Round 3--(keep) FIGHT(ing)!!!

So it's chemo, Round 3--"ding ding-fight"--today.  We had the ever-pleasing opportunity of making the voyage into Atlanta to the main Emory Hospital since I was scheduled (I thought) to meet with my doctor (when I'm just getting infusions and bloodwork, I have the option of getting it done at a much more conveniently located Emory branch hospital--thus the ensuing frustration you're about to hear about).  This turned out to be an appointment with his PA--don't get me wrong, PAs are a great resource, and I think they definitely have their place, but unfortunately cancer therapy is not one of those places in my universe.  She was a great lady--super nice, relatively knowledgeable, had obviously read up on my case prior to walking in the exam room, and she did a bang-up physical exam; however, when I drive (or ride) an hour and a half to see my oncologist, I want to see my flipping oncologist.  RANT OVER.

We made the best of it: after getting my port accessed and getting some blood drawn, we got into the "doctor's" office pretty quickly and went through the usual interrogation/reporting process, good-naturedly harassed the nurse (a sweetly cynical middle-aged black lady with a fiery attitude that I just adore) that had originally told me I was going to lose my hair (since I cut it all off, and it's not even thinning), visited with a social worker (for the record, Uncle Junior, you're better at her job than she is), stopped by the little cafe to get some hot chocolate from one of the prettiest ladies I've ever seen in my life (she told me I was gorgeous too and didn't believe I was here for chemo *blushing ensued*), and then proceeded downstairs to the infusion center waiting area.  This area should just be labeled "chaos central" for convenience and accuracy.  I've had infusions at a number of different locations, and this one has the highest rate of traffic--by far.  That may have something to do with the fact that it's like a major university cancer research center or something--who knows.  I think I overheard one of the nurses mention they had seen almost 200 patients in a day for infusions.  Now, don't get me wrong--despite the chaos of the waiting area, this infusion center is one of the nicest with regard to convenience/comfort/cleanliness--you even get access to your own flatscreen tv at your little recliner.  They don't let you bring more than one person along with you--which may sound mean at first, but consider that I've been in some centers where there would be groups of like 5 to 7 people having lunch and kumbaya time while I was trying to stave off a supremely surly attitude, not toss my cookies (a situation not aided by the smells of random fried foods), and watch some Netflix in peace--so the lack of crowding is much-appreciated.  They've got this cool little lady that creeps around with a rad snack cart with all sorts of options to choose from, the nurses are super sweet, they don't let people bring in smelly foods, you have to use headphones if you want to watch your tv, and it's a generally peaceful (as peaceful as being electively poisoned can be) environment, all things considered.

Now the waiting room is an entirely different universe--despite being one little doorway apart--it's a whole other experience.  And one that I, personally, could live without (and not just because it's the chemo infusion waiting room).  The people you meet in there are the types you either love or hate to be around, and they've all got their own redeeming/or not-so-much characteristics.  I'm going to do this in the spirit of one of those "The Types of People You Meet in _________" sorts of articles, so here goes:

Type 1--The Know-it-All
This person (in my experience, usually a "she") is generally well-meaning, and looks at me as a "young" patient that obviously doesn't know anything.  So she takes it as an opportunity to inform me of all the things that I should be expecting through chemo--entirely negating the fact that every chemo is different for almost every patient, and not taking a breath long enough for me to mention that this isn't my first rodeo.  Most of her advice is not all that useful, but sometimes she mentions valuable tidbits of information or at least provides a laugh here and there.

Type 2--The Oversharer
This is the person that wants to tell you everything they've experienced--but in a "TMI" sort of style.  By that, I mean it's complete with detailed descriptions of bathroom habits, vomiting routines, and social encounters of all sorts.  For example, I don't want/need to know which body parts you enjoy no longer having to shave (although I may be secretly jealous).  Coincidentally, I seem to get the urge to pee every time I get around one of these.

Type 3--The TALKER
Now a lot of these types I'm listing may seem like they overlap, but I assure you that they are all they're very own distinct category.  This particular individual is looking to share their life story--with everyone--and depending on how long you're sitting in said waiting area, you may feel like you'd be able to accurately compose his/her complete biographical sketch before you get called back for your blood pressure check.  All this, despite the fact that you're actually sitting ACROSS the room from them and they aren't even directly addressing you.

