My friend Lindsay died on Weds. Her mother called me tonight. Lindsay was a 21, and was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma three months after me. We never met in person--instead we were Lymphoma buddies, trading emails and hours long discussions on the phone. She was a fantastic person--so fun, so positive, so full of life. We'd gossip and commiserate about stuff and talk about basically everything. She made me want to be a better person about this because she never complained, not once, and then I got an email about how things weren't going well and that she'd call me once things got better, but I never heard from her. well, actually, I sent a care package with DVDs, and care bear stuff, and flavored Skittles lip gloss and two weeks ago I got a thankyou note. So last weekend I bought a bunch of new stuff for her, shirts and christmas pajamas, fun stuff because I thought... I don't know. She deserves much more than I can write here. There are some people who profoundly touch your life. That just you can't believe that they exist--they are so nice and kind incredible people and you strive just to be good enough to know them. I was blessed that Linsday was in my life as my friend. And I so devastated that this world will not know more of her. And my prayers go out to her parents and her brother, and anyone who was lucky enough to know her. I really just don't think I can say anything else that will truly do my sadness justice at this loss of such a unique and wonderful person.

So Lindsay:

I will really really miss you.

Terri

I'm still waiting for my epiphany. I believe I deserve it. So that in some way I can take what almost dying really means and apply it to not caring about petty ridiculousness that accompanies trying to nagivate my way through life. Alas, I can not. I am just a silly girl who waits for a boy to call her, as she also waits for the receptionist at her doctor's office to get back to her with a PET Scan appointment. Is that warped? That in the same moment of waiting for an "All-clear" I'm waitin for a date request? Ugh. I'm frightened for myself. I used to be hyper-aware, above the stupidity but now since I've been locked up for so long I've turned into a parody of the catholic school girl who gets to go to college (and no, I don't mean that in the utterly trashy way it can be interpreted. I mean it on a much more basic, clean, sadly chaste level). I think I've written that I my tolerance has gone down (and if one more person says, "Well that makes you a cheap date" I'm gonna clock 'em) and it has. It's gone back up, but I also take longer to recover from a night out of a rolicking THREE BEERS! Yes, I am actually sick for two days, ill to the point that I'm reminded of a horrible instance in college when I got completely loaded on my 20th birthday only to be picked up by my parents the next day to go to my grandmother's funeral. Yeah, I was really sick then--and that's not a story i'm all too proud of. And I get chatty when I drink; yikes, very very chatty. I don't shut up. And well, I have to say, I'm that girl that just loves everybody! Wahoo! Not in a sloppy, gross way, just in a "I'm so happy to be here way" but still, I can't seem to live that down. So here's the thing--don't I get to beat cancer and have a knight in shining armor? So that I can not find myself talking incessantly to boys who might be looking for the nearest exit and shaking my hips to My Goodies? Do I not deserve to be above all that? Have I not suffered enough humilation--what with the baldness, the weight gain, the request to pee in a bucket (accompanied by the curtains for doors and HDTV of me in various states of embarrasment), the puking, the constipation (and my mother constantly asking if I've taken my stool softener--at inappropriate times), the parties I missed, the devestation and the constant state of panic? Come on fates, give me something--not just a non-seized engine. What is the state of customer service these days?

OK, yes two posts, one day, but I've got a lot to say (and geez, that rhymed). Anyway, another discussion with my brother's friend led him to say, "I don't know what to say when people recognize me and come up and talk to me. Usually, I just say thank-you. That's something they don't teach you in drama school. There's no handbook for it." To which, I laughed because he was definately baffled by the whole concept and then I got to thinking--a handbook. yes, that would be nice. People complain about there not being a handbook for raising children, but yet there are so many on amazon. For this, this survivorship/patientship when you're in your twenties, there truly is no handbook.

Let's take dating. Let's look at that bestseller, He's Just Not that Into You. Why is this book flying off the shelves? Instead of deciding that we should decipher all those crazy signals that the men give off, let's just put it simply: Everything would be a whole lot easier if someone would just tell the truth. And that is why game playing for me, at this stage of my life, is off the table. I know that with dating comes the inherent cat and mouse, will he, won't she, but geez, I just don't have the time or the energy to expend. Seriously, I know some people will counter and say, "No one does" and I'll agree. The whole lying pieceof the dating jungle. But here's this--do you know what it's like to have your doctor look you in the eye and tell you she's 100% sure you'll live and then like a year later you find out from your slightly tipsy mother that this wasn't the case. That the doctor, in fact, thought you might not live at all? Ahhh, but no, please tell me you really think I'm great and can't wait to see me again. Because, really, I want to spend my time wondering what I did wrong for you not to wave back to me at the bar, and not at all concern myself with the nagging pain in my back. It's a matter of courtesy. People think that lies will soften the blow, when they just enhance the delusion. Tell me you really don't think you want to get together after this--I'll be pissed but I won't wonder. I HAVE TO SPEND THE NEXT FIVE YEARS WONDERING IF I'M GOING TO DIE I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND EVEN FIVE MINUTES WONDERING IF YOU'RE GOING TO CALL ME BACK! Goodness, serioulsy that's the book that should be on the shelves: all those who are dating, and or married, please stop fucking lying to each other and be honest. Stop staying in relationships just in order to be with someone, and/or not die alone. Don't tell me you love me if you don't. Don't be with me, if you dread the sight of my face. I need to be able to live life to the fullest, and when we lie to each other--all in the name of caring, then we're not doing anyone any favors! And it shouldn't take a life altering event to make us act better.

