Beethoven is so hot right now

In all seriousness, one of the most beautiful things humans have ever created.

(In some more seriousness, I have been listening to this non-stop since I heard it last night in the background of a preview for next week's episode of Revenge, and had to call my friend Dan at work and hum it to him so he could remind me of the name.)

I'm...done.

At 2:36 this afternoon, I finished cancer treatment.

I would set aside a few seconds to let that sink in, but I let it sink in over a burger at Five Guys with my mom already, sooo...

It's probably the most finite ending I've ever experienced (except maybe for when I quit my job at the State Assembly. I hightailed it out of there and never looked back.) Now there's nothing holding me back from living a happy, productive life. It is a strange feeling though; what's been my reality for the past six months is now very suddenly a part (a big part) of my past. I feel airy and I feel light and I feel happy, but also kind of disoriented. What now?

There will also probably always be that tiny inkling in the back of my mind named Recurrence. When I asked my radiologist last week when I could call myself "cured," he replied with a quote by a famous oncologist on breast cancer: "You can consider yourself cured of breast cancer when you die of something else." I responded with "Jesus Christ." He then kind of backtracked and said Hodgkin's is not as severe a cancer as breast cancer is in terms of recurrence, but I probably won't ever forget that quote. As sobering a thought as it is, it's what's going to keep me vigilant about my health in the future.

Right now, I'm not so excited to get back to my life as I am to move forward and onto the kind of life I want. I want to be able to fend for myself financially, and I want to be able to do so by means of a job I really enjoy, something that fulfills me. I don't want to sit at a desk all day. I don't want to dread waking up. I don't want to wish that the hands on the clock or the pages on the calender would change faster. I spent the good part of a year wishing for that. So, as you may have read in past posts, I figured going to a head hunter would be a good way to move in that direction. Then I met Janet, the Patti Stanger of head hunters.

My friend Jason had gone to her a week before my appointment, and things hadn't gone so well. "She made me have a panic attack and I lay in bed for a day crying. Then I applied to Americorps," he said. So the night before my appointment, I tried on my interview outfit--a pretty Calvin Klein dress and a pair of heels--for my friends. "Sweater or blazer?" I asked Jenna. "Dress for the job you want--blazer," Jenna said.

The morning of the interview, I even went the extra mile (and by "extra mile" I mean "just to feel like I had some say in the style of my hair") and rubbed some mousse on top of my head. I felt beautiful, professional, and confident.

By the time I left after meeting with Janet, I felt like I was wearing this. Literally as if I had walked into her office in a black contractor bag. "I know you want a career in a creative field," she said when I told her I wanted to put my writing skills to use, "But you need to up the ante in your presentation. These companies want someone who looked like they stepped out of Vogue Magazine, not, you know... this," and she made a broad gesture up and down my person. This was all said in a thick Jersey accent. And not for nothing, you guys, but I looked good, okay? Really, I'm not lying. I did. ("Imagine if you wore the sweater?" Jenna asked later. I shudder to think.)

Janet then proceeded to tell me that there was about a 0% chance I'd be able to get a job in a field I actually wanted to work in, and that I basically shouldn't even try. As she continued to talk, any positive energy that remained in my being seeped out of my body. My spirits felt so low that I figured they had probably taken the elevator down to the basement to kill themselves. So by the time she mentioned the "amaaaazing opportunity" in reception at a fabric company, I agreed to send my resume there.

It was like I was made to feel so discouraged that working in reception at a fabric company (italics because that's the precise job I had right before I got diagnosed that I truly loathed with all my being) seemed like my only hope. It was as if the anxiety Janet instilled in me had stomped out all the memories of how many envelopes I'd stuffed and what it was like to page someone over a loudspeaker every time I had to use the bathroom. I was still in that haze when she called me a few hours later to tell me she had set up an interview for the following Monday and that she needed me to "get myself to Ann Taylor and put myself together over the weekend."

It wasn't until I was back on Long Island relaying this information to my parents when I realized the interview would be, at best, a practice interview. Because there was no way I'd be taking that job. I even debated on whether or not to go to the actual interview, but decided it would be completely irresponsible not to.