Type 4--The Make You Feel Like an Ungrateful Bratty Little Whiner Type
This patient is wheeled into the infusion waiting room in a wheelchair, has lost all of their hair and has skin the color of printer paper, has ankles and feet so swollen they can't wear shoes yet has obviously lost a considerable proportion of their pre-cancer body weight, can barely muster the strength to hold their head up--but they're SMILING and greeting everyone they pass like they're having the greatest day ever.  Which prompts you to look down at your (at least in my case) nicely tanned skin, clothes you haven't fit into in years, shoes that you WALKED into the hospital in, and to run your fingers through the hair you still have (although you may not enjoy the fact that you chopped it off prematurely)--all while thanking God for the good fortune that He has bestowed upon you, praying for your fellow cancer warrior, and silently declaring that you're going to suck it up and stop being such a whiny little shit (which you won't--but you tell yourself you need to).  This person is an inspiration and you have to restrain the urge to fall into the creeper category by giving them a hug.  Which brings me to...

Type 5--The Creeper
This person also means well, but is prone to unprovoked acts of physical contact that make you a little uncomfortable--especially in a pool of potentially immunocompromised individuals.  Purell is a wonderful thing--as is the awkward stranger hug avoidance maneuver.  In addition to their urges to share their love with hugs, shoulder pats, and extended handshakes, they have a tendency to ask questions that just start to cross the border of being a little too personal.  Encounters with Type 5 also justify the sudden urge to urinate.

Type 6--The Fashionista/er
Now don't get me wrong--I don't roll into the hospital like I'm on a midnight Walmart adventure or anything, but some of these ladies and gentlemen make me feel a little self-conscious about my choice of apparel!  I had a great conversation today with some sweet ladies about their latest animal-print pant purchases at Chico's and the new line of sweaters out at Jones New York, salivated over another lady's Tory Burch flats, and saw a young (70-ish) man in a VERY stylish paisley-patterned button-down with matching belt, pants, and loafers today.  These folks usually have designer bags for their chemo-accessories--please keep in mind, I'm not judging, I'm JEALOUS!--while Chris is lugging my old backpack and I'm dragging my Vera Bradley blanket around like Linus on Peanuts.  And although I'm jealous beyond reason, this gives me something to do while I'm getting poisoned--as soon as I can get my computer out and start wishlisting on all the online shopping outlets.

Type 7--That Guy That Makes Me Miss My Uncles and Daddy
He's mad that he's at the hospital instead of sitting in the deer/duck blind or fishing than he is about actually getting chemo, yet he's making inappropriate jokes/flirting shamelessly with the young nurses and I want to be his newest best friend.  He's also dressed in either camo or sports team-based regalia, jeans, and boots and usually has his wife trailing after him lecturing him about doing/not doing something while he's complaining relentlessly about all this "new-fangled science-y doctor stuff" they're taking so long to do.

Please, keep in mind that I write this largely for my emotional release, your entertainment, and so that I can keep my family and friends updated on what's going on without being depressing and doctor-y sounding.  I write about all of these people in my characteristic, cynical tone, but please know that I deeply respect and admire each and every one of them for having the courage to fight this beast without losing themselves--because I speak from experience when I say that it's a constant struggle to do so, and I would say I've got it easy.  Cancer is a real-life monster, and anybody that is faced with the challenge of fighting it is a "300"-esque (you know, that movie about the Spartans where all the dudes distracted me from what was actually going on in the story) warrior in my mind.  All of my fellow Cancer Warriors--past and present, near to my heart and true strangers, Stage 1 to Stage 4--are in my prayers and I forever wish them/you all the best in health and happiness, and sincerely ask that you mention them to whomever your higher power of choice may be!

If you made it this far, thank you for reading, thank you for your thoughts/prayers if you happen to be of the practicing sort, and thank you for your unending support.  You may or may not know just how much it truly eases the journey.  Much love to all--except Eugene, of course.  He's off the Christmas list...because I don't plan on him being around then anyways ;-)

Still hanging in there...

So I know you’ve all been waiting anxiously for the latest update on Eugene’s status—the little bastard isn’t dead yet, but we’re still working steadily towards it.  There were some questions about how he came to be named Eugene, and I wish I had a more exciting story to share than “my sister and I were joking about naming the tumor via text one day—I told her I was leaning towards ‘Carl’, she suggested ‘Eugene’, and that was it.”  Now you all know—and you’re welcome.  That kind of premeditated brilliance can only be stunningly magnificent.