Back to the other sides of dating. I don't want pity. I also don't know when it is appropriate to tell someone and should I be angry if it scares them off? I had friends for years who drifted away, can I blame someone who just wanted to hang out for having some apprehension? I met this guy once who told me he dated a girl with cancer, I think she had leukemia and she kept relapsing. I asked him, "Is it hard to date someone with cancer?" And he grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes and said, "No. It is not hard to date someone with cancer. Geez, why do you guys think that--she said the same thing. Anyone who makes it about them isn't worth it in the first place." But at the same time, I know it's hard. I know that it's not easy to be on the other side of the mirror. I would love to just date for the fun of dating, but I know that most guys see the baggage behind me and wonder if getting involved with me immediately means a committment.

I have this huge scar over my right breast and it makes me very self-conscious. I've started to wear spaghetti straps because I'm trying to be like, "HERE I AM" but at the same time, I am wearing a blazer over said top. I can't really drink anymore, and I hate that the only line any guy can use is "Can I buy you a drink" and if I say "No, I really don't drink" they get insulted and/or feel that they have to push said drink on me...note to all those that do that: you will not get any more charming the drunker I get and I will not sleep with you no matter how many Amstel Lights I have. I can't be around cigarette smoke, so when we're walking from bar to bar, sometimes my friends have seriously guilty faces about smoking and want to walk next to me and tell me how sorry they are and then I feel bad because I don't want them to feel bad and not want to be around me, and even this sentence is making me dizzy so imagine how I feel after a shot of Soco and Lime! Dating is hard in general; there's so much PR that we do. I'm petrified of becoming emotionally invested in anyone--I'm afraid that the minute I'm happy the sky will fall.

I was talking to a friend of my brother's last night, who's an actor, and he said that the one thing that is true among all people is that they all want to be special. And that's completley true. So when I was reading a review of a book in the New York Times of the Book, "Janet and Me" I was very taken with a line from the reviewer, Joyce Johnson: "''A Story of Love and Loss''? How often have we heard that one? As if all human tragedy is becoming Oprahized, memoirs of disease and dysfunction endlessly appear on publishers' lists. Personally, I refuse to equate memoir writing with therapy; nor do I believe that it rewards one with transcendence." As an aside, she does say that the book got to her.

"How often have we heard that one?" So many times because it's not simply a story of a single couple's struggle with cancer but it's now become part of the human condition. We all want to believe that our struggles are unique while at the same time searching for the commonalities so that we have someone to relate to. Though the treatments and the side effects can be pretty much standard, there are still so many ways, that each diagnosis, each day, each "dealing with it" is different. There are some of us who are blessed to have the chemo work; others who stare at their collapsed veins wondering why if they were willing to poison their bodies to get better that the sacrifice wouldn't be enough to get well. Some who pick up and move on; some who can never seem to shake the trauma of being diagnosed. Some who seem to have found every single good person on this planet to be their friend or relative and are constantly surrounded by love and support; some who find themselves lost and alone. Some of us can walk around and proudly wear our survival in a yellow band around our wrists; and there are others who are ashamed, feeling that this has tarnished who they are and hide their disease like a bad test grade. I don't think that anyone diagnosed with cancer is lucky, there are just different degrees of unluckiness. No that's not pessimism--that's just well, realism.

Ms. Johnson gives a quick thought about transcendence, and her lack of regard for this being valid. This notion that being sick somehow gives you a new vision into the world at large. Ha! As if that's at all true. Movies would love for us to believe that due to the fact that we've become afflicted with something horrible we will be rewarded with some type of knowledge the rest of our brethren don't have (cue the Lifetime music). But well, it's probably more along these lines. Shall I remind everyone of a very memorable quote by the hilarious Bill Murray in Caddyshack:

So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

Unfortunately for this reviewer, who may feel that the stories that get to the heart of the human condition can only be told by those great writers who can weave a fiction tale around words and schemes that the "ordinary" person is far too well, ordinary to convey, human tragedy has become Oprahized. Not because it's just than any old hack can write something about their life, but because disease and dysfunction has become so prevalent. We search for the discrepancies that give us the stories but they top the best seller lists because everyone has been touched. Or if the story is far to terrible to even imagine happening (i.e. Augusten Burroughs) then people will say "that boy was far more unlucky than me" but at least he got to write a bestselling novel about it. When you're fighting for your life, or fighting to die with dignity, you are not thinking that there is some critic out there who is going to call your specific story banal. Because when it's your struggle, your fight, your body writhing in pain, there is nothing that ordinary about it.

