Enough

Universe, can you hear me??

I’ve had enough. I’m ready to stop stealing the thunder. Okay?

Seriously.

It started with my own cancer diagnosis in 2011. And then continued with my relapse in 2012. That was enough.

And then Brad, my love, got his own, unthinkable diagnosis this past October. That was more than enough.

And then he died. 101 days later, on January 22, 2017. Leaving me, the Thunder Stealer, a 33 year old widow.

A 33 year old, cancer surviving, widow.

I’ve had enough, Universe. I don’t want to steal any more thunder. Just leave me alone. Please.

It’s fucking enough.

Defending Your Life

I can’t believe we are fucking back here again. This is not supposed to be our story. This shouldn’t be anyone’s story. 

This is not our story.

I’m at a loss for words, but I am not at a loss for feelings. Outrage. Sadness. Shock. Fear.

I am afraid.

This time I am not the patient. I am not the Thunder Stealer. This time, it is my love, my rock, my everything who was given the diagnosis. Although it is my life we are fighting for too. It is for my future. For our future. Right now we are fighting to keep the precious future we have spent over a decade building intact.

And I am fucking angry at how unfair life seems in this moment.

Honestly, part of me expected cancer to remerge at some point in our lives. I prepared for it. I braced myself for it. I braced Brad for it. But it was for me. Never for him.

I was never prepared for that.

I feel blindsided. Being on the other end of this diagnosis. Being the spouse watching her love go through the pain and fear and endless set of decisions required. The never-ending questioning. The poking and prodding. The looks. Oh, the looks.

I don’t know how to be the caregiver. The supporter. The spouse.

It is something that came so naturally to Brad when Little Hodgy suddenly appeared in our lives. He knew how to handle me. How to handle others. He knows how to balance being strong and being vulnerable. Knows when to laugh and when to cry. When to quietly reflect and when to bring others in. He just knows. Knows what to do. How to handle life. Even when you've been given a shitty hand. It’s because of these innate qualities that I know Brad will be able to cope and handle everything this diagnosis throws at him. At us.

I just hope that I can do the same.

This is not our story.

I find myself fluctuating between channeling my inner Thunder Stealer - full of courage and fight - and on the verge of a complete and total meltdown. Between feeling terrified and also feeling comfort in the vast amount of knowledge we have.

Because we’ve been here before (sort of). We researched. We learned. We changed our lives. We aren’t starting from scratch.

But this is different.

I knew how to handle my own illness. I took control and owned it as best I could. I used this blog as my virtual punching bag, uppercutting f-bombs all over the screen to help me deal.

But this is Brad. My Brad.

I don’t know how to own this. I can’t even say it out loud. I can barely type it.

Stage 4. Metastatic. Rare.

This is not our story.

And because I can’t say it, I’ll let Brad say it in his own words on his own blog, The Road Taken. And if you don't know Brad, reading his words will give you a glimpse of the man he is. Calm. Thoughtful. Strong. While I write an angry "f u" to the world, Brad's words pour out with grace and beauty. He is the zen yin to my angry yang.

Honestly, I was hoping this blog would fall down the google ranks and into oblivion. But here we are. Pulling The Thunder Stealer out of retirement as a way to once again process what life has thrown our way.

And as I continue to use this platform as my virtual punching bag, Brad will be handling this in a different way - in a very Brad way. In addition to writing about it on his own blog, he’ll also be podcasting about it (along wth myself and his best friend Jeremy) - and encouraging others to join in on the conversation. To talk about what it means to live life courageously. Something Brad did long before this diagnosis.

Having deep and meaningful discussions has always been an integral part of Brad and whether we wanted it to or not, the universe just gave us a whole new set of topics. So listen along over at Defending Your Life (website coming soon) as we laugh, cry, and get weird together on this journey.

This is our story. Just not forever.

via

Just Breathe.

When you get diagnosed with cancer, life feels like one big waiting game: Wait for the doctors. Wait for the results. Wait for the cancer to come back…

For three years I’ve waited for the moment I can breathe. For three years I’ve waited for today. 

Today is my two year anniversary of being in remission.

Cancer limbo is a strange place to be. You no longer have cancer but you can’t say you’re a survivor. You have to wait for year five for that declaration.

But two years and three months ago I had to choose my cancer path. Two years and three months ago I had to decide between high dose chemotherapy coupled with a full bone marrow transplant for a 60% cure rate or radiation for a 10% chance. Two years and three months ago I once again went against the advice of my doctor. Two years and three months ago I chose the 10% chance.

Two years, I was told. I would have to make it to two years of clean scans and then I could breathe.

And every day for the last two years I’ve held my breath and waited. For two years I’ve “lived” without really living. I’ve moved on, I told people. I’m no longer worried, I said. But those were lies. Or maybe those were hopes. Either way, every day, for two years I thought about today.

Today, I hit the jackpot.

Today, I can breathe.

Today, I will live.

March 9

Today, is a bittersweet day for me.

I woke up to a calendar alert with the message "CANCER FREE" written in all caps and followed by an unnecessary amount of exclamation points.