Since my last update, I went through some pretty dark days.  The Maryland trip turned out to be quite an adventure, courtesy of my French brother and his special travel arrangements—we decided to take a little later flight out of Atlanta (and by “we decided” I mean “they gave our seats away because we didn’t leave for the airport early enough”).  So, TJ, Alex, and I had some quality airport time and then got to see the Pennsylvania/Delaware/Maryland countryside on our rental car (a roomy Mazda 2) voyage across the Delmarva peninsula to Ocean City.  It all builds character in the end—so what if we missed a day of the conference, lost Alex’s driver’s license somewhere along the way, and had to yell at a bunch of US Airways associates in the process of getting where we needed to be and back home again.  I ended up spending a significant portion of the conference in bed because Eugene was being an asshole and hosting what felt like it was a satellite performance of Riverdance on my spine and/or kidneys.  Many opioids were consumed, and not much seafood.  But I did still have the opportunity to see lots of friendly faces—the family of chicken doctors that I love.  It was worth the trip to get all of those hugs and well wishes, and the actual parts of the conference that I was able to endure were nice as well.

I struggled rather considerably on those days that I was feeling particularly crappy.  I had a bit of a mental block where I was really conflicted—like one side of my brain knew that I felt like scum, but there was another corner where part of my mind was resistant to admit it for fear of admitting weakness.  Those two parts of my brain were in the midst of quite the tumultuous debate, and I knew that it was making me into a crazy person that was less than fun to be around—so I did the only thing I knew to do at that point—I called my Uncle Junior.  Many of you know my uncle, and know the battles that he, himself, has won.  For those of you that don’t, this is one of my dad’s younger brothers—a man very near and dear to my heart—who has been an unwavering source of emotional and spiritual support.  It probably helps that he happens to be a minister of his own church, but I say he’s pretty awesome regardless of all that.  When I spoke to him (also interpreted as indecipherable blubbering via phone), he assured me that I was not admitting defeat by admitting that I didn’t feel well.  That He is strong when we cannot be, and that it is up to us to trust in Him for the path to healing and wellness.  Once I heard, understood, and accepted that, I found a new level of peace and was able to move on.  That’s not to say that I was walking around fearlessly—I remained terrified.  But it made things easier to get through.  We survived the trip, and upon our return to the great state of Georgia, chemo commenced.

Thanks to my Aunt Cyndie, I was the most styling and profiling chemo patient at Emory that day in my new chemo outfit.  We met with the doctor, talked about how Eugene was getting too big for his britches—outgrowing his blood supply, and essentially destroying himself before we even started the chemo.  We talked about how these were good signs that meant that he would be taking up the drugs like a crazy kid on Halloween night.  We talked about the little Riverdance performances that had been taking place regularly and got some heavier drugs involved—with plans in place to do some nerve killing.  I was pretty amped about all of that, and we headed on down for my first new infusion.  All I remember about that was taking some Benadryl and passing out for a few hours.  I woke up with about 20 minutes left to go, finished it out, and we were outta there.  We celebrated with some Pappasito’s enchiladas for dinner—my first real Tex-Mex experience since we left the mothership back in June—and it was magical.  Since then, it’s just been a battle with heartburn and having no appetite. 

Fast forward to today, and I still have no desire to eat on a regular basis—like not even cake and crap.  I just shovel food in because it’s necessary.  I’m constantly on what feels like the verge of exhaustion, and sleep has been somewhat challenging as we’re trying to change my seizure meds and get the dose right—slowly but surely.  I chopped my hair off so that I can donate it to a good cause, and I’m still getting accustomed to the whole short hair thing.  We’ve officially gotten the pain under control, and I haven’t had to take any pain meds or keep close confines with a heating pad in over a week—it’s been pure bliss.  I’m working on getting caught back up on classes and schoolwork—trying to keep my mind occupied with chicken doctoring—and counting down the days to fall break and Thanksgiving.  I need some Texas in my life.

Calling Mr. DeMille...

...Eugene was ready for his closeup yesterday!  We headed west, towards Atlanta (and a very nice hospital) for a quick little CT scan (know to many as a "CAT" scan).  CT stands for "computed tomography" or "computed axial tomography"--I don't know what any of those words mean.  Basically, it's a way to use X-rays to look at the inside of your body in a three-dimensional fashion.  