So yesterday, as I sat waiting to be interviewed, I noted how absolutely pleasant it was to go into an interview with dry palms. (To quote the late, great Janis Joplin, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.") I was given some paperwork to fill out, and "Please explain any gaps in your employment, excepting those concerning personal illness or disability" was the last of the blanks to fill in. Legally, I knew I had no obligation to tell the woman who was interviewing me about the Hodge, but I really feel like it's an important point to make; for one, it explains the um, seven month gap in my resume, and for another, it's a big event in my life that I learned a lot and grew as a person from. It's like, I dunno, the Peace Corps. Except...cancer.

So I told the woman who was interviewing me I had "just gotten over cancer" (just like getting over a cold!), and she was really sweet and congratulatory, and I managed to demonstrate that it had actually been a very positive experience, which she respected. On the whole, the interview went very well, so I called Janet to relay the information as I had been instructed. Perhaps I just wanted to hear one word of approval from her. But when I told her I mentioned the Hodge to the interviewer, she all but bit my head off. "WHY did you tell her that? You didn't have to, you know!" she snapped. I explained that I was well aware of my rights and briefly went into my reasons why I mentioned it, which she cut off by basically telling me I had made myself a liability.

That was Janet's third strike. The first was the entire first time I met her, essentially, and the second was telling me to go to Ann Taylor and not even Ann Taylor Loft.

I don't know where I'm going to end up. I just know where I'm not going to end up. So thanks for showing me that, Janet! Thanks for being awful and kindling a fire in me to work my tail off to find a job I can be proud of. Because I'm going to find one, and you're not going to get commission off of it.

Now that my rant is finished, I am going to help my mom put the final touches on her halloween costume and then probably enjoy a nice glass of wine. Cheers!

Some next level ish...

This is the kind of thing that always makes me wonder what aliens or people from the past would think if they were shown these videos.

I.... don't even have any more words for this.

via Gawker

The Biebs does Christmas

It's pretty grey outside, kinda nippy, and I'm wearing fleece pajama pants with little skiing people on them, so we'll overlook the fact that it's October 19, and talk about Justin Bieber's Christmas song. I thought he'd give Mariah Carey a run for her money, but this is nowhere near the level of "All I Want for Christmas Is You." The best I can say about it is that it's understated, and we may actually be listening to Bieber's voice start to change. That particular event is about 5 years in the making, so it's quite exciting.

One last thing before I put on a hoodie with no shirt or bra underneath like a creepy flasher to go to radiation---has anyone actually ever been kissed underneath mistletoe?? Is it just me who hasn't? Wait..don't answer that.

Busted

Eeeeee my awesome and hilarious friend Bridgette interviewed me for Bust Magazine's site. It made my mom cry, which actually, come to think of it, doesn't say much about it, because my mom has cried at every single entry she's ever read. Literally every one.

OKStupid

I accidentally (and by accidentally I mean "while a little tipsy from a glass of wine last Saturday night") re-activated my OKCupid account, and the site won't let me delete it for a full week! It's like reading something I signed in someone's yearbook in sixth grade. (What's ^? Tech Ed was soo weird. KIT" followed by my landline.)

I'm getting messages from people being like "Hey, I like your photo! You sound neat! blahblah" and I want to write back and be like, "Oh sorry, the person you're reading about literally does not exist anymore. But maybe you'd like Kt 2.0?"

This was my main photo. WHO IS THAT. Also...the hand on the chin? Really?

Which brings me to another musing--Jenna and I were discussing whether or not the Hodge is first date material once I "get out there" again (makes the dating scene sound like an arena.) Do I sneak it in? Like,"I went to college at SUNY New Paltz, I love Robyn, and I actually just had cancer a little bit ago. What's your favorite food?" I'm really not good at keeping my own secrets, and I don't really want to treat the Hodge like a secret anyway, but I could imagine it being awkward. I actually went on a date during chemo, but the guy knew I had cancer beforehand. Imagine dropping THAT bomb if he didn't?