A year ago I put this in my calendar as a recurring event (end date: Never.) - after receiving my first clean scan during treatments - as a reminder to celebrate the day I became cancer free (like I would actually need a reminder for this day…).

But as most of you know, that elation was short lived. Two months later, the cancer was back.

So now, today - on my first anniversary of being "cancer free" for the first time - is a day of mixed emotions. I'll always remember that day. Standing in the clinic alone (Momma Bear was on the phone in the car on, what felt like, the longest conversation of my life), I faced the nurses solo.

The one line summary of my scan: "No Evidence of Disease."

I'll always remember the excitement and relief I felt that day. After going through physical and emotional hell, I was strong enough to beat cancer.

For two months I was sure that was it. I temporarily lived free of fear as someone who had superhero powers. I honestly (and naively?) didn't think the cancer would come back. But as we know, the cancer did come back. And as someone who has now experienced relapse, I should have cherished those two worry-free months a little more. Because once you've experienced a recurrence, I don't know if you ever completely let go of the fear of the possibility that the cancer may return again.

So now today is a day that is supposed to be about joy and celebration but is instead a reminder of failure and pain. Little Hodgy stole this day, and my thunder, with a relapse.

But maybe a reminder of failure isn't a bad thing. It's a reminder that nothing in life is guaranteed. A reminder to cherish our good days. To live better and love harder. A reminder to celebrate our victories, even if they're short lived.

A reminder that in a world full of disappointment and fear, to let joy win.

So today, because of that reminder, I won't be bitter.

Sweet.

Go Team Thunder!

Ten months ago, in this post, I announced that I had signed up to run a half marathon in this year's Detroit Free Press Marathon.

A lot has changed in 10 months: I rejected conventional treatment, accepted alternative treatment, got rid of cancer, turned 29, got cancer again, rejected a bone marrow transplant, accepted radiation, celebrated my fourth (!) wedding anniversary, got rid of cancer again.

Phew.

So here we are, just days away from marathon day and no closer to being able to run 13.1 miles than I was in January.

It's not that I didn't try. I really did. I set up a training schedule. I woke up early most mornings to get my runs in. I ran. A lot. But in the middle of this training, I started going through radiation, which in itself takes a toll on the body.

But I was determined.

So most mornings (with the help of friends), I would wake up and run before my 8am daily radiation treatments. The warrior came out. There was no way I was letting Cancer take this away from me.

But about two weeks in, I started to notice a shortness of breath. Not only did running become harder, breathing became harder (a common side effect of having radiation so close to my chest and lungs).

So I stopped running. I told myself it was temporary. That as soon as I was done with treatment, my lungs would improve and I would start up again.

My condition didn't improve. Here I am, two months later, still unable to take a true full breath and expected to run 13 miles on Sunday.

But, this will not be another thing cancer tries to take away from me. On Sunday, even if it takes me all day and I have to crawl across the finish line, I will complete my 13.1 miles. And luckily for me, I don't have to do it alone. Not only is The Hubby "running" with me, but my sister and a great friend are joining as well. We also have a team of friends coming to cheer us on throughout the day, decked out in Team Thunder shirts. It's pretty incredible to have friends that are willing to stand all day in a crowd of people, waiting to catch a glimpse of me as I walk a half marathon. That's love.

Even though cancer may have slowed me down (literally), it will not stop me from finishing the race. After all, it's not just my ego on the line. As I mentioned before, I am also running in support of the Make-A-Wish Foundation. And any foundation that strives to make a kid's experience with cancer a little brighter deserves our support and money. If any of you would like to support me by supporting the Make-A-Wish Foundation, please go to my fundraising page and give whatever you are able to.

Again, thank you all for your constant support throughout my journey.

See you at the finish line.

Go Team Thunder!

Breathe Easy

Last week I got good news. Really good news. Last week, after 23 radiation treatments, I got a clean scan. This officially puts me (for the second time this year) in remission.

But this time was different. I didn't run around yelling, "Suck it cancer!" This time, Mama Bear didn't cry when she heard the news. The Hubby, although ecstatic at the outcome, seemed more relieved than anything else.

This time we understood that this news, although reason to celebrate, is only the first of many hurdles.

Last time I got good news - the "you're cancer free" news - within a few months, it was back. And being told "you relapsed" is a prognosis that was, in some ways, worse than the initial diagnosis.

Right now I am extremely grateful, thankful, and excited with the news, but also cautious. 

I was told by my oncologist that it was expected to get a clean first scan, but it is the next several that really matter. His exact words, "After two years, then you can breathe."

Great. Thanks Doc.

In the meantime, besides holding my breath, I'm trying to stay focused on living a healthy lifestyle by juicing, eating right, and doing regular yoga. I'm trying to not let the fears of my oncologist's words flood my thoughts. I'm more focused on the optimism of my radiologist who believes in the success of my treatment path.

And most importantly, I'm trying to keep things in perspective. Rather than focusing on the uncertainty of the next scan, I'm constantly reminding myself that this holiday season (unlike last year) will be minus one Little Hodgy. I am constantly reminding myself that I am in remission.