So, first things first, they had to find a reason to stick a needle in me.  In this case, it's to inject "contrast" during the scan.  The contrast helps them to be able to visualize all of the blood vessels and stuff, and actually turns out to be a pretty good reason for hitting me with a needle.  The nurses were really sweet at this hospital and let me use my port instead of having to do an IV catheter in my arm or hand--which is nice for both parties because my veins are a pain in the you-know-what to access.  For those that don't know, the port is a device that was surgically implanted before my first set of chemo treatments.  It's on the right side of my chest, just below my collar bone, and serves as an access point to one of the big vessels that's close to my heart (just like all of you).  To actually access it, they just have to use a special needle and poke through the skin over it and into the little bubble on top to be able to inject various (generally not very cool) substances.  When they're done, they simpy pull the needle back out, and I get a cute little band-aid--instead of a giant bruise and a sore hand/arm like with catheters.

After that, I was ready for Eugene to be "ready for his closeup".  I'm starting to notice a trend where I'm the one that has to do all the work for Eugene to just hang out and feed off all my suffering--as*hole.  Anyways, they took me in this room with a huge machine that looks like a big donut sitting on its side.  They told me to pull my pants down to my knees and lay on my back--that would've all been really weird had I not done it about 23542 times in the last six months.  Of course the table is not exactly Serta-approved--it's more like an actual table.  So I kicked off my flip flops (because I don't care about the rules regarding Labor Day and footwear), pulled my pants down, and did my best penguin walk to the table.  I assumed the position on the less than comfy hard plastic table with my arms over my head and some kind of laser pointer alignment aid shooting me in the eye (as I read the little sign beside it that said not to look at it).  The nurse hooked up all of the necessary cords and tubes and left me alone in the room with that giant donut machine and a bunch of whirring and buzzing sounds as she told me we would be beginning soon.  

For the actual scan, the little table slowly slides in and out of the big donut machine.  At various points a creepy, monotone voice instructed me to inhale and hold my breath as I slid through to the beginning position and stopped.  At that point, I heard the nurse come back in.  I could tell she was messing around with some bags of fluid and whatnot beside me, but was terrified to move and look for fear of messing up the multi-thousand dollar test and having to redo it.  She told me that she was starting the contrast and I would soon start to feel warm all over, might taste something metallic in my mouth as though I had a coin in there (what?!?!?!), and it might feel like I was urinating on myself (WHAT?!?!?!?) but I wouldn't be (well thank goodness...I'd be a tad concerned if whatever crap she was pumping into my veins was causing me to pee myself).  Before she was finished elaborating on the pseudo-pantspeeing experience, I felt the warmth she had referred to, and was wishing they'd turn up the A/C in that place.  She left the room again.  They slid me in and out of the machine. Mr. Creepyvoice told me to hold my breath again, and next thing I knew it was over.  I got to do the dorky penguin walk back over to my shoes, and was allowed to pull my pants back up (thank goodness I was wearing my "good underwear").  

And that was it.  Before I knew it, I was passed out in the passenger seat as my driver (aka, Chris) was escorting me back to Athens.  So what they ended up doing was taking a whole bunch of pictures in a slice-wise formation--think of the body like a loaf of bread.  They'll be able to use those slices and a bunch of fancy computer technology and things I'll never want to understand to recreate a three dimensional image of what's going on inside my body--namely Eugene, in all his glory.  They'll use some more fancy computer buttons to measure and evaluate his morphology--shape, size, conformation, relation to other important structures--and then we'll have that analysis to compare to after these next two months' worth of chemo blasts do their job.  Sometime around Thanksgiving I'll get to visit the donut machine and Mr. Creepyvoice again, and we'll see that all of our prayers and wishes have been heard and granted!

'fam-uh-lee

When most people think of the definition of the word "family", they think of it in association with some degree of biological linkage.  Mr. Webster himself is of this notion with definitions such as "a group of people of common ancestry" and "a person's children".  But the one definition that Mr. Webster lists that I identify best with is "a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation".  I like this one best because it does not define what that affiliation must be--there's no requirement for genetic linkage.  This is how I was raised.

