Oh, hi.

It has been a while, which always makes it hard to know what to start my next sentence with. I guess I'll get right down to the reason I'm posting: tomorrow is my first post-treatment PET Scan. That's big news.

Back in October, after radiation finished, I was really anxious to get my PET Scan to make sure everything worked, but my doctor informed me I had to "give it time to work." The effects of radiation--the good ones and the bad ones, which I'll get to up ahead--continue to happen even months after you're done actually showing up to the hospital and sitting under the rays. So my doctor told me he wanted to wait until the end of January to scan me to have the clearest picture. I figured there was nothing I could do but wait patiently, but every now and then the thought would bob up from under the surface of all my other thoughts to remind me I'm not totally out of the woods yet.

And the woods have been a little dense lately. Like I wrote in my last post, the road to recovery (what a typical phrase, huh) has gotten particularly bumpy these past few months. The job hunt has been hard, but with any luck that will change soon. (I am currently in the interview process for a really exciting spot at a company that I would kill to work at, but the superstitious lady that lives inside my head already thinks I've said too much.)

But aside from that, I've also been dealing with the pesky side effects of chemo and radiation. My lungs really took a beating from everything that's been thrown at them over the past year. I get winded very easily. For a while, I couldn't actually take deep breaths without a sharp pain in my chest. After a visit to my doctor before Christmas, I was put on Prednisone, which is a steroid. It helped clear up the pain, but one of the most annoying side effects of steroids is weight gain, and girl put on some pounds. I've never been a skinny girl, but in addition to the weight I gained after stopping chemo, I'm now at a weight that I haven't been since I was when I was drinking 40's four nights out of the week in college. It ain't cute, and over the past two weeks I've been trying to really eat right to get back to a healthy weight. I have to look at it as another way of keeping myself healthy and cancer-free in the long term. But like I said, my lungs are a little feeble right now, so the runs I've been going on are more on the pathetic side than the Lance Armstrong side. But if I've learned anything over the past year it's that good, solid results take time.

Other things that have been happening:

I've had another story published in The Hairpin called "Conned by a Mom" and I've been writing in my other blog, singularladies.com.

The new season of American Idol started, and I'm apparently still into it? Well, ok.

I got my first haircut. Just a little shaping for the curly garden growing on my head. I opted for a faux hawk type-thing that Evan Rachel Wood sported a few months back.

Inspiration:

Result:

I figure it's the time to have fun, because once these hairs grow any further, it's going to be a while before they see a pair of scissors again. This haircut has also made me pay serious attention to guys' haircuts because they tend to be more similar than the ladies' that I come into contact with. Example:

Yeah that's a baby, but he's still a dude.

My family got really sad news that our neighbor recently discovered she has breast cancer. While I think hearing you have breast cancer comes with many more worries than Hodgkin's, I remember those first few weeks after you "go public" with the news. It's exhausting. It almost feels like you have to make everyone feel better and not vice versa, because people just don't know what to say. But I now know that being in the position of having someone you care a lot about get sick is no picnic. My mom and I picked out a nice ceramic cookie jar for my neighbor, and I baked some chocolate chip cookies to give as a present, because when words fail, cookies are a decent substitute. Still, though, it didn't feel like enough. What could, really? Not to say that the comforting thoughts and well wishes are unappreciated. Quite the opposite; I got so many treats and presents during treatment, and even though they weren't necessary, they did so much to cheer me up. I'm not one to normally save cards, but I've kept each and every one anyone sent me. They're all in a box under my bed.

This felt like such a mish-mash of an entry, but I guess that's what happens when you neglect your blog. I'll undoubtedly be writing more tomorrow. Eeee!

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.

Be Warned: this is gonna be a doozy of a post

If a rainy day where you can't decide on a movie to go see isn't inspiration to write, I don't know what is. And I've been meaning to do this for about a month, when the hodge started to come out of its hiding place and make its presence in my life known.

The hodge is the nickname Jenna and I have decided to give Hodgkin's Lymphoma, which I was diagnosed with on April 11, a day after I turned 24. (Looooong back story to come.) Jenna and I were texting some day soon after and both decided the word "cancer" is not a word we felt like saying all the time anymore. It is an ugly word that only became uglier once I found out it was inside me, as I'm sure many other people who have had it/have it currently also find. And though I'm of the sound belief of reclaiming bad words as something powerful (thank you, women's studies), this is not one I wanted to do that with. Secondly, nicknaming things has always made them somehow feel like they belong to me more, that they're closer to me, and it was important to me to do that with the hodge in order to take control of it and how I view this whole process.

