I’m starting to shed like a kitten. One short hair at a time. I’ve been waiting for this, hoping against hope that I’d be one of the lucky ones who didn’t lose their hair.
“You will lose your hair,” were the first words out of my oncologist’s mouth. Goodness, as though that were the most important thing to worry about! It’s been two and a half weeks since my first chemo session, and my second one is coming up this Tuesday. It doesn’t look promising.
My son and his family are meeting us in southern California for a visit to Disneyland over Thanksgiving weekend. I was so hoping to look pretty for them. And even though I know that beauty is only skin deep, it will still shock my grandkids to see their Bela bald. I haven’t washed my hair in ages, and it looks like dishwater, with no color left. I was going to see my hairdresser for a much-needed trim and maybe put a few of my zebra stripes back. But I may visit her anyway—to shave my head. Bless her heart, she said she’d shave it free of charge.
I think of Kate Middleton and that gorgeous mane of brown hair she had. I wondered out loud how she’d managed to keep it during all those months of chemotherapy. My hairdresser responded,
“They can do miracles with wigs these days. With her money and position, it would be easy to duplicate her hairstyle and no one would see the difference. But maybe her chemotherapy cocktail was less harsh and she has kept her own hair.”
The truth is, my hair is nothing to brag about. With each pregnancy, it continued to thin and is extremely short now anyway. Gone is the seventeen-year-old high school senior with long hair flowing down her back. So losing what’s left of my hair is no big loss. But another joke God has played on me is giving me the use of only one hand. I had found an array of colorful scarves to cover my head. But I can’t arrange any of them with only one hand. I have a few hats and they will be easier to slip on one-handed. So when and if the time comes, I’ll see what works best for me.
More changes. Slight nausea, for which I have pills. Less appetite, weight loss, but I’m enjoying a delicious food honeymoon! Preparing all the foods I always used to avoid because they put weight on my small frame: fried cheese sandwiches, spaghetti, “have a little ham with your mayonnaise,” and rich chocolate desserts. I can’t get too used to all this, though. It’s a temporary silver lining. But I’ll take it.
So, we’ll see how my next infusion goes next Tuesday. I’m hopeful it keeps working as well, and that the poison is killing all the t-cell bandits in my blood!
I’m so glad that I had a chemo port surgically implanted in my right shoulder. It’s much simpler for everything: blood draws, transfusions, and chemo infusions. Most of the time I forget it’s even there: painless, just a little bump under my skin. Very convenient.
This week, my blood work showed great improvement in my numbers: white blood count is normal for the first time in a year; but still low red count and anemia. Yet I feel so much better after only one chemo infusion last week. No more fatigue in my legs and just a generally improved sense of wellness. Except for the pain in my left arm…
I asked my doctor on Monday to level with me: did they start with a low dose of chemo and will gradually increase it with five more infusions? She said no, they plan on giving me the same dosage every time. So I guess we’ll see. It’s out of my hands anyway. Just lean into it and be grateful that there are no side effects so far. Same story with the clinical trial, a randomized blind study. Maybe I’m getting a placebo. Time will tell.
Fred Hutch Cancer Alliance has offered me up to $2100 for participating in this clinical trial. I’m pleased about that. And if the trips down to the Hutch are more than twice a week, they offer cheap housing on their campus to the cancer patients. I’m getting a lot of support. Not to mention all the rides my friends are offering to get me to the Hutch for treatments. I am surrounded by love and support. No more room in the refrigerator for all the food people are bringing. It’s hard to cook with my arm in a sling!
I feel blessed as I walk through this journey. I’ve attempted to be proactive with all the needs that go along with chemotherapy: anti-nausea pills, which I haven’t needed at all. And since my doctor assured me that I would lose my hair, I have a box full of scarves and bandanas which I can’t put on with one hand! I think God is playing a joke on me by making this so difficult. But so far, no need for head covering: I still have my hair. Still, it’s early in treatment…
During my first infusion, I realized I forgot to put on my chemo cap (a desperate attempt to keep my hair). By then, though, it wasn’t even cold, so I said to myself, the hell with it. I don’t even care anymore. Women are vain creatures, yes we are, and I certainly am. But every day that passes, my vanity seems to be flying out the window. It’s all so superficial anyway. My spiritual health is what matters.
So this is where I am now, growing inwardly, and happy to see on MSNBC that bald ladies seem to be in fashion. A new trend!
