Just a quick question..

WHY are they remaking Footloose? A ban on dancing barely made sense in 1984; it is a virtually impossible concept to base a movie on in 2011.

And yet.

Radiation Nation

I had my first two radiation seshs. Coming from my oncologist's office, where the nurses gave me one of those zumba coin waste tie thingies just because they thought I'd one day have fun wearing it (which is accurate), I was a little less enchanted with the people at the radiologist's. You know when you can tell people are being fake friendly because they're at work and they have to? And like polite in an aggressive way? Most of the techs seemed a little like that. They were just very brusque, which I guess I get--they have a lot of patients, and since the procedure is pretty quick, they kind of have an wham bam way of getting people in and out. Whuhevs.

I've been going to spin class the past couple days, and aside from it kicking my ass, it feels rull good to be building myself back up physically. Every time I want to go easy in class, I tell myself "Nope, you did chemo, you can turn the resistance up, LAZY." That and the instructor makes a pointed comment about "pushing through" if she sees someone turning the dial down, so it's less embarrassing to just deal with it. It's easier when the music is good, though you'd be surprised at how inspirational you'll find "In the End" by Linkin Park when it's the last song of class.

I also think my short hair makes me look tough when doing bicep curls. So there's that for motivation, too.

I've been going to my friend JW's every Wednesday night for dinner and a few episodes of the OC (which I had never seen--I am the only white 20-something person I know who hasn't), and I've decided to just keep dessert coming every week rather than taking a meal turn. I had to share this one: Caramel Apple Cheesecake. Ain't she a beaut?

Times I've dreamed I had long hair in the past month:

Approximately 13.

Last night it was long and thick and shiny and BLONDE.

I also dreamed I was running away from a wizard who was trying to steal this newborn baby because the baby had an amazing singing voice. So.

The Great New England Road Trip

Thank God we're home--I can finally listen to Taylor Swift. I heard "Love Story" on the radio at some point during the last five days but didn't have her on my ipod. She's been on since we got home last night--situation remedied.

On Thursday, my parents and I left for the Maine roadtrip we'd originally planned to go on at the end of August. But then came a hurricane, and we couldn't go until this past weekend.

There is nothing better than bringing a pillow and blanket in the car with you on a roadtrip. To passing cars you will look like a 12 year-old boy (with the haircut to prove it. I think I'm on a boy's number 3 right now), but you will sleep like a lamb.

On the way up, I got to confirm that Cracker Barrel is the biggest hoax America has ever pulled on its citizens. It is terrrrible. Do not go there. Do not let the rocking chairs fool you. Although it is the perfect place to purchase something like this:

We had originally planned to go to a bunch of beach towns up the coast of Maine, but the sky spat on us for almost the whole weekend. Since there's nothing bleaker than a gray beach town in the off-season, we skipped up to Portland, which smelled like a fish tank, then Freeport, which is where LL Bean was founded. Not many people know it, but LL Bean started off as a clothing company that manufactured apparel to giants before he realized the real money was in clothing smaller people.

There is a store called Abacus that has a few locations around Maine, where they sell stuff I want for exorbitant prices.

This costs $300, but it's totally functional. Right?

The main reason of the trip was to get to this potter's gallery in Edgecomb. My mom's been wanting to go for years. It is the Mecca of Pottery. Where else do you see glazes like this?

The goal was to stay in Bed and Breakfasts the whole trip, but the only time we actually got to was in Boothbay Harbor. What a charming little place. The bathroom was filled with delicious smelling soap, and there were cookies and a dog and a wall between my parents' bed and mine, which did a lot to stifle the sounds of their snoring.

We rounded out the trip with a stop in Salem, Mass. Even though my mom warned me it was pretty touristy, I was still expecting to walk onto the set of Hocus Pocus. Unfortunately, Thora Birch was nowhere to be found, but we did get to witness a goth wedding. We walked down a red brick street and found an old-looking building with its doors wide open and a guy in what I thought was a costume standing inside. I figured since this was Salem, the town makes it their business to have guys in crusty tails and top hats walking around. We walked in and down a middle aisle with rows of chairs on either side, finally coming to a table where this

and a bunch of other Pagan looking stuff was laying. "Did we miss the Satanic ritual?" my dad asked. When we got to the open doors on the other side of the building, I saw other people in similar costumes milling about, but it wasn't until we were walking down the front steps through the purple velvet-clad bridal party that I realized we just walked through a wedding. "Sorry sorry sorry," we said we we scuttled down the steps. Minutes later, (with an attempt at inconspicuousness) we watched as the bride and groom emerged from the doors. The bride could only take tiny, geisha-like steps because the black latex wedding dress she was wearing was so tight.