I also discovered it scared people to hear "I have cancer" when it's not placed in any context. So, for some context: the hodge is a type of lymphoma that's (here's the best part) extremely treatable, much more so than Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, of which there are over 61 different types. So to hear that I have what I have been told as "the cancer you'd hope to get if you have to have cancer" was a huge, huge relief to me and my family and friends. But before I start backwards storytelling, if only for my own benefit I want to outline the entire process thus far.

This past winter, I had a lot of respiratory problems that I attributed to living in a part of the world (Brooklyn) where it gets cold, where people get colds, and they make you feel crappy. I also developed a really, really aggressive full body itch that I also blamed on cold weather, even though I was moisturizing like it paid my rent. I had been coughing steadily for a few months, but avoided going to see my doctor, who was on Long Island. But then in addition to the coughing and itching, I began waking up in the middle of night COVERED in cold sweats. The first time it happened, sometime in December, I thought it must have been a nightmare, and I went back to bed, only to toss and turn in discomfort. Then it kept happening--not every night, but it was enough to freak me out. I'd sweat so much I'd drench the neck of my t-shirt and the hair around the base of my head as if I'd just worked out for a long time. After a discussion with my roommate Andrew, we decided I should head to the doc.

A doctor's visit, a diagnosis of bronchitis, and a bottle of antibiotics later, I felt better, but not totally okay. Then not totally okay developed into OH MY GOD is THIS what a sinus infection feels like? Because it is AWFUL. (I'd never had one. Although it introduced me to the magic of the neti pot, so..) Back to the doc for more meds. The sinus pain lasted about three weeks, which seemed to be longer than most should, but after it finally went away (around late February), I felt great (though still really itchy)--ready to end hibernation and for spring to get going. And after months of looking for a full-time gig, I found one as a receptionist thanks to a friend who worked at a fabric company.

I was there for about three weeks when I started feeling ill again. Even though the weather was getting nicer, I couldn't muster up the same energy that yearly I can barely contain when spring comes around. I attributed it to having to wake up at 7:30 as opposed to the ten a.m. I was used to, and doing the same tasks all day, every day (the job was super monotonous, and I am easily made antsy, especially when alone at a desk all day). Then, during the third week of March, I began the night sweats again, along with a strange chest pain, stiff neck and back, and fatigue. Friday the 25th was one of my best friend's birthdays, and I couldn't even fathom doing anything but laying on my couch and watching "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" with my roommate Sara, which we did, and which you should not judge us for, because you KNOW you laughed at the commercial for the second one when it came on TV, and it was actually a phenomenal little film if you can get on a sixth grader's level (which we can and do).

The next day I borrowed a copy of Andrew's "Franny and Zooey" (with the promise I wouldn't eat while reading it since I dropped a piece of pizza on his copy of "The Corrections") and took a train home to LI for some R+R and a doctor's appointment. I planned on demanding the strongest medication they had for whatever it was I had, and finally and fully kicking it.

So lalala, uptown to the doctor's office, where I told the doctor everything I just wrote (aside from the Wimpy Kid bit) and he did an examination. After I had to argue that I was sure it wasn't bronchitis, and it might be pneumonia, he did a chest x-ray. While I was waiting for my doc to come back and tell me I had pneumonia, I thought, "This is gonna suck, I might have to go to the hospital to be hydrated, and I'll have to take sick days I don't have off from work, whine whine whine." This was the scene that followed:

doc: "Ok I found something on the x ray"

me: "So it's pneumonia then?"

doc: "No, it's something else, not quite sure...."

me: "Ok so what could it be?"

doc: "Well it could be a tumor"

me: instant hysterical crying drowning out all his other words and full body heat wave.

I remember trying to get it together and apologizing for not being able to. I mean, I probably lost it more than my doc thought I would, but to go in thinking you have a routine sickness and hear the word "tumor," you can't really prepare for that.

He left me to get dressed and I called my parents, who both came into the office. My doc ordered an immediate CAT scan to make sure it was actually a tumor. We went to Zwanger Pesiri Radiology in Smithtown, where I had been when I broke my ankle in 5th grade (I reached for the top bar of the ladder of our three-story treehouse with both hands, missed with both hands, and fell onto a pile of logs). I had to get an IV put in the crook of my elbow so they could inject iodine into me so the tumor would show up. Now, I've never done well with needles. One time when having a tiny bit of blood drawn, I got all clammy, then passed out at the doctor's office. So that on top of my general "Oh my god there's something IN ME and it's a TUMOR" thoughts, I had the extreme jitters. The nurse who was doing my IV was all business until she looked up after asking a question and could read on my face how scared I was. Then she sat back, introduced herself, and explained the whole process, which did wonders for me. That didn't mean I watched her fix up the IV, mind you. Eeesh gross. (Note: at the time of this writing I have had about sixteen needles and have only been able to watch once. Read on for that one, it's special.)

