Chill out

In the days that followed my MRI, I had appointments with my local oncologists as well.

Dr. Oncologist has been oddly cryptic lately.  At this most recent appointment we talked about diet again, and she made sure I was still eating legumes (beans, lentils, etc.).  I said oh yes, I most certainly am, because they are relatively high in protein and have so many good things in them!  But she didn't make clear why this was important to her, so I'll have to ask next time.  When I told her about my struggles to get off the steroids, she asked me what I was afraid of...?  I told her--nothing!  I have no new tumors, my old tumor is dead, I don't have any fears right now, honestly.  I'm not afraid of getting off the steroids; in fact I yearn to be off of them!  I'm carrying around so much extra weight it's like being pregnant again.  It's exhausting!  But I can feel brain-swelling pressure on my inner ear even right now, guys, and this is after a good night's rest and an "anti-inflammatory" and protein-rich smoothie for breakfast, so I don't think that today is a day to cut my dose at all (I'm at 3.5 mg in morning, 3.5 mg in evening, so I HAVE made a tiny bit of progress.  I was at 4 and 4 when I had all of these Dr. appointments.  Oh!  And I requested smaller-dose steroid pills, so I'm no longer turning my 4 mg pills into dust.  I have 4 mg, 2 mg, and 1 mg pills, plus a pill cutter.  Fun times.).  OH!  And she reminded me to not be too stingy on the sugar reduction, because the brain runs on sugar.  I assured her that I was still eating fruits, and sweetening my smoothies and salads with dates, as well as not being into total deprivation.  I've just cut the crap!  And once you cut the crap for a few days, it's easier to say no.  I'd say the hardest thing to cut that I didn't even know was so sugary was my favorite yogurt.  Oooo I loved the Brown Cow cream on top yogurt!  I've completely switched to FAGE Greek yogurt, because it's 24 g protein per serving, and it was a challenge but now I actually like it.  With dates and things, of course, but I'm getting there.  ;)  The other thing that my colleague and boss, Dr. Immunologist, reminded me about is my little blood-brain barrier crossing chemo drug, Nerlynx/neratinib, that is fighting cancer cells in my brain and body every day.  How is that impacting the brain swelling?  I asked Dr. O about this, and of course her response is that there is simply no data.  We have no idea if or how the Nerlynx has an impact on the current brain swelling situation.  Yet another variable that I can't control. 

Next, I had the best conversation with Dr. Radiation Oncologist.  I asked him what he thought of the MRI result?  And he said that he had only got the written report; the fancy hospital down the road isn't connected to the same handy image network as pretty much everyone else.  So I showed him the picture I snapped, which I forgot to show you in my last post.  Here it is:

On the left is a frame of my brain from Sep. 2018, with the swelling being shown as the white cloud on the left upper part of the brain.  On the right is approximately the same frame of my brain from July 2018, with the swelling in the same location as the pic on the left.  See, even with August's worth of steroids, the swelling was not impressively reduced!  You can't see Lloyd/Pearl because the tumor is in a different frame.  I didn't take a picture of that because it's unchanged. 

He did not have any new interpretations to add, so I asked him my basic questions about how long can this continue?  What else can I be doing to help myself?  etc.  His responses matched everyone elses (the swelling could continue for years, steroids are the right thing to do but yes we also need to try to get off of them, listen to my body and step down the dose when I can but I'm right in that keeping the swelling down is top priority), which is extremely reassuring, but he added some catchy tidbits that I've latched onto.  One thing he said that I love is that, "Simple is not the same as easy."  It is theoretically simple to step down my steroid dose, for example, but it's not at all an easy thing to do.  I liked this phrase because on paper, this whole healing-from-SRS-treatment looked like it was going to be ridiculously simple, and although that might BE true, it's been far from easy.  What I'm doing is not easy, despite the fact that it seems so simple to me, and this simple-is-not-the-same-as-easy framework has further helped me to embrace rather than fight my bodily struggles in the past week (which, as we know, I've been struggling to embrace for months! I'm still not there yet, lol.).