Nearly three years ago, I tripped on a towel in our bathroom and fell, whacking my head against the porcelain tub. I broke six ribs, had a pneumothorax, and a teardrop fracture in my neck.
It was my fault, moving too fast in an unlit room, I made a promise to myself: I can never fall again. Period. Well, “Promises are like piecrusts…” Is that how it goes?
Five days before my first chemo infusion, I made the same mistake. I had a fall that resulted in a significant fracture of my humorous (upper arm). OMG, I can’t believe my timing! I’ve started out in a sling and the orthopedist saw me yesterday. Because of the cancer treatments, we’ve elected to avoid surgery for now and let it heal in the sling for six to eight weeks.
“Marilea, the human body is a remarkable machine. It will heal itself if we are patient and let it. If you use the sling for the next two months, slow down, and use the time to rest, it will eventually heal itself. You will need to do regular exercises and maybe work with a therapist regularly, but I think we can avoid surgery, which is problematic at your age, not to mention your cancer treatments.”
“Thanks, Doc. I’ll learn to be patient and let my arm heal on its own. See you next week for a checkup.”
Ladies, have you ever tried to get dressed, pull your pants down to go to the bathroom, floss your teeth, cut vegetables or an apple, just live your life the way two-handed people do? It’s damned inconvenient. And slows me down, probably a good thing.
So here’s another lemon in my life: the broken arm.
Lemonade? It could have been SO much worse. I could have had a concussion, broken a hip, compromised my legs and ability to walk. Walking, oh wow, that’s number one on the gratitude list. If that were compromised I might have just had to put everything on the cancer side of the drama on hold until I could walk again! So lots of silver linings to pay attention to and deeply felt joy and gratitude that it’s just a broken arm. Oh, another glass of lemonade? My ability to see all the silver linings and allow them to elevate my spirit.
The spiritual part of this journey is absolutely essential to holistically healing my body. My alcoholism recovery is the basis, of course, for all this healing and has saved my life. Minimal whining, endless joy and gratitude, A deeply held faith that life is unfolding for me as it was meant to. I’m in God’s hands. And however much time I have left on this earth, I will live it to the best of my ability, and accept, gracefully accept, God’s will for me.
Amen, and stay tuned for the continued cancer part of my saga!
Cancer has taken away the life I lived before. Like a thief in the night, one day I was an energetic 70-something, fully engaged in the life around me, and then I wasn’t. But even before this disease struck, I worked at being spiritually healthy. And now, more than ever, it’s necessary for me to stay grounded in those principles. I am becoming an expert at turning lemons into lemonade. So, applying that metaphor to my cancer journey, I’d like to share a real-life example of how beneficial it is to maintain a positive perspective.
Here is a recipe for lemonade. But first you’ll need lemons. You can’t make this delicious fruit drink without the sour bitterness from the lemon tree. How you get from one to the other is not so complicated. Not if you want to live well.
Gene and I took a camping trip to Orcas Island recently. Probably just to prove to ourselves that we still could. Over the past thirty years, we have camped in some of the most horrible conditions imaginable: from near hurricane-force winds in the middle of the night that blew our tent off over our heads; to swarming black flies that sucked the living daylights out of me. But we were much younger then…
The first lemon on this trip was that I booked the 5:55 am ferry out of Anacortes. I must have been asleep when I did that. Wild horses couldn’t have gotten us to a ferry at that hour. So we showed up at 12:35 when I thought we’d be leaving.
“Sorry, but can’t you see the 5:55 am time on this receipt? Go wait in the standby line.”
“Thanks, pal.”
Lemonade? We made it onto the ferry.
The next lemon on our Orcas trip was our campsite. I knew better than to wait to the last minute to make a reservation. So in December of 2023 I secured a spot in Moran State Park. The last one available! I felt so lucky. But sometimes I think with cotton in my brain. Why was it the last one available? Because no one else wanted it, dummy Site #83 was sandwiched in between many other sites and the restroom, so there was naturally a steady stream of people on their way to the bathroom right through our site.
Lemonade from this lemon? We didn’t have to walk far to pee; and there was trash and a water spout right next to us.
Our tent that Gene hastily stuffed into its sack had broken poles, so we couldn’t put it together. Gene jerry-rigged our back-up tent by raising it with a couple of walking sticks.
Lemonade? Gene gallantly offered,
“I think I’d rather sleep out in the open air anyway, under the stars. Haven’t done this since Ely in 1999.”
God Bless Him!