I'd never had a CAT scan or anything like it, so I couldn't help but think what I always do in my completely not-made-for-science brain when encountering advanced technology: this shit is CRAZY. How does a small spinning cylinder take a picture of your insides? Who figured out how to manipulate lasers? What IS a laser? Who realized the body could take iodine safely when injected into their veins? (Although, as the nurse warned me: when iodine is in your bloodstream you can experience a strange taste in the mouth, warmness throughout the body, and the extremely pleasant sensation that you've peed your pants as an adult on a very expensive piece of machinery. All three happened. It was weird.)

My parents and I hadn't even made it home when we got the call from my doctor that it was, indeed, a tumor, and a biopsy would have to be performed. I remember hanging up, sitting in the passenger seat, and just crying. What if it wasn't benign? What if it was, and I'd have to have chest surgery? What WAS it? How did it get there? Was this actually happening?

It takes a while to wrap your head around news like that, because I at least had so many questions that couldn't be answered yet or at all--who has an answer as to why people get sick? or as to why anything that occurs in the world happens? People have philosophized over that--and will continue to do so--for years, and it's up to each of us individually to answer those questions in ways that allow us to make peace with the world. But at that moment, I was flailing.

But thank God, and I do every day, for my parents. In the car, in that moment, they both told me that whatever it was, we were going to take care of it together, and they would be there for me through any and everything. I can't even begin to imagine what it would be like to go through this without having parents like them. When we got home, my mom and I laid in her bed, where she encouraged me to say whatever what was on my mind, while my dad got right on the phone to schedule a biopsy.

My dad owns his own construction company, and he has apparently over the years done work for many doctors connected to Stony Brook Hospital. So he managed to work my CAT scan paperwork to the head of radiology at the hospital, and get me a biopsy scheduled with him for four days later. Stony Brook also told us that it was not one tumor, but three, located in the Mediastinum, which is an area in the chest that contains some major arteries, the heart, and a bunch of lymph nodes.

Because I have what I like to think of as an active imagination, I immediately pictured them slicing open my chest and taking a piece of the tumors that way. Once again, it was proven that I have no concept of how modern technology works; the biopsy would be done with a large needle that extracts small pieces of the tumor.

The day of the biopsy my mom and little brother Cody came with me. The doctors would be taking another CAT scan to pinpoint where in my chest to poke me, then giving me local anesthesia in that area so I wouldn't feel it, plus some sedation (nice) to "put me in twilight" but not knock me out. I was kind of hoping to BE knocked out (ignorance is bliss), but shrug. After numbing my chest, the doctor brings out a needle, which, I'm not kidding you, was about nine inches long. But, because of the sedation making me a little loopy, I was like, "Hey, cool needle, man."

I think the doc used about six different needles, and I watched as they filled up with blood and I guess tumor...stuff. It took about 45 minutes total, then they wheeled me out and I sucked down a black tea lemonade from Starbucks. (On Cody's account, the Stony Brook Hospital Starbucks is "really nice" if you're looking for a place to relax) and after another hour of observation, I went home.

Then: dun dun dun---the waiting period. Do I have cancer or do I not? By this time, it was April 5th, five days before my birthday. But I couldn't really think about celebrating until I knew. Although, thanks to my amazing friends and family, I did have a good birthday. I wouldn't say it goes down as BEST BIRTHDAY EVERRRR but it wasn't miserable. I mean, we had ice cream cake, and that ain't nothin to sneeze at.

During the wait, my dad contacted an oncologist he had worked for who he said was just the absolute nicest, kindest customer he'd ever had. He was able to read the medical jargon on the CAT scan reports to give us a better picture of what was really going on. I listened in on the phone as he told my dad where the tumors were, how big they were (one of them is like, six inches long) and what the next steps were. He even told my dad he would treat me for free because that's how much he respected my dad (tears, you can imagine, at that point) but to check on our insurance because the drugs used to treat cancer can cost zillions. But his main point was to wait it out, because there's always that chance it's not cancer.

