High Noon

Mark this the first time I've willingly woken up in the 8's since I was diagnosed. The Hodge has given me the excuse to sleep until my will without anyone's judgement for the first time since college, so you bet your bottom I've been taking advantage of that.

Butttt yesterday was my first day of chemo, (at noon) and I woke up at 8 unable to fall back to sleep. I guess there's a lot on my mind and writing in here with a cup of chamomile and mint tea was the first thing I could think of to make me feel better.

Oof I always feel like I'm back-(b)logged (heheh.. stupid) with this thing because my last one was before I even knew when I was getting my port put in. That happened last Friday, and call me crazy, but it was slightly...enjoyable.

The doc who put my port in was the same one who did my bone marrow biopsy, who me and my mom-especially my mom-took a liking to (after two glasses of wine at Carrabba's the night of my biopsy she told me he was my soulmate, then when my dad and I laugh-scoffed at her, she backtracked to "someone LIKE him" would be my soulmate, "since he's really funny and outgoing and not necessarily conventionally good looking but attractive, you know?" The morning of the biopsy as I brushed my teeth she walked by the bathroom. "I know the nurse said no makeup but a teensy bit of mascara is okay I think," she said. Then we both burst out laughing.

I was much more relaxed for the port placement than I was for the biopsy, and it allowed me to freely chat with the nurses rather than stare and nod like usual. One nurse practitioner, who was really sweet, kind of made a gigantic deal that her birthday was the day after mine. Like, she must've said it five times, then went on about how we're both Aries girls and yeaaaaaaah! So when she got down to business and asked me when I was diagnosed, I said "...your birthday!" and even though she laughed a little bit, her face kind of dropped. "Oh God, I am going to remember that for the rest of my life," she said.

Eesh, hah but really, I am realizing that my jokes about being sick need the right kind of audience. Example: when I knew I had the tumors (and therefore in my mind was picturing the worst, even though we didn't know for sure) I was at a local bar with Jenna and my other two friends John and Martucci. I think I had told John a day or two before, so naturally, he and I were already ready to crack the really insensitive jokes I'm talking about. Our conversation went something like this:

After telling him "Do You Realize??" by the Flaming Lips would be the song played at my funeral (that's actually not a joke, take a listen, kiiinda perfect. And don't steal it if you die before I do.)

So anyway, after that, it reminded me I wasn't sure if I'd be able to go to Bonnaroo. So I turned to John with a grin on my face and said in mock seriousness, "JW, would you buy my Bonnaroo ticket if I die?" to which he gave the most perfect answer in the world: "Sure but....why would you need the money?"

I cracked up so hard but through my tears of laughter I saw Jenna go to the bathroom. She looked a little bleary-eyed when she came out but I didn't want to make it worse, so I waited till we got to the car to ask if she had been crying. "Yes, you asshole! Hysterically!" she said laughing. "Martucci was rubbing my back the whole time you and JW were talking! Ugh. You're an idiot."

So I've been trying to know my audience. But you can't with a blog so you can all just think I'm either putting humor to a decent purpose or think I'm being insensitive. Your pick.

Back to the biopsy. To add to my good mood there, the nurse was able to put the IV into the crook of my arm, which let me tell you, makes all the difference in the world for a squeamish one. I found using the veins on top of the hand much more painful, and that they can inhibit some use of your hands the following days after. Crook of the arm was just like having blood drawn. But now I have a handy "Super Port" installed in my chest which can be used to draw blood, give liquids, and be used in CAT and PET Scans.

When they wheeled me in, this tech came out and was like, "HEY! How ARE you? How have you been doing???" And I was like, uhmmmm did I meet this guy and not know it? "...Good, good," I said. "That's great!" he said. I then just kind of stared and did the pursed lips smile, nod your head thing when he said "Well I'm Ray, I'm one of the lab techs that'll be workin on ya today! Just gonna get some things prepared and we'll have you set up in no time."

The lab techs (there were 3) and my doc really did get down to bidnass as soon as I was wheeled in. As they were sterilizing the site, the female nurse looked down at me and said "Ok, time for your fun little cocktail!" as she plugged sedatives into my IV. I had told my doc that after the bone marrow biopsy (which, by the way, was soooo not that bad thanks to all the sedatives and pain meds I got) I had felt a little queasy. So I was on a nice flow of sedatives, pain killers and anti-nausea drugs. Barely a minute had passed by when I looked at the ceiling and noticed the tiles were moving.