And even though the future is uncertain at the moment, I'm looking forward to the day when I'm allowed to breathe. Then, I'll take it all in and finally tell Cancer to "Suck It" for good.

The Difficult Patient

It's a strange feeling going through a treatment plan that no doctor completely agrees with. I disappointed the conventional docs when I chose to go to Arizona for IPT and I have now disappointed the alternative docs with my choice of radiation. Between my two choices, I have managed to alienate, in some way, every doctor I've spoken with.

Sorry, docs.

I'm not trying to be difficult (despite what my doctors might think). But cancer is tough. Some people die and some people live - regardless of the path chosen.

Recently I read a book called "Love, Medicine and Miracles" by Bernie Siegel. I avoided reading this book for almost 9 months because, honestly, a book about love and miracles seemed a little too new age-y for someone who believes in the facts. I didn't want to read another book about "visualizing" or "finding my inner goddess" to rid myself of cancer. Plus Mamma Bear really wanted me to read it (I currently have four copies, all from her) and I guess that stubborn "parent pushes/child pushes back" relationship doesn't necessarily go away as we age.

Eventually I realized that the book was written by an oncologist who decided to study (with facts!) the success stories of his patients; instead of studying why treatments were failing, he began to study why certain treatments, or more importantly, patients, were succeeding. (Siegel might want to consider changing the name of the book to "How Cancer Patients Succeed").

If two people are given the same diagnosis, why does one live and the other die? Why do certain people defy the odds even when the odds are stacked against them? What makes a patient thrive?

Siegel says there are three categories of patients.

"About 15 to 20 percent of all patients unconsciously, or even consciously, wish to die. On some level, they welcome cancer or some other serious illness as a way to escape their problems through death or disease. These are the patients who show no signs of stress when they find out their diagnosis.

In the middle of the spectrum of patients is the majority, about 60-70 percent. They are like actors auditioning for a part. They perform to satisfy the physician. They act the way they think the doctor wants them to act, hoping that then the doctor will do all the work and the medicine won't taste bad. They'll take their pills faithfully and show up for appointments. They'll do what they're told -- unless the doctor suggests radical changes in lifestyle -- but it never occurs to them to question the doctor's decision or strike out on their own by doing things for themselves that just "feel right." These are the people that, when given a choice, would rather be operated on than actively work to get well.

At the other extreme are the 15 to 20 percent who are exceptional. They're not auditioning; they're being themselves. They refuse to play the victim. When acting out [the role of victim], patients cannot help themselves, for everything is being done to them…Exceptional patients refuse to be victims. They educate themselves and become specialists in their own care. They question the doctor because they want to understand their treatment and participate in it. They demand dignity, personhood, and control, no matter what the course of the disease."

What's up now doc?

Turns out I'm exceptional. And according to the book, the patients doctors deem most difficult end up doing the best over the course of their treatment. The difficult patients are the ones who live.

So go ahead: call me difficult, stubborn, and controlling.

The truth is, I've struggled a lot over the last 10 months over this idea of control. Who do I listen to? Who is the most knowledgeable? Do I trust my gut or theirs? Who has ulterior motives? Who sees me as Dana Frost, the person, not case number 347?

But what I've realized is that none of these doctors have all the answers. In their own way, they all want to help me, and help get rid of the cancer. But patients die at the hands of the alternative doctors and they die at the hands of the conventional doctors. The reality is, there is no right answer (if there were, 30% of the world wouldn't be suffering from cancer).

So, I'm stuck listening to myself. And as someone who was average at best in science class, and in no way an expert in the field of medicine, it can be quite a discomfort putting my opinions ahead of those of the doctors. And because of this, I am considered a difficult patient. I ask questions, I refuse treatments plans, and I change my mind - often.

There are times I wish I was more of an average patient. It would certainly be easier to be one of the 60-70 percent of patients who never questioned and just listened. I can imagine the relief one feels when they are told what the decision is and they never have to think about whether or not it's the right decision. And I'm sure it's easier to play the role of the victim. To wallow in this terrible thing that happened to me. To give up any sort of control of the outcome. There are days I wish I could be more like that. Days where I could just give up control.

But that's just not me. Besides, who wants to be an average patient anyway?

Call me difficult. Call me demanding. Just don't call me average.

And whatever you do, don't call me a victim.

Bills, Bills, Bills

Today's mail: In addition to my usual J. Crew catalog and fashion magazines, I received a stack of medical bills. 28 to be exact. I stopped opening them after the third bill when I realized I was already in the quadruple digits.

I knew some bills would continue to trickle in over the next several months, but I didn't expect 28. And I certainly didn't expect them all on the same day.

Talk about ruining your Monday.

While in Arizona, we were charged somewhere in the vicinity of $70,000 for my treatments. I just kind of expected that to cover everything. But as they say, and I am constantly learning, expectations are a bitch.

Cancer is a bitch.

Days like today, I feel stuck, like my life is at a standstill. I try so hard to put cancer behind me, but it's impossible. Evidence of it is literally showing up in piles in my mailbox.