But I had this feeling during that entire waiting period that it was. How could three somewhat large tumors be benign? All of them? In an area rife with lymph nodes? No way. Plus, although my mom and I had made a pact not to google anything so as not to jump to conclusions or read something incorrect, I had to google a bit. And night sweats, extreme full body itch, and respiratory problems were listed as symptoms of the hodge. So essentially, I prepared myself to hear that I had cancer, I think out of logic just as much as an act of self preservation. So on April 11, the day after my birthday, after over a week of waiting, when my dad told me it was the hodge, I didn't freak out. I was with Sara, who gave me a hug as I took a few shattered breaths, but I didn't cry really. I think we, at least my close family, had just known.

Additionally softening the blow, was what I had said before--if you get lymphoma, you hope it's the hodge. For some reason, it's extremely curable. The success rate for any stage is around 90%, which is just unfathomably encouraging. It's also really common in young people. For every three people I tell, one of them says, "Oh yeah, I had a friend who had it last year, and he's doing great!" So to hear it was the hodge was actually the best news we could hope for.

So yes, I thought, I would need chemo, I would sublet my brooklyn room and beat this whole thing in a couple months and move back in by mid-summer. That, however, was a naive concept--on a phone call with Dr. Caruso, my dad's customer, I learned chemo could take as long as eight months. I feel silly now for thinking it would be quicker, but I can't tell you how much of a shock it was to hear eight months. EIGHT MONTHS. Three quarters of a year. That sent me into a schlump that lasted almost a full day, where I couldn't do a thing but sleep. But then, lying in bed, I thought, this is what it's going to take to get better. Besides, what else do I have going on? (I had already quit my terribly exciting job and decided to move home so I was pretty much at liberty to concentrate on getting better, which is a gigantic privilege few people have.) That line of thinking combined with the surprise visit of four of my mom's eight siblings (I know) with the gift of an Ipad (I can't even say how surprised and touched I was) knocked some sense into me.

And more good news came when we found out Dr. Caruso, the oncologist who my dad had been speaking with, was under our insurance. I had my first appointment with him about four days ago, and my parents and I left feeling like we were in the absolute best of hands. First off, he told us the hodge is stage uno, my friends, which means it probably only developed a few months ago, and we caught it early. So in retrospect, I'm glad I spent the winter coughing and tearing at my skin and sweating through my pajamas. Secondly, Dr. C just gives off this incredibly comforting vibe, but it's coupled with his extremely impressive breadth of medical knowledge. He was able to answer each and every question we have, plus explain everything in a way that was easy to take in and alleviate a lot of the anxiety we all had.

So treatment is chemo, which I mean, we all know generally sucks. You feel sick, you lose your hair (HOW do you keep stuff out of your eyes without eyelashes?!) you get super fatigued. My dad's secretary and friend of the family, who is a breast cancer survivor and went through the same kind of chemo I'll be getting, has been around every step of the way to answer questions about it. She showed me the scar on her chest where they installed a port for the chemo drugs to go in through. They don't do it through IV anymore, because the drugs can severely damage your arm if the IV isn't inserted properly, plus the port makes it somehow less uncomfortable.

Dr. C. said it gets installed under the skin on the flat part of my chest under my collarbone. You won't be able to see it, but it will be raised under the skin, almost as if a nickel was sitting on my chest. Right underneath the skin, there are four entry prongs, where whatever they administer the chemo with attaches to. Treatments for me will be once every two weeks, and will last between four to six months he thinks. I was going to try and go back to Sunken Meadow, where I worked last summer (which incidentally contributed to me having the summer of a high schooler, which was awesome), but my parents graciously offered to let me freeload off them under the conditions I write (schwing! motivation!) and do something to better myself intellectually and emotionally while undergoing treatment. There will be about ten days a month where I will feel fine, so I can't see this being a problem in the slightest.

Oh, and a huge (but small on the grand scheme) concern of mine was that I wouldn't be able to go in the sun or go swimming with the port, but it turns out I can totes go to the beach when I'm feeling well and have a typical, sun-drenched summer (just not on the day of or two-three days following treatment.) I can't wait to get to Robert Moses.

Another big/small concern is whether or not I'll be able to get to Bonnaroo. I told both my parents that if nothing else all summer, I want to be able to get there, so if there was a way to schedule the beginning of chemo so I would be feeling well on the week of Roo, I wanted to do that, and they agreed. We don't know the schedule yet, because we don't know exactly when chemo will begin. It's a matter of a couple weeks, but I have to accomplish four tasks beforehand:

1. A pulmonary test where they do a sonogram of my heart to see if there is fluid around it, which I had yesterday and left my chest full of goop from the sonogram ...wand? but allowed me to hear what blood moving through my arteries sounds like. Not something you hear every day.