"Any music requests?" my doc asked. "Rolling Stones? Beatles?"

"Beeaaattlessss," I slurred out, transfixed by the waves on every surface I looked at. Then I began to sing along with "Eleanor Rigby." See what I meant about fun?

I was pretty sore after though. They made two cuts--one above my boob on the right side and one in my neck a few inches above it. The port on my chest is where the needles for chemo go, and the drugs travel up the tube into my jugular vein. (If it sounds like if I'm not disgusted by thinking about a tube in my neck, change your mind this instant.)

The next day kicked off Cody (little brother!)'s graduation ceremony in Boston, and a couple zombie wounds (like seriously looked like what a makeup artist would create) on my chest weren't stopping me from going. I had such a great weekend. I ate like a queen and had a blast with my family, but most importantly, I got to see Cody in his natural habitat. I could see why he was so bummed to leave BC--he has a really fun group of friends (part of that is based upon the fact that his neighbors across the hall complimented my shoes), and Boston College is just so....college. There was such a sense of camaraderie between all the seniors--they had a whole week of fun activities for them like dances and mud volleyball (Oh my God what I would give for that.) New Paltz was just like... "Uhhh...if you managed to get your degree in four years, good job! Hardly any of you do anymore! Do you want to have a champagne toast with the president of the school? Oh, you'd rather drink mimosas with your friends and roller skate around your house? That's ok, I don't blame you. Oh and by the way we're giving Natalie Merchant an honorary doctorate but she's not going to sing or speak at graduation. Actually no one is, and you're going to have to sit through the speech of a valedictorian who's like 38 and managed a 4.0 GPA by taking one class a semester over 11 years! ISN'T THAT IMPRESSIVE."

So yeah, I had a kickass time and kind of vicariously lived through Cody for the weekend. He's home now till mid-July when he starts his job in NYC. Kid graduates magna cum laude and had a job lined up by the January before he graduated. It's a testament to how much I love him that I'm not seething with jealousy and just unbelievably overjoyed to have him home.

The day after we got home was a day I had been simultaneously dreading and looking forward to: the pre chemo cut your hair short so you don't wake up to the hair you've been fervently growing since last spring when you got that weird, asymmetrical hipster haircut laying on your pillow day. My hairdresser, Kristen, was an abbbbbbbbsolute peach, I can't even tell you. I went in wanting a pixie cut and then changed my mind to a faux hawk halfway through so she gave me something in between. I've been wearing it up since it's been hot (and with it down I just kind of look like the moon and not Carrie Mulligan or any other skinny bitches who actually look like pixies.) Consequently I look preeeetttty dykey, which would've gone over spectacularly my sophomore year of college, and every mirror in my house screams "JIMMY NEWTRON" at me when I walk by it, but whatever--soon my hair is not even going to be an issue and my bangin' scarfs and fedoras will. Mrs. Rapp, my dad's secretary and the breast cancer survivor I mentioned before also hooked me up with a bunch of scarves and how-to's--like how to make a turban out of a t-shirt so it's super comfy. Like my mom said yesterday, she's been our biggest support system through this. So here's props to you, Mrs. Rapp! I can't imagine going through this without you.

Oh. I also got a wig and it's blonde. Yes.

MAN, I apologize for how long this is. But what a nice way to spend your Friday before Memorial Day in the office, right? RIGHT?

Like I said, chemo was yesterday. I wasn't nervous the night before, but heading back into the infusion room I wimped out. Both my parents came to hear the explanation of everything. I actually sat next to one of the nurses at Mather who did my pre-surgical testing. She has breast cancer, and was on her fourth treatment. She was looking pretty good, had to say. So that helped. But then when the chemo nurse came at me with the needle that goes into the port, I was all Sweaty Mc Wide Eyes. That did not feel good. No sir. But the Mather nurse (gotta find out her name) told me to get a prescription for Lidocaine, which numbs the skin and "makes all the difference." You can bet I had that script five minutes later.