Midnight City

M83 - Midnight City (Clip Officiel) by Spi0n

I would've considered it the height of cool to be in this video as a kid (still would). Especially to be the girl at 2:07.

This is your brain on radiation

People have been asking me lately how radiation is different from chemotherapy, and my eyes always involuntarily roll with exasperation before I remember the very miniscule amount of knowledge about cancer treatment I possessed before being diagnosed. Reading about celebrities' treatment and even hearing extended family and friends' stories does not deliver the details you get when you're actually helping care for someone undergoing treatment, or going through it yourself. And because I was lucky in that no one in my immediate family or small circle of friends had to go through treatment before I was diagnosed, I can't knock people for being ignorant as to how chemo and radiation are different.

Most of my usual knee-jerk reaction comes from the fact that radiation is so much easier to tolerate than chemo that it seems preposterous to compare them. I wake up with a normal-ish amount of energy, I go to the gym, I eat normally. The one side effect I've felt is a sensation that there is a pill in the back of my throat that I didn't have enough water to swallow fully, which previously (besides scraping together rent) would've been the bane of my existence. Now, it's obviously a minor (and I mean minor) annoyance. I've also had a few bouts of itchiness where they're shootin' lasers into my back, but that's it. Like I've said previously, I think in my very first post, Hodgkin's is the cancer to get if you're going to get cancer. (As if I'm recommending a type of Jeep to buy. "You should tooootally get this one.") But once I got past the "Holy...SHIT I have cancer" factor, I realized how lucky I was in how treatable the Hodge is compared to other patients' types.

Physical side effects aside, one of the biggest differences in chemo vs. radiation for me has been my lack of understanding of how radiation works. With chemo, I was literally tethered via an IV to my medicine for three to four hours, while the oncology nurses fluttered around like very smart butterflies who had the answers to every question I threw at them. I was never afraid to ask a question, which is a testament to my doctor and his staff. Radiation's not really the same.

For one, it's a quick process--you're in, you're out in max 15 minutes. After my first few sessions, I wrote about how the technicians were very brusque, and I felt like I was just a task to check off during their work day. So when people would ask me, "How's radiation going?" I would just be like, shrug, "Good," because that's how it appeared to be going. Secondly, which you will know if you've ever seen Broken Arrow (which is incidentally my favorite action film despite being forced to watch it more than twice a month by my older brother when we were little) radiation is not something you can see or feel the immediate effects of. And when things are invisible, they're harder to understand. (Just like...ghosts...and...love.)

After my first week, I switched appointment times and got a new pair of techs who are worlds friendlier and actually take the time to talk to me. As a result, I've been more vocally curious about how everything works, and now actually feel like elaborating on the actual process.

A typical session:

I drive to Stonybrook Hospital's radiation and oncology unit, park, then pass by the extremely unfriendly valet parking attendant, who despite my attempts at pleasant hellos and lots of "thank you's" responds with a face that would be blank if there wasn't just a teeny bit of a sneer on it. I go into the check-in area and spell my last name (usually twice cause it's ridiculous) and then head into the sitting room, where if I'm lucky, the Food Network is on and I watch the Neeley's being so overly affectionate that I wonder if they're faking it for the camera. My name is usually called within a few minutes, and I head back into this room:

It makes me happy to know there was some (probably persistent) kind....radiation room designer (?) at Stony Brook that knew giving patients pretty pictures of nature to look at would actually ease their nerves a bit. Cause that, along with Bob Marley on the stereo, really does serve to relax me.