2. A lung test to see what my lungs can handle (they better be badass, there's a reason I don't smoke cigarettes!)

3. A bone marrow biopsy which raaaaaaaaar is not going to be pleasant. Dr. C was vacillating on whether or not to test if the hodge was in the bone marrow, because the test so frequently shows up negative that many doctors have stopped even doing it. But he says the symptoms I exhibit--the sweating, the itching, the cough--are enough to make him want to do it. Thing is, he said it's "not fun" which is doctor lingo for "it's going to hurt." Apparently it's a needle (of course it is) that's inserted into the hip bone and extracts the marrow, which is the painful part because that marrow don't wanna leave that bone, girl. But it's better to know than not. Dr. C set it up so it will happen the same day the port gets installed, so I will be in the same "twilight" as I was during the biopsy.

4. About a week ago, my mom brought up something that had literally not even floated through my head throughout this entire time--freezing eggs to make sure I would be able to have kids after all this since there's a chance chemo can cause infertility. I was totally like, WOAH, good on you, mom, because like I said, it wasn't something I had even an inkling about. And the notion of having that back up plan really appealed to us all because that "what if" is a BIG what if, if you want to have kids some day. And recently, after years of thinking I didn't want kids, I began to re-think that and decide that yeah, I want that option. Dr. C referred us to a doctor who works in the same medical park, and we went just to hear what the options were.

My biggest concern was cost. I do thankfully have insurance, but when we went to see the doctor, we learned that the whole thing--controlling the ovulatory process, removing the eggs, freezing and holding them--wasn't covered, not even a smidgen, but that for people who are sick (I hate calling myself sick, but eh) they cut the cost in half and try to get all the medicine donated. In the end, the price they gave us for the procedure was 3,600, which is almost half.

After the first appointment, I sat in the waiting room with my mom and just cried. I had had no sleep the night before, and you do NOT want to see me when that is the case. Secondly, it's just overwhelming to be thinking about the future when there's other issues in the present that seem so much more important. Thirdly, here is another financial cost to my parents that I actually had the option of preventing, and the guilt of that made me feel so horribly torn. But my mom rubbed my back and assured me that she and dad would do anything for me through this, (again, lucky, lucky girl) and that this was a positive thing we could do during a time when there's a lot of negativity around. (Plus, as Cody joked, she really wants grandkids).

So the next day, with a clearer head and positive attitude, we went back to the egg doctor and told her we wanted to proceed. The way it works is this: they give you medicine to make your eggs mature, given in the form of a shot that looks like an epi-pen that you administer YOURSELF. I had to do an "AROO?" a la Scooby Doo (or am I thinking of Will Smith?) when I heard that because if I haven't iterated it enough, girl don't like needles. But they taught us how to do it, gave us a dvd and a big packet of instructions, and sent us on our way. I was incredibly nervous we'd mess up, but my dad, ever the calm one, had us watch the dvd then we did the shot 1,2,3. I get one every night for four nights, then I go back Monday for blood work and a sonogram (honestly, never thought I'd be doing any of this at 24). If all goes well, the eggs should be ready to take out in about a week or so. Then they get put on ice and go into Encino Man hibernation till I want them I guess. THEN we can begin chemo.

But that's where I'm at now. I started this blog for a bunch of reasons--one was to get back to writing. How could I not, with such an obvious subject matter and a big ol' bundle of emotions and racing thoughts that are constantly in flux? Secondly, (and this is why things were and will continue to be as detailed as I can manage) this is getting information out there both to my friends and fam and possibly, if someone stumbles onto this blog, a young person who may be going through the same thing. I also just want to document this so I can look back and have a written record of this when this is all over.

There have been a bunch of silver linings to this whole deal. First and foremost--people have been so incredibly kind to me. Not just my friends and family (who if I haven't said it enough, I can't be more thankful for) but complete strangers. Friends of friends who have had cancer have written me emails with their phone numbers, saying call any time with any questions. A roofer my dad occasionally (occasionally!) works with wrote me a really lovely letter saying his little brother had the hodge, and he's available for any questions. People I don't even know have been praying for me (the religious aspect of this whole thing needs another post entirely, because yes, this first one is basically a novel). I've gotten in touch with friends I haven't spoken to in a long time. It has just opened my eyes to a certain connectivity of us all that isn't usually accessed unless under duress, which is a shame, but a pretty amazing thing to witness. I'm also beginning to look at life totally different and can only imagine that my eyes will continue to open and expand until I basically look like ET.

Anddddd I think I've gotten enough into one post that the subsequent ones won't be nearly as long and saturated as this one. But I'm pretty sure that of the two or three blogs I've tried, I'll stick with this one.