How can I move forward when I am constantly dealing with my past? How can I move forward when I am constantly fearful that my past will once again become my present?

Like most of my peers, I should be saving to buy a house or planning a vacation or discussing whether or not I want kids. But how can I do that with mountains of debt and a medical history that refuses to be "history?"

I've thought about selling my eggs to make money, but once you have to start checking the "cancer" box on medical history forms, your eggs are no longer attractive options. I've also thought about trying to win thousands of dollars on the nickel slots at the casino, but I've never really been lucky win it comes to gambling. The lottery? I'm 35,000 times more likely to be hit by an asteroid than win it.

So how do you move forward and escape a cancerous past when a steady flow of bills constantly show up on your doorstep? As the Hubby's best friend said, "Move."

That would certainly be easier than winning the lottery.

Update: The Hubby finished opening and adding up all 28 bills. The total? $8,563.47. Seriously, after spending $70,000 on treatments, how am still getting $8,563.47 dollars worth of bills…in a single day?

Perhaps we should move after all. Or, just wait for that asteroid.

I Am Not My Hair

You know what fucking sucks? Losing your hair.

We all knew this was a possibility. With conventional chemo, it was basically a guarantee. But one of the perks of doing an alternative treatment and low dose chemo was that I was supposed to keep my hair. In fact, the other week the nurse told me that in the three years she's worked there, she's never seen anyone lose all their hair. Well if I end up bald, at least I'll leave knowing I was the very first person to ever lose their hair doing alternative treatment. Go me…

I don't mean to dwell on the loss of my hair. It's just hair.

But it really does suck. Not just the losing of the hair, but the process of losing the hair. For the last week, I would wake up every day to more hair on my pillow. I would run my fingers through my hair and find a fistful of it in my hand. And don't even get me started about the shower. What used to be an enjoyable escape of dancing to Motown while I lathered, is now filled with dread and stress; the hair in the drain a constant reminder that I in fact, do have cancer.

I'm forced to wear my hair pulled back every day, otherwise I'll leave "pieces of [me] everywhere I go" as Momma Bear so delicately put it. Thanks Momma, but I'd rather my dead hair not be the mark I leave on this world. I was hoping to leave a more meaningful mark.

How much hair does one lose before pulling out the razor and shaving it? When it becomes painfully obvious? When bald spots start to occur? It's a delicate balance between holding on to hope that maybe I won't lose it all and just pulling the fucking trigger so I can stop eating hair in my meals.

With each individual strand being yet another reminder that i have cancer, it would almost be easier to shave it now. Even on days when I feel great and have fleeting forgetful moments of what I'm doing in Arizona, a clump of hair is a rude snap back to reality. But until I start seeing major bald spots, I will resist the razor.

But the worst part? Worse than actually losing the hair? Is the disappointment I feel over being disappointed. It's just hair. It will grow back. I HAVE CANCER. Get the fuck over the hair and move on. Stressing about it will do nothing but make it fall out faster.

Besides, if Demi Moore and Natalie Portman can both rock the bald head and look sexy, so can I.

And as the great India.Arie says: I Am Not My Hair.

Cancer Therapies

Man, beating cancer is time consuming.

I thought, a little naively, that coming to an Oasis of Healing would be more like...well, an oasis. Go to the spa, cure a little cancer, maybe get a mani/pedi -- with non toxic nail polishes, of course.

Turns out, curing cancer is a full time job, leaving little time for spa activities (the nerve!). Here is a list of all the treatments I am participating in during my stay (I've linked each therapy to additional pages with more information):

Insulin Potentiation Therapy (IPT): This is a low dose targeted Chemotherapy. This involves starving the cancer cells by lowering my blood sugar and then injecting insulin with the chemo drugs. Since cancer cells use 19 times more sugar than normal cells, it helps direct the chemo to those greedy little bastards, minimizing the destruction of my healthy cells. I also get to rock this awesome ice helmet while I go through IPT. This helps protect my hair follicles and reduces the risk of losing my hair. Not going bald would be a huge perk. To most people in the world of traditional medicine, IPT, although controversial, will be the reason I'll be cancer free. I receive this therapy twice a week.

Vitamin C Therapy: Studies have shown that high doses of Vitamin C not only improves the immune system (a necessity when trying to rid your body of cancer), but also kills cancer cells. Essentially, Vitamin C is good for the healthy cells and bad for the cancer cells. Win win. Without a PICC line or a Port, this takes FOR-EV-ER. 2-3 times a week I am hooked up to an IV for hours while 50-100g of Vitamin C is pumped through my blood.

Oxidative and Oxygenation Therapies: Oxygen plays an important role in keeping our body healthy. We all need oxygen to live (duh). Cancer cells, however, like to live in a world without oxygen. There are a number of therapies that increase the amount of oxygen in the body (click on the link to read about all of them). One of these therapies involves taking out some of my blood, inserting oxygen into it, and then putting it back into my body. You'd think just taking in giant, deep breaths would be sufficient, but apparently this is more effective. I have yet to do this, but apparently you feel like you can conquer the world with all that extra O2 in your body.