I'm not one to readily "let people in" my life.  Some may say I'm even a bit standoff-ish at times.  I'm polite--that was beaten into me from a very early age (gently, of course)--and I'm pretty easy to hold a conversation with, but if I'm really going to let someone in and let all of my barriers down, that means something to me.  It means that you are becoming a part of my "family".  Now don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those crazy "security nuts"--I think passwords are a waste of my time...I don't care who sees my medical records (honestly, I think all the tree huggers need to be going after whomever came up with that HIPAA thing because they're wasting more paper than the rest of us that aren't recycling the inside of our toilet paper roll thingies)...and I'm pretty quick to voice my opinion (whether I think you want to hear it or not).  But a lot of what folks see on the outside is a (highly) sarcastic facade--I'm very apt to use humor and cynicism to avoid "facing the music" in most situations.  I don't think that people outside of my inner circle would readily describe me as "touchy-feely" or warm and fuzzy--although that may all change for those of you that are reading this blog now.

Sorry if I'm rambling, but I'm getting to a point, I promise...and that point is that I've quickly found my family growing.  We are united by a certain conviction and a common affiliation, and that is the belief that cancer sucks.  They also might care about me a little bit, but there's no doubt in my mind that every single one of them/you can agree that cancer really really sucks.  Almost everyone has, unfortunately, experienced cancer in some capacity--they have/had it or someone they know/knew had/has it.  And in every case there is an emotional connection of some degree.  When I'm faced with that kind of emotional connection, my barriers crumble.  We immediately become related--bonded by the wound that cancer has created on our hearts.  This stands true for my "blood" relatives, with whom I have shared in the loss and the defeat of this bastard.  It also stands true for my friends, near and far/old and new, that offer their prayers and support.  This includes you, if you're reading this--WELCOME TO THE FAMILY!!!

When you think of cancer, sunshine and rainbows aren't typically at the forefront of the thought process--you've gotta push through the thunderbolts and fire-breathing dragons, and then just after you travel through the lollipop forest, you get a glimpse of that sunshine.  That's what you have to look for in the midst of this.  And for me, family is the brightest sunshine and the biggest, boldest rainbow that's ever been in the sky.  One of the positive effects of having a disease like this one is that it really leads you to evaluate what is truly meaningful in life.  For me, that's all of you.  This weekend, as I mentioned in my last post, I had the opportunity to travel down to Florida to see my cousin marry his beautiful best friend.  Now, aside from my parents, I haven't gotten to see any of my relatives since I left Texas in June--and while you may think "four months, big whoop", please keep in mind that I was accustomed to seeing at least some of these folks every other week or so.  My heart was so full at just getting to visit with them during those few hours at the wedding that it was all but heart-breaking to tell them each goodbye.

To counter that crushing feeling, I look to the good things I have to come--I'm going to see them over the holidays after this first chemo battle with Eugene is over and done with, I got to come back to Athens--to continue to partake in the opportunity I've dreamed of for the last eight years, I get to work with some of the smartest and most caring men and women in my field on a daily basis (my sweet, sweet PDRC family <3), I'm attending an awesome conference with a whole group of people that share my passion for the poultry industry this weekend in Ocean City, Maryland and eating awesome seafood and seeing awesome scenery (a lot of awesomeness there), my beautiful little sister and niece are coming to visit me in less than two weeks, we're going to start BTHO Eugene one week from today, one of my best friends is coming to visit in November, I have a loving family and the greatest friends and support system a girl could ask for, and I have the most incredible man in the world to stand by my side or carry me through every single step of all of this.  So that's what I'm looking towards.  And I will continue to add things to that list--however small and seemingly insignificant they may become.  I refuse to become a slave to cancer.  It will not win. 

Thank you for being a part of my family, and for giving me something to be thankful for.  I'd like to ask a small favor--if you're praying (and that's entirely your choice, of course--but if you are) please add my friend Jennie's daddy (Dave Allen) to your prayer list.  He, too, is battling this beast and could use all the support that I know you guys are capable of giving.  Also, today starts Breast Cancer Awareness month, so "Save the Ta-Tas" and wear some pink in honor of the strong and brave women (and men) that have fought this SOB. 

WHY???

A question that everyone must ask themselves when found in less than ideal situations such as this.  Of course I wonder why.  And of course there are endless anecdotal responses—“God only gives us what he knows we can handle”, “Everything happens for a reason”, etc.—but I’ve never been one for anecdotes.  I’m very much a black and white, cause and effect, yes and no, every action has an equal and opposite reaction type of girl.  So when I was diagnosed, I immediately began wondering…WHY? 