Okay, I decided to put away about 10% of my salary into my 401 (K). Here's the thing--planning for retirement is a good and positive thing. However, and this doesn't mean I'm not optimistic about a long and happy life, but I wonder if putting that money away into something that I won't technically be able to touch for another five years, is such a good thing. Should I be keeping the money in savings, and use it for a trip? Or should I take advantage of being able to live on a lower salary and take comfort that the money is being put away for the future? I'm very undecided on this.

Hmmm, so I don’t know if I’ve given any quick tips/hints out to all those who are going through the chemo/radiation suckiness. But, here goes some:

1. For avoiding mouth sores during chemo: Definitely get the Hurricane Solution off the bat. Then try to rinse your mouth with Ulcer-Ease (you can get it at CVS) after every meal. Suck on sugar-free lemon candies. Also—I got one of those Oral-B oscillating toothbrushes with soft bristles and I had no teeth problems. DO NOT USE anything Listerine.
2. Taking Prednasone: try taking it with Yoo-Hoo. It definitely cuts the taste.
3. Yogurt has a lot of potassium. Try the Yoplait Whips since it has a fluffy consistency and is easier to eat than the other yogurts.
4. Also with yogurt—smoothies! Get a large bag of frozen fruit (since you can’t have regular fruit). 1 cup of orange/apple/grape juice in a blender. I like the Kirkland yogurts, but any swiss style yogurt will work. Put a handful of fruit in (being sure to wash your hands first) and it’s a really good way to get something down that’s healthy and that you need to be eating.
5. Big fan of Zofran for nausea. Also, peppermint tea is good for settling your stomach.
6. A lot of people aren’t fans of the Aquaphor for radiation. I liked either the Udder Cream or the Dream Cream by Lush (www.lushcanda.com). Also, the Aveeno Baby Oatmeal cream for cradle cap did wonders on the back of my neck.
7. Rosebud Lip Salve ($5 at sephora) helped my lips a lot. I still wind up with dry lips.
8. For drinking water—I really suggest investing in a water bottle to carry around. I had a Spongebob one, but hey to each their own!
9. I used Johnson’s Baby Shampoo on my bald head. I also occasionally put some conditioner to keep it from drying out.
10. If you are running out of eyelashes, line your lid and put on a thickening dark colored mascara on—be very wary of spider lashes though because when they clump together and you don’t have that many it looks soooooooo much worse. No eyelashes—they sell them pretty cheap at the drug store.
11. If you find you’re running out of eyebrows—you can definitely draw them in. I’d recommend using an actual kit because they’ve got all the tools, the powders, and what not and you can still use it to sculpt as they come back in.
12. I used the Dove clothes or foaming cleansers when my skin was really sensitive.
13. I know I sound like an advertisement but Paula Dorf blush in Candy Apple gives the appearance of healthy cheeks. It really rocks. Also if you want to put on makeup use a tinted moisturizer—not a foundation, a bronzer and the blush. Under-eye cream and concealer works wonders, I kid you not. Definitely liked the Bobbi Brown stuff. It’s expensive but it kept me from looking sallow. I didn’t want to go to work looking sick and well, I would spend hours in front of the mirror doing my makeup until I came up with a quick and easy routine.
14. Sennacot (I think that’s how you spell it) and Coalasce each night before you go to bed will really help with all that stuff you might not want to talk about.
15. Be wary of buying any new perfumes—the best bet is to have people get you little samples of stuff that are very light scents or use scented moisturizing creams from Bath and Body works. They’re cheap enough that if you wind up realizing you hate them, you can just throw them away and not feel too bad.
16. You're pretty much not supposed to take any supplements, except for a multi-vitamin. please ask before you take anything. Ask about any and all preventative antibiotics as well.
17. I walked around with my hand wipes at work and the Bath and Body Works Anti-bacterial hand thing. I hardly ever got a cold.
18. Ask the doc which items to always have on hand, in terms of over the counter meds whether it be Robitussin or tylenol or Claritin. No one wants to be running around late looking for all this stuff. Definately invest in a humidifier.

So that last entry was a bit of a downer, eh? I'm working on moving out of that darker stuff, even though cancer (past or present) doesn't really elicit many jokes. However, I do believe that there is humor to be found.