I also followed up with him about Dr. O's weirdness about steroids and fear.  I asked him, what on earth SHOULD I be afraid of about coming off the steroids?  He told me some of the side-effects of long term steroid use (diabetes and a bunch of other things), and I said, but all of that is the lesser of two evils compared to the potential side effects of brain swelling, right?  And he said, right!  So, in hindsight, I think that Dr. O was making a query into my mental health more than making a commentary on the steroids.  That's fine, just confusing for me, lol.

Then we lightly discussed the things I've been discussing with all of the Drs. on my team at these appointments:  do they have tips or tricks for me to figure out how to best balance diet, exercise, rest, and life whilst reducing the brain swelling?  (I want so badly to help myself!  I'm a do-er, and being a do-er has led to my success in pretty much every other life experience I've ever had!)  He has no answers either, but he administered the following advice, "in the words of my daughter, chill out."  So I've been trying to do that!  I've been trying to turn off the analytical mind when it comes to my recovery and just let my body be.  I've received this advice before ("less striving, more floating") and I think it's just really hard for me to execute this.  So...I'll keep working on it, without TRYING to work on it, lol.  My preliminary solutions to get me into this "chill out" or "floating" recovery space are to do more knitting, and more cuddling the girls (for some reason, they've been requesting cuddles lately outside of bedtime hours, so it's perfect).  These are two easy and delightful things to ante-up in my daily life, perceived task list be darned.

Continued non-linearity, in two parts

Part I

Hi everyone!  I deeply apologize for the delay.  I have been exhausted for pretty much the entire month of July, ever since getting off the steroids.  In fact, where I was expecting to feel better daily, I seemed to feel worse daily.  I had fevers and headaches daily, and they were increasing in intensity.  Well, this past Monday, we found out why:  I had an MRI on Monday, and it revealed some super awesome very good news for the long term, and some bummery news for the short term.  Long-term super awesome news:  Lloyd is dead!  There is no blood flow to my former brain tumor, Lloyd, and it has changed in appearance in ways that are consistent with necrosis (death).  Additional awesome long-term news:  no new tumors in there!!!  Huzzah huzzah huzzah!! 

Short-term bummery news:  brain swelling has resumed in a major way!  This news was actually rather pleasant because it explained everything that I've been feeling:  headaches, fevers, exhaustion/fatigue, and even nausea to the point of puking (and I'm not a puker)!  It's also pleasant because it's solvable:  back on the steroids.  Boo!  But, I welcome them at this point, that's how awful I've been feeling.  I'm back up to 12 mgs per day for one week, with a prescribed step-down for a month, and another MRI in a month whilst still being on a few mgs of steroids.  Should be informative!

Apparently it continues to be miraculous that I'm not having seizures.  After the doc asked if I've been having seizures and I said no, he asked if I'm on an antiseizure medication.  I said no, not to my knowledge.  Cool.  I'll go with this no-seizure thing.  Maybe it's because of the mad napping/brain resting skillz that I've developed.  Lots of floating, less striving! 

I puked up my first steroid dose, but now I've had two days of roids.  And today I had only a mild headache and no fever!  Talk about fast-acting!  Thanks, dexamethasone! 

Part II

Now I probably should rewind a bit and explain the previous post about my port removal.  At the time I was in the hospital with no laptop, and it's too hard to blog on a little tiny phone.  So, you got a short poem instead of a long post.  Here is the epic tale of the loss of my beloved port:

At the end of June, when my fevers began, Dr. Oncologist first wanted to rule out an infectious source of the fevers.  I had a chest x-ray (negative), urine test (negative), and two blood draws for culturing bacteria (negative from my arm, POSITIVE from my port after 5 days of growth).  So, because the port culture took sooooo long to grow, Dr. O thought it might be a contaminant of the process rather than a real port contaminant.  But, we repeated the test to confirm.  The office called me after three days of growth to say that the cultures were negative, and we proceeded to head to vacation in northern Minnesota the following day.  HOWEVER, after 4 hours on the road, the office called to tell me that in fact my port culture had grown the same bacterium again overnight!  Noooo!  They wanted me to turn around, go home, wait for my fever to get above 100.5, then go to the emergency room.  But I had already been having fevers above that, so we decided to proceed on vacation.  Then Oncology called back and had changed their minds--they wanted me to come home and go directly to the ER for IV antibiotics.  This made much more sense to me, but I still didn't see the point in returning home.  We were 6 hours away at this point!  SO, I dropped the family off at our amazing vacation spot on Cass Lake, then I drove to Bemidji and checked myself into the ER there.  I told them what was up and asked for IV vancomycin.  They tried to repeat the blood cultures, but my port wouldn't work.  I took that as strong evidence that it needed to be removed.  They admitted me on a Saturday night and I received 3 days of IV vancomycin.  My port was surgically removed on Monday.  Then the doctors wanted to rule out endocarditis, which is an infection in the heart that is readily caused by an infected port.  I first had a transthoracic echocardiogram, which is like an ultrasound of your heart through your chest, and no big deal, but it suggested that my heart MIGHT have been infected!  The results were inconclusive.  So then I had to have a TRANSESOPHOGEAL echocardiogram, or a TEE.  I had to be sedated for this procedure, because, just like it sounds, they put a big old wand down my throat to get up close and personal pictures of my heart.  It was like a colonoscopy, but the opposite.  This procedure was my ticket out of the hospital!  It showed that I did NOT have bacteria colonizing my heart, so no endocarditis.  The family came and picked me up and I joined the vacation on Cass Lake on Tuesday night.  I still got to enjoy 3 glorious days of vacation, during which I still had fevers and felt crummy.  So the infected port was not my entire problem.  But it was likely part of my problem!  While I was in the hospital, Dr. O called to say that my arm blood culture also grew the same bacterium.  So that was now three blood cultures showing the same thing--that's an awful lot of consistency to be a contaminant.  Ooo and fun fact:  my culture was sent to the state hygenic lab, and they determined that it was a species of Proprionibacterium, which is a common skin microbe. Relatives in this genus cause acne, but the one that was in my port is not an acne-causer.  They have been known to cause endocarditis, so whew I dodged a bullet on that one! 

A few other terrible things happened at the end of July, including the death of a beloved family member and the hospitalization of another, but there were also some beautiful things earlier in July.  My dear friend R came to visit, and despite my crummies we had a marvelous time.  We attended the town's 4th of July parade and the fireworks, and played games with the girls.  Then I went to see Hamilton with my dear friend D (I still owe you $ for the ticket, D, I haven't forgotten!).  It was SO good!  I didn't listen to the soundtrack beforehand or anything, so I went in blind.  That was totally the way to go!  I was blown away!!!

IMPORTANT REMINDER:  The Carnation Nation Appreciation Party is coming up on Sunday, August 12th.  2-10 pm, with kid activities from 2-5, and the band rockin from 5-9.  We'll have food, too. Cash bar.  My dad made a beautiful pdf file, but I can't get it to upload.  So, I'm just going to be ghetto and printscreen and paste:

Dude, that's not working either.  Enter powerpoint to transform the printscreen, huzzah!:

Indefinitely

I was recently invited to write a short essay for the magazine Living Well.  What follows is are the first and last paragraphs of that article.  Please click here to read the rest of the article on the magazine's website.  I am grateful to two friends, S. and D., who were my creative editors for the piece.

My hair is always the first part of my body to know that I have cancer. With each diagnosis, I made arrangements for someone to cut it and give it a cute albeit temporary style before the chemotherapy forced it out of its follicles. The first time I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my sisters’ friend gave me a pixie cut in the kitchen. The second time, I gave my young daughters the scissors and told them to have fun. After each cut, the hair follicles ached as they were bent in new ways, springing up with foreign lightness. It is this feeling on my scalp that affirms that I am not dreaming, that the course cannot be altered, that the reality of cancer is upon me. 