I’ve always been a good kid—did my homework/got good grades, held open doors for old ladies, remembered people’s birthdays, did what my parents told me to (mostly), went to college and got a few degrees…hell, I’m a freaking doctor right?  I’ve never been one to indulge in anything much worse than a greasy cheeseburger or a nice calorie-laden dessert, so why me?  But then you start thinking about it from the other side of that spectrum—does not doing those things mean that someone else is more deserving of cancer?  Of course not.  Nobody deserves this—it’s a matter of biology—really, really sheisty biology.  I inherited a particular gene mutation that is responsible for regulating a certain kind of cellular growth, so my epithelial cells (those are the ones that line the inside of your GI tract, your uterus, your skin, etc.) don’t behave the way they’re supposed to.  It really comes down to just that.  Pretty simple when you think about it, right?...WRONG.  

Cancer is never simple—as we sciency, doctor-type people like to say, “cancer doesn’t follow the rules.”  In fact, it pretty much just makes up its own.  Cancer cells are the Bebe’s kids (that’s a movie reference for those of you that didn’t know--http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0103783/?ref_=nv_sr_2) of biological systems, looking their superiors in the face saying “whateva, I do what I want.”  So instead of sitting around and wondering why, the only option we have is to fight.  We cut it out and throw it away (even when I've asked the surgeon to save it for me to see because I’m a sucker for all the “yucky inside parts”), we blast it with nasty chemicals that make our hair fall out/skin peel/insides try to vomit themselves out—essentially poisoning our bodies in an effort to kill the bad cells before we kill (all of) the good ones, or we hit it with massive doses of concentrated radiation to try to give them a really bad sunburn.  And as many of you know (and if you don’t, just follow along with me over the next few months and you can learn), it takes a tremendous toll—emotionally and physically.  Sometimes we win, and sometimes that asshole cancer takes home the trophy. 

I’ve had both the honor and misfortune of watching people very dear to my heart fight this battle—and as such, I have beautiful angels above and amazing warriors still here on earth by my side that I rely on for inspiration, support, and encouragement daily.  As they fought (and continue to fight their battles--because the war with cancer is never truly "over"), I asked myself, "why these people--why do these people that I love with my whole heart have to go through this?"  The answer to that one has been made clear--they are the bravest men and women I've ever known.  Selfless individuals that have born the burden so that others would not, and have set examples for those of us in their wake.  I never imagined I would find myself to be a member of this (perhaps sadistically) elite group of people, but it gives me strength each day to have them by my side.  When cancer comes along, it doesn’t just affect the “sick” person—everyone that loves you becomes a warrior in the battle, and I have to say that I’ve gotta have one of the best damned armies that a person could ever dream of having. 

I’ve had people from coast to coast and everywhere in between reach out over the last couple of weeks to offer encouragement and support, and it’s difficult to put into words (surprising for me, I know—I obviously struggle with that) just how much that truly means.  You may think you’re “just sending a text message” or “just clicking “Like” on the ol’ Facebook”, but it’s SO much more than that.  That’s not to say that the reason I’m doing this or publicizing my journey is to seek emotional support.  I decided to do this after finding solace in reading about others’ journeys, and so I wanted to go on and pay it forward.  If reading this gives others an opportunity to smile or giggle or builds awareness/educates folks in some (likely minimal) capacity, then it’s worth it to me.  But there’s more to it as well—I’d like to use this as a platform to encourage people to listen to their bodies and take care of themselves.  If something doesn’t seem right to you, chances are that it isn’t—nobody knows your body better than you do. 

I was stubborn about biting the bullet and going to the doctor last year, and my symptoms progressed over a period of almost eight months before Chris finally had to, essentially, force me to go to the doctor.   Because who has time to go to the doctor?  Well I can tell you that a couple of check ups here and there are far less time consuming (and slightly less taxing, emotionally and physically) than what’s transpired over the past six months.  I’m 28 freaking years old—who’d have though colon cancer should’ve been on my radar?  But remember, cancer doesn’t follow rules…and you’re the only person that truly knows your body.  So get checked out.  There’s no shame—and if you don’t agree with your doctor when he/she tells you nothing is wrong then find a new one that legitimately listens to your concerns.  I wish I could say that all doctors are great, wonderful, and all-knowing people, but they’re flawed just as we all are.

I'm going to wrap this one up, because your buttcheeks are probably getting numb by now (if you actually read this whole thing), and we have to get on the road to see my cousin marry the woman of his dreams.  I'll for sure write more later this weekend in an effort to put off studying for my exam that's on Monday.  Until then #BTHOcancer #BTHOeugene #f*ckcancer and thanks for reading.

<3

Here we go again...