I was there for five hours due to set up and allergy testing and what not. But the nurses said I can usually expect only about two from now on, which ain't bad! I was expecting 3-4. Although maybe my doctor was counting wait time on that. But time passed kind of quickly for me. I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, and that lady is a laugh riot. I also listened intently to the new Fleet Foxes album, "Helplessness Blues," which is one of those albums where the songs can all really run together unless you make it your mission to get to know each one on its own. May I recommend the waltzy "Lorelai" and the first half of "A Shrine/An Argument." The latter contains the lyrics "Sunlight over me no matter what I do/Apples in the summer all cold and sweet/Everyday passing complete," and I just feel like that's kind of a perfect mantra for me right now. I'd say the first line would make a nice little tattoo but I'd get a tisk or a "really." from my mom, so I won't. (But it would. Just saying.)

The worst part of chemo was learning more about how awful the pharmaceutical industry is in this country. One of my chemo drugs is denied by my insurance (one that keeps my white blood cells up, which, hello, important) but they will pay for me to get it in smaller doses as an injection in the arm (DAMNIT) every week until it seems I level out. But that isn't what got me so upset. My doctor came out and told me that one of his patients, a breast cancer survivor, had to get a kidney transplant that I think is unrelated to that. But the kidney procedure and subsequent treatment can actually cause her breast cancer to come back full force if the doctors aren't absolutely positive there is no cancer left. So how do you check for no cancer? A PET Scan. What did her insurance deny her? A PET Scan. I wanted to cry on the spot when he told me that, but I'm making it my mission to stop being such a human Splish Splash, especially at chemo when everyone else around me is probably worse for the wear. But honestly, how do you live with yourself working for a company that makes decisions like those--and worse ones--as a daily practice? Money ruins everything.

I'm going for that shot today. Apparently it can make you kind of achey, but otherwise I'm doing pretty good! Little weird feeling, but luckily I've always been partial to seltzer, which helps a lot. And gives me an excuse to belch my heart out without reprimand from my family. Plus my Aunt Connie sent me an awesome book called "Eating Well Through Cancer" that has a ton of tips and recipes to follow. Cody's on that "I just came from a disgusting shared college kitchen and want to cook in this lovely, clean, gourmet one," which is just dandy if you ask me. Hopefully I'll continue feeling well for the rest of the weekend, seeing as it's the kick off to summer and there's bbq's to attend. Speaking of food, two hours have passed since writing this and it's time to get my grub on.

And srsly, I'll try to keep this to under 12,000 words next time. Srsly.

Pippa

I got a puppy on Saturday.

I don't have a puppy today.

Her name was Pippa, and she was probably the cutest animal I've ever seen, let alone held. She was (is, she isn't dead) a little pomeranian that I fell in love with when I made a really bad decision to walk into a puppy store in Stony Brook last week.

My aunt and cousin had just gotten puppies. Meg, my friend, also had a little one she was raising with her dad. I guess by seeing how adorable the pups were and how happy they made their owners, I figured getting a little baby to cuddle with during the months ahead might ease the anxiety I've been feeling and help me get through chemo. Plus, I thought, I'm not working, and despite being tired, I will be able to devote time to training and taking care of one. Perfect time to get a dog, right?

Wrong.

My parents had their reservations, especially my dad. Their concerns were totally valid: she most likely came from a puppy mill since she ended up in a store, puppies are a huge responsibility, and I am heading for a few tough months where I'm not going to be feeling too great.

I told myself--and my parents--that the puppy would be a great distraction, and a huge comfort during all that. I wheedled my dad, who said over and over, it would be too much work right now. Plus, I already have a dog who I absolutely adore, Lily, who let's just say is not too fond of other dogs in general. But in the end, after a few days of incessant pleading, my parents gave in and I called the store and arranged to pick up little Pippa (the name was perfect for her, seriously) this past Saturday.

I had a tiny collar for her, a little leash, a teeny little kennel with a pillowcase for a blankey inside. I was all set to make her the happiest puppy ever. But after a few hours with Pippa, I began to realize how careful I had to be with her. She was barely three pounds. She felt practically breakable in my arms. Then, within a span of a few hours, the "I have to be careful with this puppy" turned into a panicked, "Oh my God I'm not going to be able to do this." I actually cried when my parents, Jenna and I left to get a bite to eat because I was so anxious about leaving her since she had vomited a bit after dinner (which I read was common when puppies were adjusting to new homes, but still.)