I was diagnosed with stage III inflammatory breast cancer (IBC) four days before my thirtieth birthday. I had felt a firmness in my left breast for 18 months, but since I was breastfeeding my second daughter at the time, various medical professionals told me it was a clogged duct. Or something unknown, but certainly not breast cancer. When the lump persisted after I finished breastfeeding, I found a new surgeon who was willing to perform a biopsy. While he was retrieving the biopsy sample and I was still on the procedure table, he told me that the tissue looked good and there was nothing to worry about. 

Until his nurse called me at work the next day. You have cancer. Go to the clinic. You have an appointment with an oncologist. Wait as long as necessary to speak with her.

Thus began my journey with breast cancer six years ago. My daughters were merely 1 and 3 years old. 

At first I had so many questions that I didn’t know where to begin. What does Her2 positive mean? What is the prognosis for IBC? Why had no one detected the IBC? What is going to happen to me? After chemotherapy started, my brain became too cloudy to hold on to new questions that sprung up in between doctor’s visits, so I started jotting my questions down in a notebook and bringing it to my appointments. 

...

Now I am 2 years past my second mastectomy, and I am NED—no evidence of disease. NED is the closest medical declaration for “cured” that will ever be handed to someone with stage 4 breast cancer. Indefinitely, now, is lovely. Indefinitely stretches out before me, three weeks at a time, as the anti-Her2 drips into my bloodstream and prevents new cancer from emerging. Indefinitely includes chaperoning my daughters’ elementary school field trips, gardening with my husband, hiking with my brother, and traveling around the world to give presentations on microbiology. That which used to scare me now empowers me. Indefinitely.

Do you know how long you will live? Neither do I. There are no data to inform my prognosis. The survival rates are poor for Her2 positive cancers, pretty awful for IBCs, and positively abysmal for stage 4 cancers. But one of my anti-Her2 drugs has only been on the market for a few years, so there are no data on long-term survival rates for patients who have been treated with this drug. I am generating the data with each breath. Because of this, no doctor can project how long I will live. That makes me not so different from most people. And we all have so very much living yet to do.

--excerpted from "Don’t Be Afraid To Be Your Own Advocate" by Heather Allen, published in Living Well Magazine in October 2016.  [I did not give my piece that ugly title!  I had much more creative titles that the editor apparently didn't appreciate.]

To read the full article, please visit my article at Living Well Magazine. 

Be well!

Are you there, blog? It's me, Heather.

At least twice a month I think of something that would make an interesting narrative for a blog post, and then I don't make the time for a blog post.  That ends now.  Thanks for being here when I need you, blog, and for not being offended when I neglect you. 

I've arrived at another PET scan eve, and I find myself more nervous than I have been in awhile.  I feel healthy, alive, happy.  I have no reason to suspect that anything cancerous is happening in my body.  My brain knows these things.  However, something inside of me is whispering to my brain that I may have reached the statute of limitations on clean PET scans, even though my brain knows that that is nonsense and border-line superstitious.  This thing reminds my brain that the interval between my two separate breast cancers was two years, and we've nearly reached the two-year anniversary since my last mastectomy, so the next cancer must be just around the corner.  My brain counters this voice with a resounding, "Nonsense!  Those data are statistically unsound, and also meaningless because you've continued tri-weekly treatments with Herceptin plus a drug (Perjeta) that didn't exist the first time you had cancer.  Any cancer inside of you is continually beaten down, and it will continue to be beaten down indefinitely.  Besides, there's nothing to be afraid of, it's just a little PET scan."  

Just a little PET scan.  

The brain continues.  "Silly girl, the PET scan serves an important role for someone who is living with stage 4 cancer.  The cancer could indeed flare up at any time, and that's why we do the PET scans.  To catch the emerging cancer.  Avoiding PET scans would be irresponsible at best, and negligent at worst.  Stop this fear-mongering, take your PET scan, and chillax."

Oh, brain, what would I do without you?