So after some chit chat with one or both of the techs, I lay down on the metal platform and tuck my legs into this foam mold they made to ensure my body will always be in the same position. Then I flash my techs for a few seconds before they drape a sheet over my boobs and raise the metal platform about ten feet off the floor (which I didn't know was raised until I went to sit up before it was lowered it one day, and Kelsey, one of the techs, was like, "Wait wait wait wait. I've had people fall off before and sue the hell out of me.") Once I'm up there, they line my tattooed dots up with a green laser that comes out of the round part of the machine. On the bottom of that part, there is a screen that kind of looks like an etch-a-sketch, where these metal pins slide into place and create a slide that was custom-made for my treatment. The image that's created in the negative space on the slide is the shape of the part of my chest that they're treating (which I guess is actually the shape of the tumors.) Once I'm all lined up, they turn off the lights and go into another room. A couple of seconds later a buzzing starts and lasts for about ten seconds, during which I notice a sensation that's almost like smelling blood if blood smelled as metallic as it tastes...and was also on fire. At first I thought that was in my head, but after asking Kelsey about it, I learned it's actually common, though he's not sure why it happens. After the lasers zap my chest, the machine rotates around and hits me from the back as well, which is done in order to keep burning of the skin to a minimum. Then I'm done. It's all very exciting.

If you want more science behind the process, this site shows you what is actually happening to the cells. As far as I can understand, it's similar to chemo in that radiation kills rapidly-dividing cells (which cancer cells are) but that it's also killing healthy cells. Quite the delicate dance.

This week is my last full week, with two more sessions on Tuesday, then I'm....finished with treatment. I haven't spoken at length with my oncologist about what comes next as far as another PET scan or blood tests or WHAT that shows that I actually am really done, so I should probably figure that out. I need to ask when I can call myself cured, or if I can I ever really say that. I want to be able to, but I have a hunch the correct phrase is "in remission."

I also just spoke with the doctor who put my port in, and he recommended I wait until radiation's been done for a few weeks before I get the port removed so the healing process isn't slowed. My radiologist had previously told me it would be fine to get the port out during radiation, but something about zapping a fresh wound makes me wary and brings to mind zombies (which...ew.)

I'm meeting with a head hunter this Friday to try and jump start my life, and even though it's not a guarantee she'll be able to find me the job of my dreams, it feels good to be taking physical steps forward in terms of living the life I want to live when I'm done with all this. Baby steps y'all, baby steps.

(Incidentally, that was my exact haircut a few weeks ago.)

Guys, I can do SO much with my hair now!

I just can't believe how fast it's grown and how versatile it's become.

Simple Kind of Life

Obsessing over Gwen Stefani

+

Being domestic

=

This video, and the majority of my Wednesday

Cancer: the best joke to ever happen to me.

Two things happened this weekend--I saw 50/50 with my parents, and I visited New Paltz, and now I'm gonna tell you about them.

1. Seeing 50/50 whilst being treated for cancer was like setting the crown jewel in the tiara of dark humor that I like to put on when I wake up each morning. I just find it more than coincidental that a movie like that came out in the midst of my treatment, and I'm trying to figure out what the universe is trying to tell me by timing it like that. I went in knowing I would relate (the hair buzzing scene in the previews was enough to prove that), knowing I would laugh, and knowing I would cry. All three happened plentifully. Especially the last part (for my mom, over a tuna melt, in the diner, an hour afterward, which made me kind of regret making her see it.)

There's also a good article in the NYT called "Laughing at the Big C" which is pretty interesting.

There's a good discussion in the comments about whether or not you can generally say "Cancer is funny," and I bet you know which side I'd take. I just think I'd be in a really, really bad place if I didn't see the absurdity in everything that has happened in the past few months. Actually, that implies that I've chosen to laugh about it, whereas the actual situation is that it is virtually impossible for me not to. Using humor as a coping/defense mechanism has been something I've done for a while now, and it just so happens cancer is not excluded.

Second thing: Jenna and I ventured up to New Paltz for a night to visit her friend from college, Meg. We sat in traffic for 3 hours in New Jersey (and when I say "sat in traffic" I mean we sang along to Taylor Swift and I made Jenna cry by simply recounting 50/50), but finally arrived at Meg's in the afternoon. She lives in Wallkill, which is about 6 miles out of New Paltz, in a cottage on a horse farm owned by the original drummer from Skid Row (who Meg said generally eschews clothing except for boxer briefs on most occasions.) It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever spent a night. So peaceful compared with the crowds and traffic lacing the streets of New Paltz, and a virtual meditation zone compared to Brooklyn. We didn't venture into New Paltz until after dark, when the college kids began coming out of their dorms for debauchery. The past couple times I've visited New Paltz, I was all, "Oh man I miss it here!" and "It's so great to be back in this mind set, even for the day!" but this weekend I was just looking at the college kids and pondering, not even reminiscing, but pondering what it would be like to feel that way again. What it would be like to have my main source of anxiety stem from procrastination or to have my parents backing me financially.