I put her to bed around 11 that night and set my alarm for 6, but was woken up at around a quarter to five by my mom who said "Katie! Katie the baby's crying." I groggily went down and went through the tasks of taking her out, feeding her, and letting her have play time. My mom was up with Lily around that time and helped me watch her for a bit when I confessed I was having second thoughts about the whole thing.

I didn't know what to do. I hated the thought of putting her back in the store or giving her up, but I also had this really, really gut feeling that this was wrong, that I shouldn't have a puppy right now, that everything my parents had said was true. That it wouldn't be fair of me to try to raise Pippa when I'm sick.

By 9 am Sunday, less than 24 hours of having her, my mom asked me if I wanted to see if we could return her. I had a horrible breakdown, but decided then to bring her back to the store so she could have the chance to go to a good owner. Sobbing hysterically, I got in the car with my dad and Pippa and brought her back to the store.

A blonde woman was eating a takeout breakfast when we walked in and immediately stood up when she saw the look on our faces. I knew I wouldn't be able to talk, so my dad took on the task of explaining the situation. I tried to interject, "I thought it would be a good idea but...but.." I was crying too hard to speak straight. My dad explained about the hodge, and although I don't like using it as an excuse for anything, this time it was an excuse. The lady looked apprehensive at first; I could tell the store did not accept returns on healthy puppies under normal circumstances. But then she told us she'd take the puppy and have her friend sell her outside the store so her boss wouldn't find out, since he "isn't a sensitive man."

It was all I could do to hand Pippa over to my dad to give to the lady. "Where should we put this little mush?" He asked after we reached an agreement. Then one of the employees took her from my dad and brought her to the back. I couldn't even look at her.

I cried all day yesterday, completely inconsolable, although God bless my parents, they tried. For one, it is tearing me up to know the puppy is back in the store. And secondly, I feel like a complete child in that I didn't admit to myself before buying the puppy that it wasn't the right time. But really, that deep down feeling that I wouldn't have been able to give her the full attention she needed coupled with the anxiety I had over taking care of her was enough to make me able to give her up.

I woke up today feeling much better and more relieved than upset. But as the day wore on, I started to have doubts, and an overwhelming sense of guilt and anxiety set in to culminate in another hysterical bout of crying in the dressing room of Chico's, where my mom was trying on outfits for Cody's graduation. My mom, standing in the skirt she was trying on, looked at me in utter disbelief. "You are not like this, Katie," she said. "You're not an anxious person. Everything turned out okay." But I couldn't stop crying and heaving, so I escaped to the car and we headed home, where my dad was home for lunch.

On the way home, my mom put things into perspective for me, and got me to admit something that I had been hiding deeply: I wasn't crying completely about the puppy; I knew she was going to be okay, and that I had done the right thing. I was crying because not being able to take care of her represented to me not being able to live life normally. I was crying because my mom was right, I am not normally an anxious person, and I hated not being able to handle this situation. I was crying because I am really, really scared about starting chemotherapy and how my life is going to change this summer. About how it's already changed.

On the advice of my parents, I called my oncologist today to tell him about how I felt. He confirmed something else my parents had said--that my hormones were still really out of whack, and I was going through what he called "the crash" that happens after you're loaded up like I was. I tried to keep it together on the phone with him. Crying in front of the Chico's ladies is one thing, but I didn't want to cry to my doctor. He assured me that I would level out soon, and that starting treatments would actually make me feel better. He also boosted my confidence by saying he could tell just from meeting me once that I was too level-headed for the feelings I've been experiencing to be just nerves.

Since talking to him, I've only cried once--right now, in hashing everything over again. A little 3 pound piece of my heart (metaphorically--the heart weighs only 9-11 ounces) was chunked out today when I brought that little pup back, but I really need to get myself together and get back to the positive place I was in when I decided not to let the hodge completely take over my life.

And it's not like that should be so hard to do. As I've said in maybe every post on here, my parents have been amazing in helping me through this. Their patience is endless. And not just them, but my two brothers have been really supportive also. Cody, my younger one, graduates this weekend, and then comes home for at least a month before he begins his first real person job in July, which I'm really happy about. I'm going to Boston this weekend for the ceremony, and it should be a fun three days. Also, it has to be said that I already have a fantastic dog, who although she was really pissed at me (seriously, she wouldn't look at me), still came into my room after her breakfast and curled up at the bottom of my bed today.