And so I come to the end of my recipe for lemonade. To reach a happy conclusion when life throws lemons at us requires some semblance of positive rationale-building. For every one of those lemons I could have thrown myself into fits of hand-wringing and anxiety. But to what end? An attitude and camping experience far more bitter than most lemons taste. So…my choice these days is to put a positive spin on whatever is happening. A worthy challenge.
Turning lemons into delicious, sweet lemonade beats walking around with my lips pursed from sucking on sour lemons. And we did prove to ourselves that we could still go camping, as ill and infirm as we are now. Gene is still nursing a broken foot. And I’m bone-tired from lymphoma. But we did it and survived, proud that we still could.
Cancer is one great big lemon. Not fun. But I’ve been tested before in my life and I’ve survived.
We only get one spin around the race track. Might as well try to make it a happy one. Beats bitchin’!
I have spent a year with night sweats, my first symptom, not counting the white blood count that called for a hematology referral. The mouth sores began with a vengeance in April and have stopped. Just to try and keep them at bay, I gargle with salt and baking soda every night after I brush. Good dental hygiene is important with cancer patients. Don’t I have enough to deal with without also losing the few teeth I have left? J
And the mouth infections! In all my 76 years and with all my addictions, I’ve rarely had anything to prevent me from eating. I lost five pounds the first week and I can’t afford to. So I’m trying to avoid them.
They called from Fred Hutch yesterday and have to push my clinical trial back one week, to October 14.
“Do I need a driver every time, Kiana?”
“Yup”
“Well, getting a driver is not always easy. Gene will be in San Francisco on this new date. If I didn’t have a son in Seattle, it might be more difficult to find someone at the last minute. This is why I need you to give me a schedule for my treatments so I can give my friends options. They have lives, too.”
“I know, Marilea, and I’m sorry. But Dr. Poh needs to see how the trial pill works before she figures out how to schedule the infusions moving forward. And we’ll try to work around your week at Disneyland over Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, Kiana. I know you’re doing your best. And I appreciate your efforts to accommodate me.”
After months of blood tests and bone marrow biopsies, I feel like a pin cushion. And now I’ll be a “holy” lab rat! “Clinical trial” is just an idea to me now; I have no idea what to expect. But I do know that the results will help future patients with my rare form of cancer. And helping others makes it all worthwhile.
I’ve lived with this uncertainty for about a year. How have I handled all the stress? First of all, I’ve been strengthened by my recovery, full of gratitude for the wonderful life I’ve been given, and this attitude keeps me grounded.
Life sometimes throws us curves, and how we respond to them begins in our head. It doesn’t matter what it is. I won’t even go into what a bad two years this has been for me, not counting the cancer. Just awful. And if I didn’t have the tools of recovery to work with, I’d likely be sitting on the pity pot whining about what a trial my life is. But to what end? How does that attitude solve anything?
I will use all these tests to make me stronger. Every day I pray to accept God’s will for me. My faith elevates me from all the stress and discomforts. I believe I’m going to be fine.
Early in my diary entries, after my first bone marrow biopsy, I thanked the doctors who approved administering conscious sedation to me during the procedure. I referred to the men and women who didn’t receive it,, most ungenerously, as “screaming meemies,” because presumably they couldn’t tolerate the procedure awake. Now that the clinical trial has reopened, things are moving quickly, and there wasn’t time to schedule conscious sedation this time. But Ativan was approved. So after my blood draw, I went into the procedure suite and waited for the oral sedation to take effect. It didn’t, not at all. Too nervous, I guess.
So, without blinking an eye, I turned over onto my side and let the nurse/practitioner begin her work. It helped me to have a nurse I knew come in and hold my hands, which were getting sweatier by the minute.
“I’m going to give you a few shots of lidocaine, Marilea, so you’ll feel a little pin prick.”
No big deal.
“Now I’m going to go deeper into the tissue with more lidocaine.”
Ouch, that really hurt, a deep ache.
She was coaching me like I was giving birth,
“Deep breaths, Marilea. A deep one into your nose and then exhale out of your mouth.”
“Okay, I’m going to get some liquid aspirate now. Deep breaths.”
“Another deep breath, Marilea. Okay, halfway there. One more puncture.”
I felt a very deep ache in my hip. Moaned a little, kept up the breathing. This part took a while. She was carving a small piece of bone out of my hip and placing it in a wider, hollow needle.
Then it was over. Maybe twenty minutes.