Lymphatic Decongestive Therapy/Massage: Our lymphatic system is a critical part of disposing toxins and waste in the body, including cancer cells. Oftentimes our diet and lifestyle lead to a stall in this flow. The purpose of this therapy is to get your system moving again to help detoxify the body. The process of this therapy involves me laying on a massage table while the therapist waves little glass wands over my lymphatic system. Basically it feels nothing like a massage and more like moving a vibrating light bulb over my body. I do this about 2-3 times a week, typically after IPT days.


Structural Integration Therapy: This is my favorite therapy. The other patients call it the "hurts so good" therapy. This basically realigns the connective tissue (also known as fascia) by massaging the tissue back into the correct alignment. For me personally, my left leg tissue is totally out of whack, most likely from the all the scar tissue from a childhood injury. Because of the way the tissue is in this one strand, it has thrown off the entire alignment in my body. Also, my ankles are too tight and the tissue needs to be lengthened so that my feet have a full range of motion (which will also improve my poor circulation). The coolest thing? This therapy will fix my bowlegs! Although apparently Kate Moss is also bow-legged so maybe I should leave them alone. The best thing about this therapy? Once you've fixed the tissue, it stays like that forever. I do this about two times a week.

Infrared Sauna Therapy: Another therapy I can get on board with. Basically, I sit in a sauna. The combination of the heat and infrared helps to eliminate toxins in the body. In addition to oxygen, cancer also hates the heat. Maybe I need spend my winters on a tropical island to keep my cancer away? Hubby, are you listening? It's for my health...

Colon Therapy: Oh, the joy of having cancer and choosing a non-traditional path of treatment. I think we all know what is involved here, but if not, I lay on a table while water is flushed in, which then flushes the, um, waste out. Pretty shitty way to spend the hour (pun intended). Just another way to eliminate the crap (oh, I crack myself up) in the body. Someone told me a story of a woman who hadn't eaten corn for over 15 years because of health reasons. During her colonics, they found a kernel of corn. That's how long your shit can stay with you. It's time to let it go. Unfortunately, I have to do this 2-3 times a week, but this will decrease in the upcoming weeks.

Coffee Enemas: This is "do it yourself" version of a colonic. Except instead of water, you use coffee. Yes, coffee. Apparently, the caffeine helps stimulate and cleanse the liver and gall bladder. This is especially important during cancer treatment because of all the dead cancer cells that end up in your body. The enema helps get it out. And no, drinking coffee does not have the same effect. I asked. I'm supposed to do this every day, but so far, I've managed this once with the help of Momma Bear. Talk about a bonding experience.

Yoga: Another therapy I love. Yoga. Calms the mind, exercises and relaxes the body. There are a million articles showing the health benefits of yoga for everyone, including cancer patients. But really, I just like starting my day in a warm room, lit by a fireplace, where at any point I can lay on my mat in child's pose. I do this pretty much every day.

Raw/Vegan Diet: Probably the most important part of this process is my diet. Until I am cancer free, I'll be on a very strict raw, vegan diet. The idea is to strengthen your immune system so that your body can start ridding itself of toxicities, including the cancer cells. This post from another blogger sums it up best. If you want to know what I'm doing and why, definitely read it since it's pretty spot on.

Juice Cleanse: This involves a 14 day fast where I consume nothing but fresh juiced veggies (and minimal fruit). Yep, you read that right. 14 days. Again, we're trying to rid the body of all the toxins that have been building up over the years. I don't care what it does, fasting for two weeks when I'm already a twig seems nuts (mmmm, nuts...). Nevertheless, I'm now on day 5. And like some sick masochist, I've spent the past 4 days looking up food recipes on Pinterest. Who does that? Everyone keeps telling me that Jesus and Ghandi fasted as if that's supposed to help me. Last I checked, I had very little resemblance to either of these men.

So that's it. Piece of cake, right? All of this keeps me so busy, I haven't even had time for retail therapy!

Arizona: The Quirky State?

When I was younger, my family used to take regular road trips from our home in Northern Virginia down to Florida. Not so much because we loved road trips, but because we were broke and you could stuff 3 kids, a dog (or two), your mother AND your grandmother into a mini van all for the price of gas (which was pretty much free back then). And not just any mini van, but a hunter green mini van with fake wood paneling. A hunter green mini van with wood paneling and the license plate "WR42N8." And yes, folks, this was also my very first car in High School. Oh, how fortunate I was. And you wonder why I wasn't prom queen.

My mom was always a good sport and loved these car rides (or so she claimed), always staying upbeat as she loudly sang "Country Road" out the window. But we, the kids, the backseat passengers, hated it. This was before every mini van came equipped with flat screen tvs, a wii, and surround sound (although once we did try to prop our mini tv/vcr combo between the two front seats and mcguyver the wires through the cigarette lighter in order to watch movies. This was back when cars had a cigarette lighter instead of an iphone outlet).

No, we had to rely on...wait for it...our imaginations to entertain us.

"Moooooom, I'm bored!"

"USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS!"