For instance, I went to my first real family party this past Saturday. Have I announced that my brother is an actor? Well, he is. He's very good and is getting quite a career going. He's been on Broadway (as a lead), off-Broadway, and t.v. Oh and a film on PAX. Anyway, we go to this party and here's the awkward part. There are some family members who really dropped off the face of the earth. I haven't heard from them since around January. So I think that when I show up, I definately throw them for a loop and they're all like, yeah, sorry I didn't call or send you a birthday card. But um, here's some cash! Don't be mad. And I'm like--alright. Money will buy me some new stuff to make me happy. Heh. Like one time I was in Sephora with my mother, and we ran into my father's best friend wife. Anyway, so she's there and gets so frazzled about seeing me. I'm trying to say hello and that I'm doing fine, just looking at some stuff and she's seriously gunning for the exit. Recognizing that I don't want to be the girl that makes everyone freakin' uncomfortable, I say "Oh, I really need to get some moisturzer" and walk away. She runs out and then runs back in and hands me $40. Here's the evil part--I was pretty much like, no no thanks this is fine but secrety was like, yay I don't have to pay for the moisturizer! Wahoo! But no, I don't like to take advantage of people's guilt. It's not good karma. And do I need all the good karma I can muster up. Those who are saintly can pass some on. Don't be selfish.

And here is when you know you've been talked about. I'm being introduced to my aunt and uncle's friends and here is how it goes:

Aunt/Uncle: Here is my niece and nephew
Friend: Oh, hello!
Aunt/Uncle: This is Terri.
Friend: Oh. OH! (head tilt) How are you? (Internal Monologue: Hey, she's alive! How come she doesn't look like those people on t.v. all pale and shadow-eyed.)
Anut/Uncle: And this is John.
Friend: (internal monologue: oh thank god. not sick. wait. famous!) HELLO. You're the actor.
Push Terri out of the way, clamp John on back and say: So what was it like to get naked with Lorraine Bracco (internal monologue: sigh of relief. naked women--definately much better than talking to sick girl about dying. Yikes--good thing they've got more than one kid or that would've been awkward).


So, um, yeah. That moment of recongition with their friends is always bizarre because you can tell that they just don't know what to say and fear that I'm going to be like, "Happy to be here for another day." or rant on about something having to do with appreciating life. Sorry, not going to do it. Most likely I'll bitch about the season the Giants are having. Or the excellent-ness of Desparate Housewives. I still know how to have regular conversation. Pick a topic, I definately have an opinion. Just steer away from politics--because on that you may not want to hear my loud, and lengthy opinion.

Anytime I talk about my illness, I hear myself get slightly self-pitying, slightly whiny, slightly angry. I hear the words tumble out of my mouth, the things I tried so hard not to say when I was actually going through chemo. Part of me wonders if I would be more at peace with it all had I allowed myself not to be so "even" during that time. Because suddenly I feel guilty for being okay, for being alive and complaining about what I went through. Comparatively I'm lucky. I'm here, I can walk around, I can do things. In one year I went from being fine, to being sick, to being fine again. Those with long, protracted illnesses would surely envy my struggle because it was relatively short and pain-free. So who am I to lament about any of it? And what do I have to contribute by writing about it? Do I sound spoiled? I feel spoiled. I am so confused because I am supposed to feel grateful, which I am, and then I still sometimes feel robbed, which I supposed I was, but maybe I'm just supposed to move on to acceptance at this point. Just accept it and realize that there are those who are much worse off than me. I should wear my luck like a charm, and feel blessed and just contented. Maybe I spend so much time pondering the whys and the hurts, that I'm lost in them and alienating those who want to scream at me "Shut up Shut up! This is now my pain, my struggle, my hurt."

When do we get to own our pain? When there's no hope? When we're in the land of those with completely perfect lives and no one can say, "well, no, see in the competition of whose life sucks more, I win". And when do we become jealous of someone else's struggle just because ours is so much worse? What kind of fucked up logic is that? "Yes Paul, I know you don't have a left leg, but I don't have either of my legs so clearly..." I get angry at the lack of understanding of my friends who stare blankly like, oh...but then I get angry that I didn't have a harder time because I feel like a punk for even bitching about whatever it is that bothers me. It's almost as if this warped part of me wishes that I had it worse--if my tumors didn't respond, if I wound up in the hospital 4 times instead of 2, if I don't know, something anything. Then I would feel right in my occasional sadness, the twinges of anger, and I wouldn't sound ungrateful. Because maturity is about perspective and while I think that I've gained a lot of it, maybe I haven't gained quite enough. I think of those children who've been in and out of hospitals since they were babies; young men and women who have no clue when this is going to be over; the women who find out the cancer has spread and have whole families to leave behind. I think of them and feel sick and sad that I even write this all down because who I am to feel any sense of regret or pity? Who am I?

It's been a month. I've taken off a month in order to try to separate the "Cancer-Self" from the "True-Self". You can ask me how that worked and I'd have to be honest and say, well, not that great.