So, some of you know and most of you don't, but my old friend cancer has made a comeback.  You may or may not recall a celebratory "no more chemo" post on the ol' FB a while back.  Well, we did the customary follow-up CT scan and found a friend in a different place that merited some further investigation.  The PET scan was done, and that sucker lit up like a light bulb.  After the customary poking, prodding, and investigation by an array of "-ologists", I was destined for surgery number two to remove another hunk of colon (because who really needs one of those anyways) along with my newest friend.

Through all of this, I refused to believe it was the "c word", and latched onto the "inflammation" hypothesis the doctors were pitching wholeheartedly.  My attitude was, "get in, get it out, and let me get on with my chicken doctoring."  Well, it didn't quite go as planned--turns out I was being uncharacteristically optimistic, and some quick "real doctor" work revealed that it actually was cancer.  And not just your run-of-the-mill colon cancer...nope, this tumor was waaaaay down deep in my belly, and hugging some pretty important vessels.  That day's surgeon must've not been up to date on his malpractice insurance policy, as he opted to close things back up (quite nicely, I might add) and pass to the A-team.

Spent a few days in the hospital with some super-sweet nurses and a bunch of beeping things before they let me out so I could make the trip to Emory University (yeah, where the Ebola patients went) in Hot-lanta.  The surgical oncologist deemed my tumor--heretofore referred to as "Eugene"--inoperable because of his close proximity to my aorta (the huge artery that takes the blood straight from your heart to everything else) and another vessel called the superior mesenteric artery (SMA, for short) which basically supplies blood to all of your intestines (all of which are necessary for life, apparently).  So he referred me to a medical oncologist--those are the guys (and girls) that specialize in chemotherapy and all of its evil/life saving intricacies--the idea being that some specialized chemo could shrink Eugene down to a size that would render him operable.

The journey continued, and we met with the new doctor yesterday--he's kind of a smart guy from Lebanon originally with a lot of letters behind his name who's spent more time in school than I have (which, as most of you know, is really saying something).  He informed me that my "condition" is an exceedingly rare one--go figure--so we're going to take things one step at a time and see how things progress.

It's not my first chemo rodeo, but there are some new players drug-wise.  And with new drugs come new side effects.  Last time the main side effect that plagued me was constant nausea--so much so that I wouldn't eat for 24 to 36 hours at a time while I was receiving treatments.  Cold sensitivity was more annoying than painful--I mean, who enjoys drinking iced tea without ice or not being able to walk across the floor in their house without socks.  This time, they're predicting less nausea and more from the other end, if you get what I'm saying.  The other issue that's caused me far more distress than I ever would have thought is the prospect of losing my hair.  If you'd asked me a year ago if something like losing my hair for a potentially life-saving treatment would have been an issue, I'd have laughed.  But it's so much more than just hair.  However, just like everything else, we'll take it as it comes; and we're going to fight this thing with every tool we have available to us.

My family, friends, and colleagues have been absolutely irreplaceable through everything.  Going into the surgery, Chris and I were thinking everything was going to be just fine--then they found the mass where it was, and things became all too real all too fast.  His dad (the closest, geographically, of all of our relatives) headed south immediately from North Carolina to be here with us, and my parents came as soon as they could get things in order on the homefront.  I have, quite possibly, the most understanding and supportive colleagues I could have ever dreamed of.  My French chicken doctor brother has been holding things down in the office, visited me daily in the hospital (Yoda card and flowers in tow), and has served as an unwavering voice of encouragement and optimism through the whole process.  All of my clinicians and professors, along with the rest of my PDRC family have been the closest thing to a family that I could ask for in a new place far from home.  Each and every text message, phone call, and FB shoutout from friends and family near and far brightens gloomy days and helps turn frowns into smiles (yeah, I realize that's cheesy, but it's true).  There are a select few of you out there--you know who you are--that listen to my whining day in and day out, help me hold it together when it feels like everything is falling apart (like when it feels like there isn't enough oxygen in the room), and don't judge me when I say I want to do things like write a blog.

More updates and insight into my brain and Eugene's status shall come.  I'd like this to be a resource for whomever wants to stay up to date on what's going on--that's not to say that I'm under the impression that there's a mass of people out there hanging on my every word, but if you're sitting on the toilet and looking for something to read here and there perhaps this can be a resource.  Ask questions, leave comments.  I have no secrets, and if this can serve to help out someone in a similar position that would be even better.

Peace to all...except cancer...F*CK CANCER.