vast unknown that was about to become my life.

the past few nights, i've found myself facing that familiar feeling; i lay awake wondering 'is this nightmare really almost over?' and, although my emotional reaction is the same, the feeling i experience when i realize the answer is 'yes' is a world away from devastated. :)

the light(s) at the end of the tunnel

now that i'm on the home stretch, i feel as though i can finally see the light at the end of this tunnel. raytheon, i love you, but i cannot allow that light to be your blazing florescent bulbs back in the office! many young survivors i have met talk about how deflating it is to work so hard battling this disease for months only to... return to work?! hmmm. while i will happily return to work at the end of february, i'm focusing on other bright, sparkling lights at the end of this tunnel right now.

i'm snowed in again, camping out by dana farber for a couple of nights. i rode the elevator at the hospital this morning with another patient who came in for treatment on cross-country skis. wow. only the truly determined made it in past the foot of fresh snow today. i've happily spent my down time here planning several upcoming celebrations and purchased three plane tickets in the past 24 hours. i'm looking forward to a long weekend in new york next month celebrating this victory with my dearest college friends, a weekend in siesta key with my girlfriends from grad school, bachelorette parties and weddings for two of my best friends, among others... i've sure got a lot of living to do this year!

first, though, is a long-overdue vacation with peter. we spent much time contemplating what the perfect trip would be at the end of this journey. we weighed the limitations: 'no sunbathing' per my radiation oncologist and 'nothing out of the country' per my cleverly cautious husband, who wants to make sure we're near a comparable hospital in the event that something goes awry post-treatment. we settled on arizona, which will be pleasantly warm (but not a 'sunbathing'-type trip) and is home to my favorite place: sedona. while i lived in scottsdale for a bit when i worked for northrop grumman, peter has never been, and i'm excited to share a place that's so special to me with him.

as i was forewarned, radiation has succeeded in burning the heck out of my throat over the past few weeks. swallowing anything has become a challenge. my old pal lidocaine returned to save the day, numbing my throat enough to make it possible to drink and eat soup. i was cautioned that it will only get worse for the next two weeks, so i'm bracing myself to muscle through to the finish line by focusing on the light at the end of the tunnel... a few short weeks from now my throat will definitely be burning, but hopefully over a celebratory margarita in the shade with my husband. :)

guess who's got hair?!

...this girl! :)

things i won't miss about cancer, volume 2

1. waiting in exam rooms with my husband ;)
every ounce of patience seems to flee from peter's body the moment we are left in an exam room to wait. this day we could see the doctor standing outside the door casually polishing off a package of twizzlers with perceived disregard for the fact that he was running nearly two hours behind schedule. there wouldn't have been enough candy bars or newspapers in the world to distract my peter's mounting frustration!

2. bizarre hair loss

now that my eyebrows are growing back, i can fully appreciate the cruel joke the universe played on me the day that i texted this picture, along with a desperate plea for help, to my best friend. my left eyebrow wiped off all at once, leaving me to decide what to do with (what was left of) my right eyebrow. after several hours of contemplation (dare i rock one eyebrow?), the decision was made for me when it also wiped off on its own. phew.

3. trays of chemo
of all things that could be delivered to you on a silver platter, huh? :) at least that's what i thought each time i saw this tray approaching. while it has been a little more than a month since i finished chemo, i can clearly remember the feeling of dread associated with the arrival of this pile of syringes and IV bags packaged in their own individual hazmat baggies. (hopefully) this is a feeling i will now only relive through photos!