See, I read an article recently where this woman spoke about not wanting to be part of the "sorority" of breast cancer; how she didn't want to be a survivor, she just wanted to be. I thought, yes that's a fantastic idea. I want that to. So, I went about my days reflecting and politely not discussing my disease. That was until:

Until there was a Lifetime Movie where the woman gets cancer and is considered a saint by all that knew her. And then she died.
Until there was a CSI episode about this boy with Leukemia and his sister who was his donor on almost everything from bone marrow to a kidney.
Until there I was, reading a book called Hit Reply , an innocuous enough novel until one of the characters gets Hodgkins Lymphoma, which according to the author is a great relief since this is the good one. The other one, ahem with the Non-has no hope. Gee, thanks for the mindless entertainment!
Until I realized that this election wouldn't focus on the ever deteoriating environment and I found out that due to a toxic landfill by my childhood home, I probably got this disease
Until I realized that I would always have to make sure I was employed or else without insurance, and a health care plan that helped those without employment, I'd be screwed
Until I saw my brother's play, and a central character was dealing with the loss of his partner
Until Elizabeth Edwards was diagnosed with breast cancer. Until it was revealed that Melissa Etheridge had breast cancer. And Edie Falco.


So there it is. There is no denying that it is integral part of who I am. A forever part of who I am. It's one of those life experiences you can't just shrug off because you don't want it anymore. It's shaped who I've become. And while I may lament of how I wish I could go back. Go back to those moments when I didn't know, but I can't. But now it's time to move forward on the living piece as opposed to just surviving. Because it doesn't go away; I just need to learn how to let it stay.

There are things worse than cancer. Seriously. For instance, I have been put into collection by one of the hospitals I have received treatment at. However, no one can tell me specifically why. The hospital tells me that my bill has been paid in full. They can not find any outstanding invoices or what not and yet, I am getting letters from MCS telling me I owe money. And they can't tell me for what. In fact, I was instructed to "show proof of payment" and I couldn't make them understand that the amounts that they are asking for do not show up anywhere, so I don't know what I'm providing proof of payment for. It's like talking to myself.

Or how about the PET scan place that billed the wrong insurance. This is the greatest. I get a letter of denial from Aetna, and I'm like, Aetna, that's not my insurance. I call up the place and sure enough they say this: "Oh, yes, it would seem that we did have your correct insurance, however, someone here didn't put it in correctly. SO YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO CALL THIS NUMBER AND GET IT STRAIGHTENED OUT. But not until Monday, since it's past five and they're gone." This was their patient relations person. Admitting, that they're the one that screwed up and yet, I still have to resolve it. Un-freakin-believable. I spend half my day doing other people's jobs and resolving mis-information. It's not a joke. People are like, why do you get so upset and I'm like--because this is a constant thing. I am always following up and nothing works right.

ugh. I need a personal assistant.

Ahhh. Early birthday present.

My lease on life was renewed for another three months. :-) Which means in exactly three months, I'll also be about one year out of chemo and one year from my first all clear. Which is really exciting and I'm praying that the good news keeps up because I can never get enough of hearing "We don't see anything!"

Now onto those last ten pounds. I can only tackle one hurdle at a time.

One year. Your whole life can change in one year. I know that new parents say it takes nine months, but for me, it's been one year. And I wonder which is harder: to create life or to sustain it.

One year ago, I couldn't walk five steps. And then, over the weekend, I walked 13.1 miles with my best friends. They endured the blisters, the hurt ankles, the painful knees (and yes, we're only in our mid-twenties and former athletes) and a lot of wind, and sprinted with me across the finish line. It hurt. I kept thinking that maybe I should slow down, and then we'll make it. But everytime I started to slow down, something would happen that would make me want to speed up again, and then there we were. At the end. Done.

I had decided to walk the race last January once I finished with my steroids from Chemo and pneumonia. I figured a labor day race at the beach would be a great vacation mixed with a purpose, and somehow managed to convince my two best friends to come along. The race also benefited Leukemia-Lymphoma and I have to be honest, as corny as it sounds, there was so much positivity. People had the photos of loved ones on their shirts but there they were smiling and pumping fists, saying "I can do this" and I'm doing it for something. I mean, the Kenyans came in first, and they were like on mile 9 when we were on mile 2, and everyone was screaming and cheering them on from the other side of the track, amazed at how fast and determined and pretty incredible they all were. Everyone was just cheering on everyone else; those that were really good runners actually stayed along the course cheering on the walkers and not a snicker in the bunch. It was just the attitude of "You can do this" and finishing was more important than just finishing in a certain amount of time. And it was an amazing place to be. My body, ravaged by cancer and chemo and radiation, just kept on pushing and I was saying, this is for my friends who never stopped believing and my parents who needed me to believe, for the patients that are suffering setbacks and who are having a hard time, for everyone who ever wanted to tell me that I was facing a death sentence. For that doctor who informed me that I wouldn't be able to walk a marathon, ever again. I was buoyed up by my two friends (who let's face it are in much better shape and even at the end looked way better than my sweaty self did) who didn't complain, didn't whine and were just as happy to get to the finish line as I was because we did it together. I was still with them at the end of it; they didn't have to walk it in my memory.

And that's the point I guess. At this time last year, I was full of uncertainty. The tests were coming at me rapidly. I had gotten home from a friends' wedding and my mother was standing there telling me how horrible I looked. I couldn't understand the cough, the sweats, the itching, the unbelievable fatigue. This weekend I coughed from the cold air, was sweaty from the heat, itched from the sand and was only tired because we laughed too much, drank too much, ate too much and then walked for 3 hours straight.