I finished dressing and Gene steadied me as we were leaving. NOW the Ativan kicked in! I slept when I got home, disturbing my sleep cycle. Definitely not worth the trouble. Even if it had put me to sleep in time, the pain would have woken me up. I’ll never elect oral sedation again, and I may forgo conscious sedation as well the next time. It’s a nuisance with scheduling and getting me ready (starvation beforehand, for one). Since I have blood cancer, I know I’ll be getting regular bone marrow biopsies, so I may as well make friends with them.
This journey has taught me many things. And one of them, as I get deeper into the weeds of treatment and all the discomforts, is that I’m tougher than I thought I was. Remember, up until now there has been no need for me to undergo these tests and procedures. But I’m at a new normal now, and more grit will be required of me. For those of you who have been following me on this journey, you know that I’ve been challenged emotionally most of my life. It usually took the form of substance use disorder, but thankfully I’m in recovery from years of that behavior. And right now, when I most need it, my recovery is serving me exceedingly well.
It’s been a long, hot summer with family around most of the time. But no cancer treatment, a good thing so I could fully enjoy them.
Big girl pants, the time has come. It’s September 11.
I’m scheduled to have my port implanted in two days, at 8:00 in the morning. So, another hotel stay to avoid having to wake at 5:00 am so that we’ll be on time. We’ve had to do this several times on this journey and we’ve turned them into mini-vacays and dinners out together. There will surely be more. Lemons to lemonade, a lifelong skill!
I have been nervous about the port placement. But once again the nurses there added some conscious sedation to my IV so that it would be bearable. And it was, just pretty sore afterwards when the lidocaine wore off. I’ll get to see if my new mattrass will keep me on my back.
It feels weird having a foreign object in my shoulder, and I don’t particularly like it. But it’s really the most efficient way to receive my transfusions. A few people who have used their veins have seen them turn black from the poisonous liquid. Chemotherapy saves many, many lives, but it also has a well-known dark side.
After a long, dry period, things are moving quickly because the clinical trial is about to reopen. And they are nothing if not thorough at Fred Hutch. My port is in pace now. Next week I’ll have another PET scan. Then I’ll have my third bone marrow aspiration right after that. And the last procedure that I know of is a heart exam called a MUGA scan, which is a trip through a machine with some liquids in my vein to check the status of my heart. This last test is to see if my heart is strong enough to tolerate the chemotherapy.
After months of delay and frustration, it looks like I’m about to start climbing that mountain. I’m feeling energized and optimistic. To fight the feeling that my life is out of control, I try to stay as well-organized as possible. I bought a “chemo cap” from Amazon which, when kept very cold, you put on just before the infusions begin. The rationale is that the cold will insulate my hair cells from the harmful chemotherapy, preventing my hair from falling out or at least helping it grow back quickly. I’m not optimistic about its efficacy, but I’m willing to try anything to feel “normal” during the process. And I have a pile of scarves and bandanas o cover my head if necessary.
My friends have donated them all to me. Because of all the support I’ve been given from so many, this has not been a lonely journey. Even if I can’t fully prepare for what comes next, I know that I am in the loving arms of friends, family, and God, most of all. I know that, from beginning to end, I will never be alone.
This is a recipe for lemonade. But first you’ll need a few lemons. You can’t make this delicious fruit drink without the sour bitterness from the lemon tree. How you get from one to the other is not so complicated. Not if you want to live well.
Gene and I took a camping trip to Orcas Island recently. Probably just to prove to ourselves that we could still do it. Over the past thirty years, we have camped in some of the most horrible conditions imaginable: from near hurricane-force winds in the middle of the night that blew our tent off over our heads; to swarming black flies that sucked the living daylights out of me. But we were much younger then…
The first lemon on this trip was that I absentmindedly booked the 5:55 am ferry out of Anacortes. I must have been asleep when I did that. Wild horses couldn’t have gotten us to a ferry at that hour. So we showed up at 12:35 when I thought we’d be leaving.
“Sorry, but can’t you see the 5:55 am time on this receipt? Go wait in the standby line.”
“Thanks, pal.”
Lemonade? We made it onto the ferry.