"Vampires gotta get married, too, I guess," a dad with his family said to his kids who were openly gaping.

I thought it was pretty perfect. I wish them well, and I hope the honeymoon in Transylvania is everything they've ever dreamed of.

Not the bride and groom

We also took a tour of the House of the Seven Gables, which Nathaniel Hawthorne based the novel on. Our tour guide sounded like the Mad Hatter with a really horrible Boston accent. We bought the book on CD to listen to on the way home, and I was asleep in minutes.

Not as spooky as one would think.

We made the Port Jeff ferry by like, two cars, and we saw the most amazing sunset I've ever seen over the water.

Pictures don't do it justice. The sky looked like molten gold.

In Hodge news--I had the radiation tattoo sesh last week. I was expecting to be there for at least 3 hours, but I was out within 30 minutes. After a cat scan, the tech said it was time to do the markings. So I felt my face get really hot and prepared for what actual tattoos feel like, but it was the tiniest of pricks. I actually felt the wetness of the ink more so than the needle itself. He used a non-electric needle with separate ink, like a stick and poke tattoo, but probably way more sterilized. I have four teeny dots that when connected would make a cross on my torso--one in the middle of my chest, one on my tum and two on my sides. They're barely noticeable. I go for my first treatment tomorrow, then the GI doctor on Thursday.

I figure it's time to seriously get my feelers out for a job soon, so I've sent out a few resumes and contacted the head hunter Sara used to get her job. I've already got the fantastic friends and a fantas---sorry, decent---apartment, so it's time for the fantastic job, right? Right.

The good news

is really, really good news! No more chemo--I am officially done! The PET scan revealed that malignant activity is basically gone. Awesome.

The bad news is really not THAT bad. But my doctor said "something was lighting up in my stomach" on the PET scan. First thoughts of course went to stomach cancer, but he said he has never, ever seen a case where the hodge and stomach cancer were correlated. KNOCK ON WOOD.

He said it's probably an ulcer brought on by stress and exacerbated by chemo, or gastroenteritis, which is something like a virus or infection and treated with antibiotics. Next step is seeing a gastro doctor, who will probably send a little camera into my throat and into my stomach. What the F...how do they think of ANY of this.

I really just wanted to feel elated today. Shrug.

Tiny, tiny peach

So remember that faux how-to list about the end of summer where the whole joke was that "Sexy Bitch" by David Guetta came on and ruined the really quiet feeling Dar Williams gave me? Twice? Well, I was (somewhat shamefully) listening to Dashboard Confessional just now while working on my resume, and "Several Ways to Die Trying," the last song on the album, was wrapping up nicely and somberly and IT HAPPENED AGAIN.

"Sexy Bitch" has to go.

In other news, I've been going out now without a hat on, because I now somehow have enough hair to get away with that. For a while it was weird, baby bird fuzz of different lengths on the very top of my head, but then one day last week-ish, I looked in the mirror and realized I had a hairline again. It was in hiding, because it's bleach blonde from the sun OR (!!!!) because it's growing in that way. Cancer would be so worth it to be a natural blonde. (...Trying to decide if I'm kidding....)

So this past weekend when I went into the city, I was showing off my new half a centimeter of hair to my friends, and everyone agreed I could get away without wearing one of the fedoras that's been glued to my head all summer. So I actually went to dinner without a hat on and felt the evenin' breeze on the back of my head. It tickled. But it was a really delicious feeling. NYC is always a good place to try a new look out, because no one really looks at you twice there unless you look like you're going to ask them for money. And even then they don't, because they don't want to give you any.

I didn't think St. James was ready for the look, but my mom boosted my confidence, and I went around all day yesterday and today without a hat on. At one point I wondered if people could tell I had cancer. It's such a specific kind of insecurity, because if I had just shaved my head because I felt like it, I'd probably enjoy the looks people gave me (because I am a narcissist, welcome to my blog all about ME), but since it comes along with the hodge, and it makes me feel so icky and awkward to think people feel bad for me, I lost my nerve a little. But not enough to put a hat on.