Before I complain/write/dissect/analyze any part of my life, I want to say that I'm saying a prayer for all those in Florida and anyone else who might be affected by Hurricane Frances. I honestly can't imagine what it would be like to be staring at all the things that are in my apartment and thinking that they might be gone the next day. My father, the most giving person ever, owns a bunch of cottages in upstate NY. A family whose home was devastated was brought to his attention, and he's letting them stay there until they can get their lives back together. So Big Ups to Pops from Brooklyn.

So in light of the tragedy that could be taking place in Florida. The hostages in Russia. The suicide bombers that have been in both Russia and Israel (and the photo on the front page of the New York Times really made me cry while I was getting coffee and I couldn't focus on ordering and I wanted so badly to be somewhere else, doing something worthwhile). My friends and family sitting in a tent somewhere in Iraq. What am I to complain about? It just feels like the whole world is going insane, and where I would want to take refuge would be in my apartment, but then I'm locked to just my petty problems. My father was like, why take on the world's problems when you have so many of your own? And I'm just like, well take the environment. I grew up in Staten Island, home of the largest garbage dump in the world. I remember learning in 3rd grade that you can see that and the Great Wall of China from space. WAHOO! But how do I know that growing up there didn't contribute to my cancer. That all this destruction that we're doing to the environment isn't causing the hurricanes and anything else that seems "abnormal" weather-wise and isn't the reason that my body decided to turn on itself. They have no origin of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. There's no gene, no definitive fact-only theories. I think as humans we're always rationalizing how things got where they are. Connecting to where we're from. I hardly anyone say that they're American. They're Italian-American, Irish-American, African-American. We yearn to be connected to where we believe our families originated. If a red footed hawk is in Martha's Vineyard, the first question is how did he get there? How did this all start? The beginning, the reason. And yet, they can't tell me how I got cancer. They can't tell me what I did that might have contributed and what I could definitively do different in order to ensure that I'm okay. So I wait and see and hope that before I get to the end, someone can tell me more about the beginning.

Sometimes I feel that there are tiny little cliques within the cancer community. Groups that don't want to share their struggle with anyone else. I remember when I was starting my website, well to be honest still starting my website, that the reaction I mostly received was "Yes, well we only deal with breast cancer" or "We already donate to breast cancer projects" and I realized that although there are a lot of young men and women out there with other types of cancer, there is no voice. There is no united cancer community. We are silos of disease, focusing on our own type of cancer, negating the fact that others have also gone through chemo, radiation, the loss of a body part or a loss of freedom, a loss of youth even. As a young woman, the focus is mostly on breast cancer, or any type of womanly cancer. And here I am, with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma ( a decidely "old man" type of cancer, but growing in the younger population at an alarming rate) and feeling so left out. There are no scarves dedicated to my disease. No magazine articles. No products that will benefit the funds that fuel the research that will get me well. Isn't that sad? That for some reason I'm looking for acceptance inside a community that no one wants to be a part of in the first place? The other frightening thing is the belief that so many people have that whatever is out there, addressing the needs of a young survivor. Or a young patient. Also when attempting to start my website I found myself constatntly saying "But I was the person looking for the information, I couldn't find it. Show me where it is, " and they couldn't but still refused to believe that what I was doing was filling a need. Tell me where are the websites that tell me how to date again? Or to help my parents deal with the fact that their daughter who has been living on her own for sometime now needs them but also needs to retain some level of freedom? Or those people in college or grad school and where to they pick up? Where's the websites that tell me how not to look so sallow and pale or how to find the perfect headscarf? What about helping me with the weight gain? Something? Anything. Something that addresses me as the whole person and not the type of cancer. And I can't even imagine what it is like for young men.

the funny thing is that radiation leaves me at risk for a myriad of problems: breast cancer, lung cancer, skin cancer and heart disease. And is that fair? that once in my life I had to deal with losing a part of myself only to discover that what cured me of one has left me prone to others? that someday I just might be giving myself up piece by piece. And yet, I find myself constantly around the competition of "whose pain is worse." And i would gladly lose because I don't want to be in pain. I don't want to have the suckiest day or the hardest news to take. I would happily hand it all over. And yet, the ironic part, is that I wind up fighting for the recognition. The recongition of what I went through and what I feel and what I'll continue going through. So a part of me wants nothing more to forget, to have the scars on my body disappear and the only remnants of the disease can be found in the get well cards stored in my closet. And another, wears the scars like a badge, screaming for the attention of "Look what I went through" and remembering that there is no forgetting. At least for me. I can't escape it and I'm learning to embrace it. And someday, I'll be able to tell all survivors and patients, "We are all truly in this together. "

It's a club that I'd happily turn my membership in but it looks like I've got the lifetime membership anyway.