The next lemon on our Orcas trip was where we camped. Now, I knew better than to wait to the last minute to make a reservation. So in December of 2023 I secured a spot in Moran State Park on the island. The last one available! I felt so lucky. But I should have known better. Sometimes I think with cotton in my brain. Why was it the very last one available? Because no one else wanted it, dummy. I knew it wasn’t close to the water, yet I didn’t realize how far away it would be to schlep our canoe and kayak into the lake. But site #83 must have easily been the worst site in the whole park. Sandwiched in between many other sites and the restroom, there was naturally a steady stream of people and screaming babies on their way to the bathroom right through our site. So, no privacy. No view. No water.
Lemonade from this lemon? We didn’t have to walk far to pee; and there was trash and a water spout right next to us.
Speaking of our boats, of all the beautiful places in Washington State to camp, we chose this state park because of all the lakes. I had recently bought a kayak and wanted to try it out in calm waters. Well, life happens, doesn’t it? My bilateral carpal tunnel syndrome acted up so violently last May that I had to have both hands surgically repaired. One in June and the second one in July, a week before our trip. Needless to say, I had no working hands to paddle either Gene’s canoe or my kayak. Terrible timing.
Lemonade? If we had taken the boats, it would have been much more physical labor that we were definitely not up to right then. And I chose to let my hands heal over proving myself in my kayak. A healthy choice.
Back to the campsite. Our tent that Gene hastily stuffed into its sack had several broken poles, so we couldn’t put it together. The backup tent was another conundrum for us. But Gene jerry-rigged its raising with a couple of walking sticks. It’s the same tent we used in Yosemite in 2006. And small. We didn’t mind practically sleeping on top of one another back then. But we do now.
Lemonade? Gene gallantly offered,
“I think I’d rather sleep out in the open air anyway, under the stars. Haven’t done this since Ely in 1999.”
God Bless Him!
Honestly, how long has it been since we last car camped? Maybe six years? We were so out of practice that we forgot how to pack the food in the cooler. Safely. I dutifully made lots of sandwiches beforehand so we’d had plenty of ready food to eat. Wrapped each one in plastic to protect them. Oh no! At every gas station we went to, Gene got a bag of ice and all those ice cubes cascaded down into the bottom of the cooler where I had packed our sandwiches. A day into the trip I went to get some of those sandwiches for lunch. A wet and soggy mess. I ate my peanut butter one anyway because I hate to waste food. Or maybe to self-punish. But Gene couldn’t stomach ham and cheese on soaking wet bread.
Lemonade? I relearned how to pack an ice chest. And we had plenty of good backup food to eat. Plus, Eastsound was close with great restaurants. We ate well the whole time.
I frequently get night sweats with my cancer. Annoying in my bed at home, they were a real pain in my sleeping bag. I awoke in the night to a soaking bag up around my head and neck. But, as always, I went back to sleep. Then during the night it had dried out but left a hard, crusty film on the lining of my bag. I asked Gene about it, and he said,
“It’s probably dried sodium that left your body.”
Lemonade: so that’s why I have low sodium counts in my bloodwork even though I eat enough salt every day to fill a salt shaker! Mystery solved.
For comfort, we brought two camp chairs. Gene’s broke as soon as he sat in it. My fault for leaving it outside all winter. I threw it in the trash.
Lemonade? I sat in the remaining one. Gene sat in the car, happily dozing much of the time.
Lemon: I have a case of my second memoir, Stepping Stones, that I’ve run out of places to unload. Women’s prisons are next on my list. Lemonade: I brought a few to Darvill’s in Eastsound to donate. He accepted them and will consider stocking my title. Just pass ‘em around. There’s good spiritual healing to be found in the pages.
And so I come to the end of my recipe(s) for lemonade. And it’s fitting that I end on a spiritual note. Because to reach a happy conclusion when life throws lemons at us requires some semblance of positive rationale-building. For every one of those lemons I could have whined and thrown myself into fits of hand-wringing and anxiety. I’m quite capable of doing that. But to what end? An attitude and camping experience far more bitter than most lemons taste. So…my choice these days—Gene has always had an even temperament, except when he doesn’t—is to put a positive spin on whatever was happening. A worthy challenge.
Why? Because turning lemons into delicious, sweet lemonade beats walking around with my lips pursed from sucking on sour lemons. And we did prove to ourselves that we could still go camping, as ill and infirm as we are now. Gene is still nursing a broken foot. And I’m bone-tired from lymphoma. But we did it and survived, proud that we still could.
We only get one spin around the race track. Might as well try to make it a happy one. Beats bitchin’!
Dr Poh asked me to reach out to let you know that unfortunately, the trial she discussed with you during your visit was just paused for a safety evaluation.