Ok that last one was a joke since I'm freeloading all over the place right now, but in all honesty, I just could not relate, and it made me feel really estranged from New Paltz for the first time since graduation. I felt like I'd finally outgrown it. It made me a little sad, but it's not as if I want to go back to a time like that. I mean, what I wore in college alone is enough to make me not want to go back.

I'm currently on hold with my doctor's office to set up a time to remove my port. I've wanted that from the minute it was put in, so this is pretty satisfying for me. I mean, I think it will be satisfying, if I ever get off hold.

All is well down my pipe

An endoscopy is a quick thing, my friends. At 8:03 I was being wheeled into the OR, and at 8:12 I was eating Graham crackers and drinking apple juice. By 8:15 my doctor was telling me that everything looked ok, except for some inflammation, probably caused by overdoing it with the advil throughout chemo. I got such bad muscle or bone pain from the Nubigen shots I had to get to keep my white blood count up that I would just pop them like candy. They're sending some samples away for biopsies to check on if it could be bacterial at all (which, ew) but I was prescribed some meds to limit acid reflux and given a list of things (all very delicious) that I should avoid right now-- coffee, chocolate, orange juice, alcohol.

All of the nurses were really nice. One of them was like, "We're neighbors! I live a block over from you, and you used to play softball with my daughter," (which I didn't remember but said I did), and another one was like, "We have the same birthday! Well close to it, mine's April 9th." But then my friend and former roommate's mom worked there too, and was like, "Well she used to live with my son, Daniel', and therefore won the nonexistent contest of coincidences involving my life.

I find it really cruel that the day after I openly announce that fall isn't so bad after all, I get a ridiculous head cold. I'm eating Greek yogurt and granola right now, but I don't know why, because I can't taste a damn thing. My go-to defense would be to chug orange juice, so I guess my neti pot and I are on our own.

Y'all, I have given into fall.

I just ate a homemade chicken pot pie for dinner with my folks, and I'm drinking tea in a sweatshirt and pajama pants that have pine trees and little skiing people on them. I hate skiing, but they're mad cute.

I have to get an upper endoscopy tomorrow morning to check out what's going on in my stomach. They sedate you, they send a little lighted camera down your throat to check out what's going on, which kind of reminds me of The Frizz:

Yes, let's.

The appointment is at 6:45 am, which kind of makes sedating me pointless. I don't become a functioning human being for about two hours if I wake up before 9. I'm not really looking forward to it, mainly because I don't understand how an involuntary action like choking or gagging doesn't happen. Though I guess the unconsciousness helps with that.

Radiation has been going well, I suppose. I had my fifth session out of 20 today, which puts me at being done around October 24th, less than 3 weeks from now.

Oh God, just got a wave of anxiety because usually by now I will have done 3 or so dress rehearsals of my Halloween costume (which consists of me hanging out in my room for a few hours in full makeup) but I don't even have anything together yet. I have, however, been keeping a file on my desktop of inspiration.

Anyway, I switched to an earlier time slot, which resulted in me being treated by a different, much friendlier tech than last week. I actually felt good asking him some questions concerning how radiation actually works. I mean, I didn't get much further than ascertaining that the lasers are shot into my chest first, then my back to avoid crisping my chest too much, but I felt a lot more comfortable with the new guy than the others.

This past weekend I went to a bar in Astoria and the bouncer told me he liked my "haircut." I was so close to being like ,"OH, you mean my hair GROWTH but thanks so much," but realized it was best to stick to the last half of that response.