Here is a photo of the peach that resides on top of my neck. I'm pointing to my favorite (read: most blonde) part.

In other, OTHER news, I had my PET scan at 8 am today. Compared to everything else, PET scans shouldn't be anything to complain about, except it is literally FRIGID the entire time, and I kept shivering and getting really painful goosebumps. "Painful goosebumps?" you say. "How strange!" Well, let me explain. Anyone who has shaved their legs before knows the unpleasant sensation goosebumps give your right after a shave. Like,"Oh, great, a slight breeze and my legs are prickle city again," and you can kind of feel the hairs growing. Well, since there hasn't been much hair on my legs for a while (Summer: the ideal season for BBQs, swimming, and going through chemo), I haven't had that feeling. Now, since the hair on my legs is starting to grow in again, when I got goosebumps today it was like little evil were trapped in my skin and trying to escape by pushing toothpicks out from under each pore.

I should get the results tomorrow at some point, which will dictate the next few months. YIKES BRO.

Hindsight is 20 20

I'm probably going to regret staying up past 3 am tonight at around 9 tomorrow morning, when I have to take Lily to the groomer. But my inspiration to write seems to be nocturnal most of the time.

I just went back to the beginning of my blog with the intention of reading just the first entry, but I actually read through all the ones I wrote from April-July. While it was not nearly as weird (and thankfully way less awkward) as reading a livejournal entry I wrote in 10th grade, it was a trip to read that first entry. I don't know whether things have already shifted in my memory or whether my mind is more focused on the future than the past right now or what, but I'm already recalling things differently in my mind than how they apparently happened according to my blog. Not big things. Like, I didn't forget I froze eggs (one does not easily forget three weeks of daily internal sonograms), but I forgot that I had asked my nurse if I could name the eggs they extracted when I was all doped up on anesthesia. I didn't forget my surgeon put on the Beatles when he was installing my port, but I wouldn't have remembered that "Eleanor Rigby" came on first. Or that we had ice cream cake on my birthday, the day before I was diagnosed. Just details like that. It's nice to have them tucked away in here.

But I do feel so...estranged from the person who wrote that first entry. I had the strangest sensation that I was reading a stranger's story. Maybe it's because I'm in just such a different place now. When I read how I stayed in my bed all day after learning chemo would take up to 8 months...I just kind of pitied that girl. She was so ill-equipped to get up and deal with reality that she just slept and cried. She was kind of pathetic.

I like how I process information now. I like who I am more now.

So note to my future self: No matter the results of your PET scan on Wednesday, but especially if you do have to do more chemo, remember how you feel right now compared to then--equipped and able. Like you have a baseball bat in your hands instead of a twig.

update:

Immediately after posting that I watched a bunch of videos on youtube of footage. I guess it wasn't until I sat down to write did I realize I could (and more importantly, should) separate myself from my personal problems and take some time to be a part of today.

9.11.11

I've said it before, and I'll say it again--2011 will go down as a very trying year in so many respects.

Today was the 10th anniversary of September 11th, and I haven't really been able to absorb that at all. Actually, in truth, I have not let myself. I spent the weekend in the city (Cody had his housewarming party), and Saturday night, Jenna, Hope and I were walking home with some takeout when Jenna stopped walking, and, pointing up and across the street said, "Look."

I looked up and saw the two blue beams of light where the towers stood that I have now seen in person two years in a row rising above the row of buildings on 5th Ave. The sky was just darkening to a really serene dark blue, and it was getting increasingly cloudy. The clouds almost made for a sort of ceiling for the beams, except that they were patchy, the effect being that they served more as reflectors for the light than obstacles. They looked so close to where we stood, even in Brooklyn.

But that's really the only moment this weekend that I let myself go to that place in my head where I remember what actually happened that day and let myself feel in my gut that sick feeling that I'm sure is just a fraction of what so many people felt all weekend, and what some feel with every day that they don't get to spend with a loved one they lost.

I fully realize that choosing to avoid all media coverage and the consequential deluge of sadness that this day brings is a luxury that a lot don't have, and what's more, that it's somewhat selfish. But I just couldn't bring myself to go there today. I think I'm just so anxious about my PET Scan on Wednesday that self preservation is kicking in and I'm really trying not to lose it.