Basically, every kid's nightmare. I'm not sure any kid is imaginative enough to stay occupied for 3 straight days of being confined to the back seat of a mini van, no matter how "42N8" we were. And let me tell you, the Alphabet game gets pretty boring around mile 10. So this usually resulted in someone getting punched and someone else in tears while my mom decided that her way of coping would be to just sing louder.

Like I said, we hated these trips.

But for me, the redeeming quality of these dreaded rides was the holy grail of pit stops -- the one, the only South of the Border.

For those who have never been, get in your car and go now. And for those of you who have been, you can stop screaming "Don't Go! It's not worth it!" Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. And for whatever reason, this tacky, fake Mexican pit stop south of the North Carolina border made the 1000 mile trip completely worth it. Don't judge. I'm a sucker for kitsch.

To me, Arizona is like South of the Border.

Ghost towns and flea markets and rodeos, oh my!

The lights of the casinos are blinding in the middle of the arid desert. It's a state where you buy both bullets for your pistol and crystals for your chakras. Steak houses and vegan restaurants neighbor each other in harmony. You can even visit a meteor crater, dinosaur park, and Bedrock City (yes, home of Fred Flinstone). All in one state!

Even their town names are full of quirky awesomeness: Bumble Bee. Surprise. Happy Jack. Inspiration. Why (I don't know, but I plan to go here and find the answer).

To me, Arizona is South of the Border on steroids.

I keep being told to find the Joy. Laugh. Remove the stress from my life (Let's remember, I have cancer). Is it possible to live a stress free life with cancer? I can't think of a better place to try. Well, maybe Bora Bora. With The Hubby. And dog.

But Arizona is a close second. And I plan to see as much of this chintzy, eccentric state filled with juxtapositions, as I possibly can.

The 15 year old inside of me is constantly screaming at every attraction, "Mom, can we go?! PLEASE!"

And you know what? I think she just might pull over.

Because the joy I find in this crazy, weird place just might make this thousand mile trip worth it.

And at the end of it all, hopefully I'll look back and remember the kitsch instead of the pain of a long grueling trip where I got punched in the face.

Love (and Cancer) is a Battlefield

Let me tell you, Cancer is hard. Actually, let me rephrase that. Cancer is a bitch. And not just physically on the body; that part has been surprisingly easy so far. Turns out, Cancer is also hard on relationships.

I have the best husband in the world. Seriously, I lucked out big time. He's supportive of everything I do, he challenges me, makes me laugh AND will dance with me even though he thinks he looks silly doing it. But he does it because I love it. Ladies, you want a real man, find one who isn't afraid to look silly for you. That's true love.

But Cancer tries to bring out the worst in people. And on our bad days, it succeeds. The Hubby doesn't wash his dishes (so cliche, I know) and I blow up. And I get mad. And storm out.

And even though I won't admit it at the time, we both know this is not about a couple of dishes in the sink. I have cancer. And as much as I try and avoid being angry at that, sometimes I am. And rather than say I'm pissed about Little Hodgy, I yell at The Hubby for not putting his dishes away.

And in an unexpected twist, The Hubby gets pissed back. He's furious at my reaction to the dishes. He yells. Then ignores me. Then we spend the rest of the night not talking because we're both too stubborn to make the first move.

Turns out I'm not the only one that gets pissed about me having cancer. And rather than getting upset at something beyond our control, like cancer, we fight with each other. And then Cancer wins. 

And that's not all. When you have cancer and you avoid the conventional path of treatment, there are a lot of decisions that have to be made. I am not a decisive person. In fact, I hate making decisions.

What can I say, I'm an avoider.

I blame it on being the middle child and constantly compromising. But when it's ME who has cancer, it's ME who has to ultimately make the decision. This can be infuriating to The Hubby who wants nothing more than to support me, but is unable to do that because I can't make an actual decision for him to support. So again, we fight.

Marriage is hard. Even with The Perfect Hubby.

But marriage with cancer as the third wheel is even harder. I'm just lucky that I have a marriage that is able to survive something as small as the dishes and something as big as Cancer.

And when I absolutely refuse to let go of the anger first, I know he'll take one for the team and come dance for me. Because I'm lucky and found a man who's not afraid to be silly for me.

And because of that, Cancer may win the fight, but will never win the war.

Roll your eyes if you want, I know I would, but hear this: Love is a battlefield and love conquers all. Just make sure you do the dishes!

Chain Reaction

When I found out I have cancer, I didn't realize how open people would be with their reaction to my reaction: I'm too casual. I'm too sarcastic. I'm not emotional enough. I didn't realize that cancer meant I had to react in a particular way. I didn't realize getting cancer meant I had to change who I am -- which by the way is a casual, sarcastic, non-emotional person.

I guess I could fake tears. Break something. Pretend to be so distraught with this news that I refuse to get out of bed. In some strange way, I think people would better understand that reaction. In their minds, that's the way I SHOULD react. But I'm not a victim. And that's not me. I'm not the kind of person that's going to crawl into bed and let cancer take over my life.