This conversation with my brain reminds me of another one I had back in June.  My dear friend R was visiting from Massachusetts, and we were having a normal conversation about normal things.  Somewhere in that normal conversation I said, "...when I get cancer again...".  She stopped the conversation in its tracks, and instead we discussed my choice of the word "when".  R prefers the word "if", as in, "if I get cancer again".  I reasoned with her that I used to use the word "if" when I was a cancer-free human, and I even permitted myself to use the word "if" during that time between the cancers.  I have since tried to refrain from using the word "if" when I talk about my future with cancer because it causes my heart to jump into my throat.  You see, the problem with "if" is that it comes with a truckload of uncertainty, and that uncertainty breeds fear.  I hate living with fear.  In contrast, the word "when" takes the uncertainty out of the equation and reduces my fear.  It helps me to accept the entirely probable possibility that I'll have to deal with cancer again in a big way in my life.  Indeed, I continue to deal with cancer every third Friday when I go to the clinic for two hours of cancer-fighting drips.  But this kind of dealing-with-cancer is easy to marginalize because it doesn't interfere with my quality of life.  

I learned from my conversation with my friend R that the problem with the word "when" is that it unnerves some people, including some of those in my support network.  Cancer-free humans probably take comfort in the distance provided by the word "if" because they don't have to visualize cancer or its fall-out.  That's understandable.  But those of us who've had cancer lack the luxury of distance, and we benefit from the power that comes with the word "when".  It's a small power, but important. 

I feel very fortunate to even be having these conversations with myself.  I was diagnosed with stage 3 inflammatory breast cancer almost 6 years ago, the diagnosed with stage 4 ductal carcinoma in situ breast cancer with lung metastases nearly 2.5 years ago, and now here I am with no evidence of disease.  It stuns me to think about it, so I don't think about it very often.  I just breathe deeply and express my gratitude for this day, and the next day, and the next day...    

The weight of gratitude

It's just a random Thursday in December.  It's not an anniversary of anything joyous or tragic.  Perhaps it's the joy that my kids brought to our activities this evening, or the successes at work today, or the excellent playlist I put together on Spotify, or the family I'm missing, but my heart is really full.  And I felt like writing about it.

After work I took my student out for a beer to celebrate the submission of his first manuscript.  It's a big accomplishment in a graduate student's career, and I wanted to mark it with a social outing.  We were joined by our collaborators after we had all bashed some code in a 2-hour bioinformatics sesh.  Everyone was feeling accomplished and merry.

Before the beers arrived, my colleague, S., started a conversation with me by saying, so, how's everything going?  This is always a loaded question for me because I never know if the person is asking about normal things or cancer things.  People often want to know about cancer things but don't know how to ask about them directly, so I have to infer from the way they ask if they're inquiring about my holiday shopping achievements or my PET scan results.  You can imagine the difference:  "How are things going?" in a light, skippy tone, vs. "How are things going?" with emphasis and gravity.  I don't see S. very often, so it was hard to distinguish what type of "how's it going" she meant.  I opted for a response of, "Really great, thanks!  I have treatment tomorrow, but last year it fell on the day after Christmas so tomorrow's a pretty good deal...".  I felt ridiculous and wished I had gone the route of discussing what Santa is bringing my kids.  Fortunately she's great and saved my lousy conversationalist self by diverting the conversation elsewhere.  I suppose the positive spin on this is that my cancer is a normal part of my upbeat existence, but I do feel badly for all of the innocent friends, family, and colleagues who fall under my cancer-accepting bus during normal conversations.  Please know that it's something I'm working on.

This brought to mind the news that I had yet another clean PET scan in November, on the Monday after Thanksgiving.  I've lost track now--is that three or four clean ones in a row?  Perhaps five?  It's a small mountain of clean PET scans.  You should know that I do not take any of them for granted, although the result of each one is a bit surreal.  In my mind I have stage 4 breast cancer, but the scans seem to be taunting, "no you don't".  Then my treatments say, "yes, you do".  Then the scans say, "no, you don't."  This argument can go on for the next decade as far as I'm concerned.  Whatevs.