There's something odd about having been sick and then seeing people again. This weekend, I visited my parents up at their lake house, as a surprise. On the way, the car that supposedly had an oil change three weeks ago, ran out of oil and made oh so lovely noises. When we took out the dipstick and looked and saw it was dry as a bone, my father's friend said, "Wow, you're lucky that you even made it here" and I said, "Yeah, well God owes me one." And while I don't necessarily really feel that way, because I'm not entirely sure how God fits into the whole thing, but if he can throw me a non-seized engine now and again, I'll take it. My father was so happy to see me; I swear, if he could find a way to have me in his sight at all times he really would. But it was interesting to see how these people who I haven't seen in ages, reacted when they saw me. Some were really excited and wouldn't stop hugging me. Others, well, they kept me at arms length or wouldn't look me in the eye. I get that a lot more than I expected I would. People who don't know what to say, are afraid to ask "how are you feeling" so instead, just kind of barely acknowledge my presence and then look awkwardly around for the quickest exit. I mean, really, if someone asks me how I'm feeling, as purely a conversational piece, I'm always going to say "Great!" And most of the time, I mean it. I do feel great. This weekend I'm going to be walking a half marathon with my best friend Laura in Virigina Beach. People keep asking "what for" and the answer is (and it does sound pretty selfish): Me. I'm doing this for me. A year ago, I couldn't walk a block without feeling out of breath. Now, I'm going to attempt to do 13.1 miles. I mean, it's got to be just as hard as that block was last year. I might not finish, but if I do, and actually no matter how far I get, I'll know that it's much further than I ever would've dreamed possible at this time last year. And that at least is something.

I had my first post-sickness, celebration of good health trip. My mom and I went to Key West. It was so beautiful. The weather was fantastic, the food was unbelievable and the sunsets really are something. Swimming in the water at the Dry Tortugas, snorkeling and checking out the coral reefs really reminded me why we fight so hard to get through life. I had never snorkeled before, never saw coral that was waving with the current, sapphire blue water and fish that were a rainbow of colors. I sat on the water staring at the horizon and thought that getting through chemo was worth this. I firmly believe that chemo might have been nine hundred times more bearable if a picture of it was on my chemo chair instead of well, just the white walls. Key West was also perfect because it was so laid back. I still don't have all my strength back. I have a lot of it back but I still need to relax during the day which kind of takes away the partiness that I once had. But there it was so unnecessary. You could just lay by the pool, walk up Duval Street (COACH OUTLET!!!), and everyone was really nice and friendly. Plus like I mentioned THE FOOD. Fantastic sushi, key lime pie frozen and dipped in chocolate, salmon, macademia and coconut encrusted scallops, mmmm. I miss it already. I'm so lucky that my mom could take me away for a while. It was so something that I didn't even realize that I needed. Some people were like, but you weren't at work for a while, isn't that like a vacation. I stare at them and think, "uh, chemo is not a vacation." "Pneumonia is not a vacation" Needing to take a day off because radiation has kicked my ass a bit--not a vacation! Taking time off to heal is not necessarily a vacation it's a necessity. Sometimes I felt like I didn't deserve to take time off because i had been sick. But it was important to take a few days just to reflect and relax. And because I wanted to. Not because I had to. It was good for my mental health as well as my physical health. Getting up late and doing nothing but relaxing and soaking up the sun (with 45 sunblock, a rashguard to swim in and a tree to sit under ofcourse) and reading a good book just gave my body time to recoup from all it's been through. Two days after i got back I was bike riding 20 miles with my best friend. I just felt so renewed. Corny, I know. But there's got to be something to it.

I miss my long hair. I really do. I find myself being very self-conscious about my short hair. It’s in a similar style that Winona Ryder had at one point only she has a prettier face than I do, so she carried it off better. I’ve never really had a desire for short hair. Trendy styles were never my thing; my hair was always straight, maybe a little layered and at my collar bone or longer. The one time I had short hair before this, was when I decided to cut my hair to my shoulders. Only somehow from “shoulder” the hairdresser heard “chin” and I walked out hysterical crying and vowing never to get a “trim” there again. Now I’m overly cautious and descriptive with my hairdressers. I was a ponytail queen; I have a drawer full of unused holders and clips and hundreds of dollars worth of haircare products. Don’t believe me? Currently in my bathroom I have the following: MOP Pomade and Molding Crème; Garnier Fructis Putty; Got 2 Be Glossing Crème; Mastey shampoo; Philosophy Remember 3-In-1; Sebestation Potion #9; Dove Foaming Conditioner; Thermasilk Conditioner; Herbal Essences Shampoo; Frederick Fekkai Shea Butter Treatment and Tocca Crema. Okay, maybe not hundreds of dollars worth (I do tend to exaggerate) but certainly more than someone of my shorn locks needs.