Though it should be noted that my chances of not losing it are dwindling with each minute I spend trying to figure out how to articulate myself here, so it might be time to call in a night.

How to Commemorate the End of Summer

1. Give yourself a trick ass manicure, despite your mom's assertions that "you could be doing something more productive with your time."

2. Gingerly grab your laptop. In fact, gingerly do everything for the next 3 hours while the thick layers of paint necessary to complete a "trick ass" manicure dry.

3. Scroll down to the "D's" in your iTunes, until you arrive at Dar Williams.

4. With a very deep and purposeful breath, double click on the song you save for every year at this time. (The time of year when the breeze blowing the curtains around the open window has that smell and chill to it, but the crickets are still a constant refrain coming in from the front yard.)***

5. So yeah, double click on "End of Summer," remembering last week when Andrew told you he was playing it for the first time and how you almost went to, too, but then chickened out because you didn't want to give into it, but your parents closed the pool and you saw your new, 14 year-old neighbor walking home sullenly from the bus stop today.

6. Close your eyes and let the imagery of the song work its magic. Ponder the lyrics:

The summer ends and we wonder where we are

And there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car
And you both look so young
And last night was hard, you said
You packed up every room
And then you cried and went to bed
But today you closed the door and said
"We have to get a move on.
It's just that time of year when we push ourselves ahead,
We push ourselves ahead.

7. So poignant!

8. Get to the last verse, your favorite:

And the colors are much brighter now
It's like they really want to tell the truth
We give our testimony to the end of the summer
It's the end of the summer,
You can spin the light to gold.

8. Marvel at how dead-on it is, how nostalgic, how beautif---

9. Get punched in the gut by the opening whistle-y laser sounds in the beginning of David Guetta's "Sexy Bitch," which also happens to be one of those songs on your computer that plays ten times louder than any other.

10. Repeat steps 5-10 exactly as before, because you forgot AGAIN that "Sexy Bitch" comes on right after.

For the same effect, just play these two youtube videos right after one another.

*** Really serious and mournful sentences trapped between parenthesis in an otherwise satirical how-to list are okay when it's about as something so important as summer ending.

What is it about waking up to a grey room that gives me such anxiety? It's like the weather is attempting to take Labor Day really seriously this year and just close up shop.

I mean, I guess I'm inspired to clean out my closet, but just barely.

Is this it? Is this the beginning of me whining about the weather? Seriously? Already? I'm annoying even myself here.

Anyway, here's a video of a New Zealand lady with pretty eyes and a penchant for quirky choreography. The themes of this video are somehow really obvious and weird at the same time. I like her voice, though.

Who has a kayak I can borrow?

...to forge the river of tears that I will expel during this movie, probably.

Fall shopping...

It's going swell.

(In all likelihood) The Last One

The night before last I went out in Smithtown and saw a bunch of my high school friends for the first time in a while; some are moving, some are starting grad school, some are preparing for their first or another year of teaching. In short, everyone is getting on with their lives, which to me fits in with the way that the cold breeze sweeps in around this time and lifts the dead leaves from their branches to be raked up. I don't think I'm alone in thinking of September as the beginning of the year, rather than in January. Things kind of collect in the summer--from laissez faire attitudes to work to pints of ice cream in the fridge--but fall is the time to assess what you don't need and exfoliate all of the extras like the dry skin of an old tan.

(I'd just like it to be known that metaphors aside, I'm not happy about losing my tan.)

Maybe I'm not starting school and probably won't start a job until November or December, but today marked what should be (it pains me tp type should be, details on that in a bit) my last day of chemotherapy. I made a facebook status while having coffee today about it, and over 80 people "liked" it. I'd love to claim it was representative soley of my extreme popularity (ew Internet popularity is such a weird thing to ponder), but I also think people were responding to something positive revolving around such a heinously negative thing as cancer. The many people who liked that status and left comments told me not only that people cared about me (which I can't emphasize how gushy it made me feel) but also that maybe I have succeeded in a small way one of the things I set out to accomplish with my blog and being more vocal about it on FB than the average bear--giving people insight to having cancer in a way that a google search couldn't. If I was the first person to do this for anyone, or better yet, made it known that me or my blog could be a resource for people who are diagnosed on the future, I would consider myself utterly grateful, and that would probably be the best thing that could come out of all this. (I do realize I'm talking about facebook, where people comment on things willy nilly, but still. I hope. )