And to be honest, I'd feel guilty doing that. Not to sound completely cliche, but there are starving people in this world! Not only am I not starving, but I have the means to completely change my diet and eat mostly raw and drink disgusting wheat grass shots because it is vital to my health (lucky me).

But in all seriousness, I AM LUCKY. Yeah, having cancer sucks. It really does. But people are literally dying every minute of worse things, including worse cancers. And I'm not actually dying (knock on wood people!). And not only that, but other people are constantly suffering without receiving anywhere near the kind of attention I'm receiving because, yes, I have cancer (See? cancer IS an attention whore!).

And not just "people" but my people. I have friends struggling every day with addiction. I have a friend that is so sick, who constantly suffers, and even the doctors can't figure out why. I have friends that have experienced loss so terrible that I pray I never have to know what that feels like.

I could have it so much worse. And because of this, I don't spend my days crying and feeling sorry for myself. Itt's because of this that I jokingly compare my tumor to that of my pregnant friend's babies, also wondering if "Little Hodgy" has grown any today.

When I found out about the cancer, I wasn't given a death sentence. So please, I beg of you, stop expecting me to act like I was. 

And please, whatever you do, don't confuse this plea with being unappreciative of all the continued love and support I do receive every single day. It is because of that boundless love from friends, family, and people everywhere that I am able to have the strength and courage to tackle Little Hodgy. But when you see me having fun with my friends or joking about cancer, please don't tell me I should be home mourning. Because unlike others less fortunate, I'm not dying.

At least not today.

(KNOCK ON WOOD PEOPLE!)

Stage Fright

Since finding out I have Cancer, I've been much more aware of my body.

I question every little ache and pain, wondering is it normal or is it the cancer? The period of waiting for the cancer to be staged was the worst. Knowing it was possible that the cancer was in my other organs or in my bones made me hyper aware of my body. I'd get a cramp and be convinced the cancer had spread to my stomach. My leg would ache and I was sure it was in my blood.

I felt like that WebMD researcher who has a cold and concludes "I HAVE CANCER!" The difference was, of course, I actually do have cancer.

I had a solid week of this type of behavior between the tests themselves and actually finding out the results. It was a long week. I knew my best case scenario was stage II. Worst case was stage IV.

As it turns out, I'm Stage II (SCORE!). Stage IIBX, to be exact. It's funny how that title becomes a little bit defining. On every support site and information forum, your byline is your type of cancer and it's stage. "Hello my name is Dana and I have Hodgkins Lymphoma, Stage IIbx." Hi, Dana.

So what does that mean?

Stage II means I have a perfectly good excuse to hibernate through the rough Detroit winter. It means I will be done with my treatment before the springtime flowers start to bloom. It means, like the flowers, my hair will start to bud and grow back in time for summer. It means I get to spend my weekends on the river instead of in the hospital. It means I turn into my mother and think of my hair as rosebuds and write cheesy lines to validate staying inside when it's fucking freezing outside. Hey what ever helps you sleep at night, right? Stage II means five months of hell, but then it will be over (knock on wood). And as Winston Churchill says, "If you're going through hell, keep going."

The "B" part of the staging means the tumor is "unfavorable." LIke anyone feels that a tumor in their body is favorable. But according to the doctors, favorable tumors exist, and unfortunately I don't have one. The B means I have certain side effects associated with the cancer: fever, night sweats, weight loss, etc. I'm still not convinced I'm actually a B patient. You could say it's denial, but I'm just looking at the facts. Yes, I did have fever and night sweats for a week several months ago, but never before and never since. And as for weight loss, I don't think 2 lbs counts as "significant weight loss." I think the stress of finding out there's a cancer in your body will scare 2 lbs off of anyone.

The X means my tumor is bulky. Anyone that knows me, knows that no part of me is considered "bulky." But lately I'm finding out that I have very bulky insides. Not only is my tumor large, but apparently I have both an enlarged heart and a "bulky pancreas." On my original CT Scan, there was a mark on my pancreas that they believed to be cancerous. This is why they believed me to be at least stage III (cancer is in areas above and below the diaphram). Turns out, I just have a bulky pancreas.

Some people are blessed with big butts or big boobs, but not me. I was blessed with a big pancreas. Eat your heart out Sir Mix A Lot.

Cancer Bling

Cancer patients get all the best accessories...

Making the Cut

When I was 13 I decided to walk a mile up the road and get my hair cut at the Hair Cuttery. I don't remember why I felt the need to walk a mile by myself to cut my hair - maybe I was being rebellious or trying to express my independence. Or maybe I just really wanted a hair cut. But for whatever reason, at that time I felt a strong urge to make that solo trek. I didn't intend on doing anything drastic. Just a trim. But somehow my "just a trim" got lost in translation and resulted in an above the chin bob. I was devastated. Traumatized. I ran home, crying the entire way.

It's been 15 years and I've never gone back to a Hair Cuttery and I've never had short hair again.

Until today.