But why the obsession with my hair today? I asked a close friend of mine what he thought of my short hair. He responded that he doesn’t think any woman looks good with short hair. My heart plummeted and tears welled up behind my eyes. He wasn’t saying it to be hurtful; I truly don’t think he even thought about what he said. It was one of those immediate response things, that’s his opinion and that would be his answer at any given time. But as soon as he said it, I found myself reaching for my hat and putting it on my head. I hide behind my hat, I know I do. I hate how exposed I am with short hair. I like my hat as some kind of shield; similar to probably how I felt about my longer hair. I was constantly playing with it, pulling it up and down. If I’m nervous or upset I find myself mimicking those same motions. I’m always disappointed when I run my hair down the back of my head and it ends at the base of my neck.

I read in a magazine that a survivor had said, “Any day with hair is a good hair day.” I wish I felt that way. I wish that I could just put it behind me and accept that someday it’ll be back and I’ll be able to use all those potions and products lining my bathroom shelves. But the problem is that I sometimes feel like a stranger to myself. I look in the mirror and feel just so lost. “Who is this girl?” I ask. My short hair makes me look so much older; but sometimes I feel like this whole experience has also taken the youth out of my eyes. I can see it. I can see it in pictures (which I almost refuse to take across the board these days). I look at these pictures, where I’m smiling and laughing and think, “I would give anything to be back in that moment.” When I was in the hospital, I made my mother bring in pictures of me from my friend’s wedding. When I was being brought to the ICU, and I wasn’t entirely lucid, I was begging the nurses to look at the photos, so they could see that I didn’t really look like this. I wish I was a better person. I wish it didn’t matter to me. I really do. I just can’t make it go away. I can’t turn it off. I can’t help that sometimes I collapse into tears and as much as I want to believe that the heaviness in my chest will go away, at that moment it feels like all I can do is hide behind my hat and try to face the world underneath the rim.

At 1 a.m. my doctor emailed me to inform me that my scan had come back clear and that I could rest easy. Needless to say, I'm overjoyed. Happy beyond happy. It's the type of news that will sustain me until I go away at the end of the month and until I have to do this again in 90 days. Or as my friend Juliet says, "It's just four times a year. It sounds better that way". So, that's how I'll put it. 4 times a year for two years. Which sounds much better, she's right. Although I still have the back pain. The type that happens when I'm eating. It feels like general muscle soreness but one of my oncologist was like "Set up an appointment with the secretary and come in for tests." But the problem is that she's in SI and it takes over an hour to get there and I'd have to leave work early or not go to work and I don't feel like doing that anymore. I wish doctor's had more convenient hours. But I think I'll just find a specialist nearer my house. Cause it ain't worth it to travel all the way out there, particularly when she said, "Well, I'd like to examine you to make sure that where you're telling me the pain is, is where it is, location-wise" I was bewildered by that remark, because, uh, I'm pretty sure I know where it hurts BECAUSE I CAN FEEL IT! Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I thought she meant if it is bone or muscular but no she meant where I was saying it hurt. Maybe she knows something I don't and I shouldn't bad mouth her.

So for now, while I'm clear, I have to ask everyone that I know to pray and send good thoughts to someone that the Lymphoma organization set me up with as a buddy. She's so sweet & so positive and is having a bit of a rough time; and it sucks because she's one of the nicest people I've met in the recently. And I truly believe that the good wishes that I received from everyone are what allow me to train for a half marathon in September, learn how to surf this weekend & go to the mall (which I wasn't allowed to do on chemo). So if you're reading this, send all the hope and wishes over to Cranford, NJ.

My cat fell out of a window today. And then he was subjected to being in a standoff with the stray cats that live and create havoc in my backyard. Thankfully, by chance, my mother had been coming over today to drop off groceries. She noticed the cat didn't come running to the door as he always did. And then she noticed the screen was out of the kitchen window. She saw the cats that were hissing and growling and screamed "Coyote!" And apparently he reacted like "Help me!"
My mother rescued him and he's a little traumatized at the moment.

But why is this story important? Well, it's midnight and I have to get up crazy early for this test, but I'm having trouble sleeping. And I just keep thinking how amazing it is that this cat isn't even scratched or hurt or has anything broken. He fell two stories and he's still here. Which means that it's possible to pick yourself up and be okay after something that should've killed you. And which gives me a lot of hope about tomorrow.

Tomorrow is my first post-cancer follow up test. A low-carb day, followed by no food after midnight then being in this place for two hours, assuming that they do everything on time (which they never do). And then a full-day of work and waiting for the results, which I’m hoping don’t take too long. I actually discovered something this weekend—I can no longer drink. I had a beer and a half, and was not only a little drunk but also woke up the next day not feeling well. I’ve become that girl. The one who has a bit of Coors’ Light (although I was drinking Summer Ale) and is dancing on tables and going to her friends, “OMIGOD I am so drunk”. Well, not that girl specifically, but that type of girl. I used to be able to drink a couple of beers, do a shot or two and be fine. I mean, I played Rugby. I guess I should be happy that I didn’t have this problem in college, because I definitely would’ve been left home on many occasion or had my Amstel switched out for an O’Dool’s by my friends who would be embarrassed of my behavior.