I wrote that carefully so as not to come off "I am the queen of all cancer information and my blog deserves a pulitzer," because, duh, in the end, it's just one of thousands of personal chronicles on the Internet, but I just wanted to ultimately express my gratitude for all of your messages that said it was being well-received by you. (Also my Chronogram horoscope said some stuff about knowing the difference between being self centered vs being "centered in yourself" and narcism vs self love, so, according to the stars, I am sorting it out, and will continue to do so here, because, as I've said many times, this blog allows me to articulate myself on ways akin to therapy.)

That being said, I'll get to what's really on my mind--yesterday, after I posted that status, I thought "Well, better just check with my doctor that this is truly it." According to him, there is a 95% likelihood it will be, but there is a 5% chance that the pet scan I will get in two weeks will reveal something "very extreme" (meaning the activity of the cells is not low enough to satisfy my doctor) and I will have to have four more sessions of chemo, potentially tacking another two months on.

95% is an A+ in most learning institutions. It is by all means a fantastic percentage. But after something as unlucky as getting cancer happens to you, no matter how optimistic a person you are, for a little bit your mind goes to the other 5%, and you get anxious thinking about doing half of what you just did (which, if you're looking exclusively at the second half, were no picnic.) As I said to my friends, I literally can't entertain that idea. Except I am. Ugh.

There's only so far positive thinking can take you, but after this writing, I vow to do my best not to consider the possibility of more chemo so my body is like, "You know what? you're right, let's move on to radiation, shall we?" but obviously, if it has to be done, I'll just have to fucking do it. That's been my attitude from the start, and it's not like I have the choice of changing it, so...yeah.

I remember my fourth session of chemo, a nurse I had met at mather hospital was on her last session. I asked her how she felt, expecting a big smile and relief but she just looked at me, tired. "I'm done, I'm just done," she said. "I want my hair to grow back, I went to lose the ten pounds I've put on from the nausea medicine, I want to not be tired. I'm done."

Instead of breaking through the finishing line tape triumphantly, it seemed to me she was limping to the end of the race. But now I understand how it feels to get to the last one and just feel exhausted rather than exhilarated. Apart from tired, I just feel like a shadow of what I could be physically. I get winded walking up two sets of stairs. I feel ugly and bloated. My eyelashes thinned out so much that my eyes are constantly tearing and it makes me sad to attempt to wear mascara. I average about one dream a week about putting my hair up in a messy bun, or even that it's anything but the patchy, weird, chicky baby hair I have going on right now.

There's a fine line to tred when complaining about your looks and cancer. On one hand, feeling unattractive for reasons that are mostly out of your hands sucks. But on the other hand, the one that would weigh more if I were doing the hand scale thing, I'm alive and will most likely continue to be for a while. Having friends and meeting people whose family members or loved ones have died from cancer, you can't complain about looks without thinking of them and how much more pain they're in. I'm just trying to be as honest as I can here, and part of that to me is admitting that I feel like a troll doll. I dont know.

This whole thing reads a lot more serious and subdued than what I usually like to write, I guess because I'm afraid to feel the full flush of relief until I get those pet scan results back. But like I said, after this, I want to do my best to let it go until I have to deal with it and try to accomplish something good in the next few weeks.

In non-cancer news, Hurricane Irene left us without power from Sunday morning to last (Thursday) night. Like true pioneers, we hooked the generator up to the fridge in the garage and ran a line through the kitchen, unplugging it from the coffee machine and plugging it into the toaster for breakfast. Like pilgrims, we called my dad's electrician friend and had him hook up the generator to the hot water heater, too, and took hot showers.

It was almost a complete non-event, other than the fact that instead of crickets out my window, I heard the VERY LOUD growling buzz of the generator and those of my neighbors' every night and read by the light of a flashlight. Wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been. Oh, except all of the bands and events scheduled for the Quiksilver Pro NY in Long Beach were cancelled because they couldn't build the stages up back in time. Major bummer, brah.

But hopefully, probably, good things are on the horizon, and I'm just gonna focus on them for a bit.