The FDA is requiring that all patients 60 years or older who are currently enrolled in the trial finish 6 cycles to ensure its safety and tolerability. We anticipate that the trial will resume enrollment in about 6 weeks. At that time we can have you sign the consent and start our screening process. Dr. Poh reassured me that you are clinically stable and she advised waiting until then to participate in the trial.
I do apologize. I know you’ve been patiently waiting and we will get things moving as soon as possible. Please let us know how you would like to proceed.
Thanks so much,
Jess, RN”
“safety evaluation,” “to ensure its safety and tolerability,” “all patients 60 years and older.” As I approach the starting point of this journey, the reality of what I’m facing is hitting me. Up until my diagnosis, everything seemed speculative. My attitude about getting cancer—and the possibility of living or dying from it—was largely intellectual. Now with the start of 18 weeks of pouring poison into my body looming in just a few weeks, it’s all becoming real. How do I feel? Not fearful but yes, somewhat apprehensive. As Jane Fonda said in an interview, “It’ll be an adventure!”
There are so many people in the world who have faced the same journey. I am not alone. Many men and women where I live have gone through traditional chemotherapy and clinical trials and they are all thriving. If I’m apprehensive about anything, it’s the everyday discomforts that I’m not used to. My excellent health prior to getting cancer spoiled me a great deal, and when I get so much as a head cold I tell my friends,
“I don’t do sick well.”
Well, Marilea, it’s time to put on your big girl pants. I want to get out in front of this as much as possible Now at a new normal, I need to make adjustments.. I’ve ordered a special sleeping mattrass with sides to keep me on my back while I sleep. This is necessary to keep from irritating the soon-to-be implanted port in my shoulder. My friends have already started a bandana collection for me. I would love to keep my hair, but it’s not likely.
Friends. Family. My best friend from Virginia is planning a trip here in the spring. My daughter, Caroline, is coming for a visit in October. My son and his family are spending several weeks with us on the island this summer and we’re growing closer. All my friends have showed an abundance of caring with endless offers of meals and rides to Fred Hutch if Gene can’t take me on infusion days.
My Doctor Levels With Me, and a Period of Reflection
July 8th, I had my blood drawn at Fred Hutch and met with my care team shortly thereafter. This was the big moment I had been waiting for, the one where I found out staging and next steps. The one when I’m handed my prognosis. Scared? No. Delighted to be finding out where to go from here, my likelihood of full recovery or whether or not I need to budget my time.
July 9th: I had my second carpal tunnel surgery today and will wait two or three weeks for it to heal. In the meantime, I can reflect on what my oncologist had to tell me.
I have Stage 3 follicular t-cell lymphoma. This is a subset of a subset of lymphomas. There are so many of them, and they are treatable—but not all of them are curable. Mine is a rare one and of the non-curable variety. But the research has found a few new protocols that can keep it in remission for a long time, sometimes several years.
My oncologist, Dr. Christina Poh, spelled out our first line of attack, a commonly used drug mixture known as CHOP. I will go down to Fred Hutch once a week every three weeks, six times. So…eighteen weeks of chemo. I’m a pretty tough old bird, and I’m confident that I’ll tolerate it. If Jane Fonda can, so can I! J Yup, she’s had it, and is confident to stay in a full remission.
My doctor wants me to participate in a clinical trial concurrently with the chemo. There is evidence that patients who add this extra drug to their CHOP protocol have a better chance of staying in remission. Once my hand surgery is healed, I’ll go back to the Hutch to sign these clinical trial forms and get scheduled for treatment. I’ll need to have a minor surgical procedure where they insert a port into my shoulder. It’s a permanent line into a major vein and will stay in place throughout my treatment. It’s convenient for infusions and blood draws because I won’t need to be injected every visit.
Dr, Poh looked right at me and said,
“You’ll either die from it or with it.”
In other words, the chemo either can’t be tolerated by me or it won’t put me into remission. In that scenario my life will slip away pretty quickly. But if I die with it, it will be subdued sufficiently to keep me functioning well and not bad enough to kill me. In my 80’s, I’ll die of something—maybe unrelated to cancer—and pass on from that.
But enough talk about death. I’ve been given a rare and wonderful opportunity to spend the rest of my life just as I want. My bucket list will be indulged, I will smell the roses with more appreciation than ever before. And just as I endeavor to live well through the gifts of my recovery, now I’ll have an opportunity to die well.