Huevos Rancheros

That's what my mom has been referring to my eggs since we found out the retrieval process would be on Cinco De Mayo, which, incidentally, was today. So yeah, they're out, gracias a Dios. Aye yai yai, mis amigos!

Okay done. Had to get that out since I didn't get to partake in today's festivities by drinking margaritas and not knowing why Cinco De Mayo is a holiday. Originally, (and by originally I mean three days ago, but it feels like a month) my doc told me the retrieval process would be on Friday, which meant I would be giving myself the "trigger shot" on Wednesday, two nights prior. I was pretty nervous about the shot, because you have to mix a milliliter of water with this powder and change the needles and yadda yadda, more stuff I have no experience with (quickly learning that is no excuse for not wanting to do these things) and essentially, you get one chance at it. But I was planning on having my dad help me out, as per usual, and taking the night to go into Brooklyn to see a friend who was visiting from Australia who I hadn't seen in three years. My friend Eva, who is subletting my room in Brooklyn, had planned dinner and a movie for a few people.

As I'm about to spritz some perfume and grab my backpack, my doc calls and is all, "change of plans, inject yourself tonight at precisely 9 pm and we'll see ya Thursday!" all chipper, because all the nurses there knew how badly I wanted to be done with this. (I recently learned under normal circumstances, the process I went through takes months. We did mine in just under three weeks.) Trouble was, like I said, I was basically backpack in hand when I got that call, and determined to get into the city.

I weighed my options; I could unpack my backpack and sit around, begrudgingly waiting for 9 p.m. to show up so I could do the injection and not see my friend for who knows how many more years. Orrrrr I could pack up my water, powder mix, rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, needles, syringes and inject myself on the go, like a modern gal!

After some lip-biting, I hopped on the ol' g chat to tell Eva bout the wrench in the plan. She assured me that no matter where we were (which I calculated to be the bathroom of the Angelika Theater on West Houston), she'd help me out and give me the injection if I wussed out. So after checking 29 times that I had all my materials, off I went.

Now I know an NYC movie theater bathroom isn't the most sanitary of places to be hormone injecting, but it does make for quite a memorable location. I couldn't resist making a facebook status about it now that in general most everyone knows about the hodge. "true life: I'm going to be giving myself the injection that will trigger my egg retrieval process for thursday in the bathroom of the angelika theater at precisely 9 pm tonight. top that for Weird Shit I'm Doing Today," I wrote, to which one of my friends responded, "girl, that can't be topped." Like, it can't. Anyway.

We saw Win Win (with Paul Giamatti, who if you would've asked me before I giggled my way through this film, ruins my mood every time I see his face) and at 9:15, Eva and I bee lined to the bathroom and set up shop in the handicap stall. Being as careful as possible, I unwrapped the syringe. It comes with about a three inch needle attached to it that is used only for the mixing portion before it's changed for a much smaller, thinner one for injecting.

"Oh my God that's such a huge needle!" Eva said.

"Shhhhh!" I said, laughing with my finger to my lips. I was doing something totally legit (albeit weird,) but I didn't necessarily want everyone to think I was shooting up in the bathroom. "This one's for the mixing, then we switch before we inject," I said, drawing one mL of water into the syringe. "Does that look like one ml? Is that the right amount? Ughhh I'm so nervous I'm gonna screw it up!"

"Why don't they just mix it for you?" Eva asked.

"You have to do it right before you inject or it doesn't work or something, I dunno," I said. "Ugh that isn't the full mL." Some of the medicine was stuck in the bottom of the bottle, and I was having trouble getting it out. "Here, let me switch needles and see if that works."

The whole process took about ten minutes, and in the stress of doing it right, I forgot my intentions to A: stay calm and B: stay quiet. By the time we had finished, I didn't care who thought I was doing WHAT in that stall, but I was glad it was over and done with.

At around midnight, I got a response from my friend Daniella, who worked at the publishing house I interned at last winter into spring on my facebook wall: " holy shit i think i heard you in the bathroom. were you wearing red sandals? or was the person injecting you? holy shit." My mind flashed back to an hour before the movie, when I complimented Eva on her cute, red shoes.

A text came from Daniella: "You still have my number in yo phone?" I responded, "Were you serious about the red shoes?" Turns out she had been using the bathroom a few stalls down.