Today I cut off 10 inches of my hair and donated it to Wigs for Kids. Originally, I was donating to Locks of Love but I found out that they end up selling most of the donated hair for a profit. And the wigs they do end up making, they usually sell to the the kid's family. Wigs are expensive. Human hair wigs are outrageously expensive. The last thing a parent should have to worry about is how to come up with $2000 so their kid can have some sense of normalcy. So Wigs for Kids it is.

When I told people I was going to cut off all my hair, a lot of people asked me "why?" Why go through something so traumatizing right now? But I have good hair. Really good hair. Long and unprocessed. I could probably make a small fortune selling it on the black market. But there is no way I'm going to let cancer let my good hair go to waste. Cutting it before chemo takes it from me gives me some kind of control of the situation. Besides, when you're told you're going to spend the next year of your life rocking a bald head, short hair no longer seems so scary. Plus, a little girl with cancer now gets to rock my awesome hair. Eventually, I'll get it back anyway.

Here's a preview of my new 'do:

Denial's a Bitch...Or a Vacation...

Aaaaand I’m skipping town...

I’m on the next plane out of here and heading South – South America to be exact.

I’m not ignoring my problems, but I had a life before lymphoma and I’ll continue to have a life during and after. And there’s no way I’m letting cancer ruin my plans. Is it wise to head off to a foreign country when you have a tumor displacing your trachea making it difficult to breath? Maybe not. Is it wise to run off with your husband on a relaxing vacation before chemo tries to control the next 6-9 months of our lives? Absolutely. (Although my mom may disagree).

Am I running away from Cancer? No. In fact, it’s coming with me! Grab a beach towel, Cancer, we’re going on vacation!

Now, am I avoiding Cancer? Absolutely. At least for the next week.

On Monday I met with the oncologist at the Karmanos Cancer Institute where I’ll receive my treatment. If this didn’t feel real before, it definitely feels real now. I’ve been telling everyone that I don’t feel like a cancer patient. Well, after that visit, I feel like a cancer patient.

I’d imagine that cancer patients go through similar stages of grief as anyone who’s experienced the loss of a loved one. In a way, we’ve experienced loss too: loss of control over our bodies, loss of freedom, loss of time. Stage one in dealing – Denial.

It’s easy to experience denial when cancer has to compete with the holidays, your job, family visits, supportive friends, etc. There’s not a lot of time to think about cancer when the Thanksgiving parade is marching down your street. Because who wants to think about cancer when you can think about the holidays? Not this girl.

But denial can’t last forever. Eventually the parade ends; your family goes home and your friends go back to their lives. Eventually the distractions stop long enough for the revelation to sink back in: I have cancer.

And even if you’re great at living in denial and pushing those thoughts out of your head, a meeting with the oncologist will rip those thoughts from that dark forgotten place in your mind and throw reality back in your face.

The reality is, the stage of my cancer is still unknown. Next week, I go in for a battery of tests including a bone marrow biopsyto see if the cancer has spread from my lymph nodes to my blood. Right now, I know I have at least stage 2 lymphoma since the cancer is in my neck and chest. The reality is, further tests could determine if the cancer is below my chest, raising my stage to 3 and/or in my blood, bringing it to the highest stage, stage 4. Hello Reality, Goodbye Denial.

You know what else you can’t deny? Losing your fucking hair. Because then not only will I feel like a cancer patient, but look like one too. And there’s a chance I may become infertile. Talk about reality. If I haven’t thought about having kids in the future, I better start thinking about it now. Actually, I should have started thinking about it yesterday. Because once chemo starts, it’s too late to start thinking about freezing your eggs. Not to mention the nausea, vomiting, and fatigue that inevitably comes from chemotherapy.

The reality is, you can’t deny the risks that cancer brings with it.

Denial, my friend, where did you go?

But I have one week before these tests. I have one week before this cancer is officially diagnosed and staged. I have one week to jet off to Cartagena, Colombia to watch two friends get married. One week to celebrate love and warmth. To enjoy the sand, sun, and rum. I have one week to spend with my husband pretending I don’t have cancer.

In one week, I’ll come back to reality. Until then, Hello Denial.

Cancer, I hope you enjoy your vacation. I know I will.

Black Friday

To all my friends who are recently engaged or expecting: I'm sorry. Just celebrated your wedding anniversary? Landed a new job? I'm sorry to you too.  It's not like I planned to steal your thunder. I don't even want your thunder. But that's what happens. Inconvenient, inconsiderate Cancer comes in and steals the spotlight.

Being told I have Cancer is the scariest news I've ever received. But if you're going to get Cancer, I've been told that Lymphoma is the Cancer to get. Like it's the new "it" bag or something. Like I got the trendy version of Cancer. "It's good!" I've been told repeatedly. But even with this "good" news, Cancer is Cancer. It's still fucking scary. It's still fucking Cancer.

But as my grandmother told me, I'm just like her: stubborn and persistent. Cancer doesn't stand a chance against women like us. In fact, I feel sorry for Cancer having to go up against me because it will lose. So this blog is the journey of me kicking Cancer's ass. Cancer, I'm stealing the spotlight back.


*Please excuse any grammatical errors throughout this blog. When you have Cancer, there's just no time to be grammatically correct.