I couldn't stop laughing. "I can't fathom what you thought was going on!" I texted. She wrote back, "I thought drugs. Someone said something about a milligram, and how 'it's annoying that they don't just mix it for you,' then something about a needle. But you weren't being particularly quiet about it so I thought maybe diabetes. But then I figured that if you were an adult with diabetes you would be used to it by now and giving yourself your own insulin. I told the dude I was with about it afterwards."

We both decided it was a sign that we need to get together, and in my opinion proof that New York is the tiniest city in the world. Speaking of New York, being away from my routine there has completely thrown me off and made me feel like an outsider again. It was kind of sad to walk into my room and see a space that I had nested in filled with someone else's belongings. But I am so glad they were Eva's and not some Craigslist weirdo. I don't know if I will be back in Brooklyn come October, but I'm glad I have the option. I guess you could say the same about this whole egg process. I don't know if I will definitely need them, but I am so, so glad to know they're there, all 14 of them!

Yep, they got 14 today. I went into their facility in Mineola at 7 am, was given anesthesia at 8, and done by 8:30. Again, modern medicine astounds, especially because that was my first time being given anesthesia. One second I'm on a table with my legs in the air (in a position, it must be said, I never want to be in again) and the next a nurse is saying, "Katrina, Katrina wake up, take some deep breaths for me." Once I had opened my eyes a little, the nurse went and got my mom, and she sat with me while I woke up some more.

I don't know what it is, but drugs that usually send people into very lethargic states just make me run my mouth like an absolute fool. "Go to sleep, aren't you tired?" my mom asked.

"Look at these decorations!" I remember saying. "They're nice! Every nurse's station I've seen lately has all the same colors and stuff, but these are like, they're really nice!"

"Yeah... they're nice...." my mom said.

They were paper flowers hanging on string from the ceiling.

"Okay, we got 14 eggs!" my nurse came over and told me. "You did great!" A giant wave of relief washed over me.

Later, as we were eating soup in Panera, my mom laughed and looked at me. "You know you told the nurse you wanted to name all your eggs, right?" I did? I had not remembered that. I asked what the nurse said. "She said, 'well THAT'S one I haven't heard before," my mom answered. "You also kept sticking out your tongue and showing me the scar from your tongue ring."

Then I went home, slept for six hours and dreamt I was a hobo riding a freight train, woke up and watched American Idol (JACOB IS GONE, FINALLY. Also, a text from Jenna: "2011 will go down as the year you had the hodge and actually cared about American Idol.") And here I am. Tomorrow is my bone marrow biopsy, and I wish more than anything they'd put me full out again tomorrow, but I think I'm getting that "twilight" anesthesia. Can't wait to hear what I say coming out of that one tomorrow! If it's good, I'll report back.

I'm so emooooo

You know when you have those times that are total movie moments? Like, you're doing something that in the midst of it, you stop and think, "This could totally be a scene from a movie," but you're alone so no one can really understand even when you describe it to them later? I'll set the scene up for you anyway:

I have been going to the egg doctor ("reproductive specialist," but there has not been a time when we've called her that) for almost two weeks now. The last week I've been there every morning for a sonogram, blood tests, and 2-3 hormone injections, and let me tell you, it has been an EXPERIENCE.

Ladies (and men who've witnessed it), imagine your WORST day of PMS; if you're like me, you're fatigued, quick to snap or so despondent that you're dreading the future for no reason at all. Now multiply that by like, 5, (I was gonna say 10, but let's not get dramatic here, right?) and add the fact that you're moving out of your cozy Brooklyn apartment that took you so long to find, away from two good friends and a city you've just come to feel good about living in, JUST as it starts to get nice out, and then add that, oh yeah, at the end of this emo rollercoaster is the chemo rollercoaster. And what do you get? You get my movie moment, which took place two days ago:

It's 8 pm. After coming home from the egg doctor I had begun crying ("I can't even say whyy--hyyyy-hyyyyyyyy" kind of sobbing) at noon, and after trying to stifle it with a Xanax I decided to take a bath to calm down. I put on Carole King's Tapestry (I was inspired by American Idol. ((Will I ever say that sentence again???))), and filled the tub with burning hot water. I sunk down and took a few deep breaths. And then I cried I think the hardest I've ever cried in my entire life, slumped over in the bathtub as "You've got a friend" played on my laptop.

And in the midst of it, in the midst of the "I want these eggs out NOW" and the "How many more shots do I have to GET" and the "UGH I just remembered I'm doing this because I have the hodge," I thought, "Hmm. If this were a movie, it'd be a pretty tragic scene. Maybe my fiance just died in a motorcycle accident. Or I found out a life-changing family secret that had been hidden for decades."

I just read everything I just wrote and it sounds as crazy as I've been feeling, which is, I guess, essentially the point. I don't think I was prepared to do this. Definitely not for the emotional impact of the hormones. I started off with one shot that we did at home by ourselves, called Follistim. It is sort of like an Epi-pen, and my dad has been the one to administer it nightly. Then during my visits, I began getting another injection called Ganirelix, which is used to suppress ovulation so the eggs don't...get away I guess? And the past four days I've been on Menopur, which is a hefty drug that stimulates egg follicle growth to speed things up. And that was the one that sent me over the egde, I believe. Or it was just the combo of all three. Or who really knows? Maybe I just needed a damn good cry over all this, because yesterday and today I feel a good bit saner.

My mom and I (and my pup Lily) went into Brooklyn and packed the rest of my room up. I'm so glad she came with me, because I know if left alone, I'd have taken a whole lot longer and also allowed myself to get sad about moving. I have moved all of my belongings every six months for about the past three years, (shout out to Dad here, who not only helped me every time, but also helped my friend who's subletting move in yesterday) and I had been in the mindset of rooting myself very strongly in my current place in Park Slope before this all happened. So taking myself out of that room was hard, but I am lucky in the sense that I have an extremely comfty and appealing place to be on LI during treatments.

After that, it was time for a catch up sesh with Jenna, my bff, who had been in San Fran all week for a business trip. I didn't think it was possible for us to get closer, but as she says, "we had a bonding moment" last night. My dad wasn't around to give me my nightly shot, and my mom didn't want to because she was scared she'd hurt me. So half-jokingly, I asked Jenna if she would, and apparently it appealed to her, because she came over with the intention to do it for me. I did try to muster up the courage to do it myself, but at the last moment I couldn't, so Jenna injected my hormones last night. One for the record books.

She didn't get away without feeling the sting of my mood swings, though. We decided to go to Baja (a little Mexican place in town) for dinner, and as we were walking through the parking lot, I announced, unprovoked, "I'm getting a margarita, and it's NOT going to be frozen." And Jenna just looked at me like, dude, who said it had to be? and we both burst out laughing realizing I was trying to start conflict with....no one. After that I was able to put my feelings on the shelf and enjoy a really nice, normal night with my friends. Since I got the hodge, I haven't really gone out or hung out with more than four people at once, but last night my friend Dan had a party, and we broke out the beer pong table and hung out outside. I was able to have my on the rocks margarita and a few beers without feeling the tightness drinking had previously caused in my chest a few weeks ago, and I'm not going to pretend like it didn't make the night that much better, cause it did. It felt like last summer--a little colder, but awesome to be around the same people I've been close to since ninth grade.

Today I got up at the crack of 8 am and journeyed again to the egg doc with my mom. I can't really place a demographic on who goes there. It seems like there's a big mix of single women, single men, and couples. I always think everyone must wonder what I'm there for, since my mom comes with me, and nine times out of ten I look miserable. They were predicting The Retrieval (Caps, it's important, people) to be this coming Tuesday, but it's looking more like Wednesday now. I'm just so ready for this part to be over and to get things moving. I'm supposed to get the port placement and bone marrow biopsy done at Mather Hospital, but the doctor I'm supposed to see has supposedly had to deal with a lot of emergency procedures, and hasn't had a chance to fully examine my PET and CAT scans yet. So I'm also still waiting on those appointments before I can figure out when chemo is, which will let me figure out if I can get to Bonnaroo, Cody's college graduation, and a handful of other fun events I'd like to be a part of.

If this entry seems a lot more frantic and agitated than my first, it's because I am. I'm not going to pretend I'm some sage or super creature that can absorb and handle all the emotions and thoughts that are arising from this. But I will say that my MO for dealing with all this is how I've always dealt with the hard stuff--you gotta have a sense of humor, cause you're done if you don't.