Speaking of 10 years, my Medical Oncologist was on the radio a week or so ago because her research study made the popular press.  She was the principal investigator on an analysis of data from women who had stage 4 breast cancer between 1988-2011.  The part that I keep hearing on the news is that of these stage 4 patients, the 10-year survival rate for those who had surgery to remove their primary cancer was almost 10%.  The survival rate of those who did not have surgery was only 2.9%.  This news got me all excited because I of course chose to have surgery, so I have the potential to fall in with the 10%-ers.  My decision to have surgery was a big deal because none of the medical professionals could advise me on whether or not to keep or remove the breast.  All four surgical oncologists at the fancy hospital discussed my case at Tumor Board said that my case was a medical gray area, and so the decision was mine.  It was clear to me and my gut feelings that the breast had to go, and these new data seem to validate my decision.  10%!  That's a fantastic number.  As I have sometimes complained about when it comes to experiencing a rare side effect, I've rarely fallen in with the majority in my activities, so this is one time I'll be elated to be a part of the minority.  #bethe10%    

All of these thoughts were in my mind tonight as I was running the sewing machine on Calvin's Christmas present in between dance breaks with my daughters.  Azalea was choreographing an elaborate duet in the kitchen, sketching diagrams on the whiteboard for Eleanor and I to follow.  I sewed while she drew the next position, then she'd call me in to run through the dance with Eleanor.  Eleanor was my sewing buddy, pushing the pedal on the sewing machine at my instruction.  We finished both the gift and the dance, leaving all of us feeling full of creativity and productivity in equal measure.

They are such treasures, my daughters.  I am so grateful to be here to dance and sew with them.
      
Then Bruno Mars starting crooning over the bluetooth speaker, "You can count on me like 1, 2, 3, and I'll be there..."  I started thinking about all of the people who have been "there" for me.  I started to worry that I haven't been "there" for all of my loved ones in this year of recovery.  Have I been too selfish?  Have I spent enough time tending to the needs of others?  I don't think so.  So many people are in my heart to reach out to.  Hopefully I can improve the balance as I continue to survive.  
  
In the meantime, I have a few more nights with the sewing machine in my future as the Christmas holiday approaches, and hopefully the dance parties will continue in tandem. My heart is filled with gratitude for this life.

Open letter to a new cancer patient

I've been contacted by an organization called Cure Forward and invited to participate in a campaign. They are asking cancer survivors to write a letter to new cancer patients discussing their experiences and presenting advice.  I don't know much about Cure Forward (beyond a press release that dubbed it "Tinder for clinical trials"), but it looks like it's going to be a powerful resource for cancer patients.  At any rate, I have decided to write a letter, not to recap my experiences but to note the survival techniques that have worked for me thus far.  Who knows, perhaps I'll address this letter to myself when my cancer flares up again.

Dear newly diagnosed cancer patient,

You've got this.  You really do.  I know that you're scared, and that every hour of uncertainty feels like a day without sleep, but you can do this.

The cancer isn't your enemy.  It's a part of you.  Sure, you'll live longer if the doctors can find a way to get it out of you, but until they do it is a part of the beautiful whole that is you.  Your biggest enemy right now is fear.  Fear of the cancer, fear of being sick, fear of feeling pain, fear of dying, fear of bringing sorrow to loved ones, fear of not being there for your children, fear of letting down your spouse.

I know these fears.  At times I have lived with these fears daily.  The key to success, the key to survival, is releasing your fear.  I release my fear by breathing deeply, spending time in nature, exercising, hugging, meditating, and reading fiction.  These activities help me to release my fear to the wind, which carries it far far from here across the plains.  Find some activities that release your fear, and imagine a few cancer cells being carried along with it.

Sometimes you will feel weak, especially if chemotherapy is part of your treatment regime.  I found that weakness was an open door to fear.  When I physically felt weak, my mental fortitude broke down and the fearful thoughts creeped in.  Find ways to turn your weakness into strength.  Even when I was at my sickest, I took a walk every day.  Some days I could only shuffle across the street and back, but I savored reminding my bones that I still needed them and impressing myself with my resilience.

See, cancer, you can't make me stop walking.    

Sometimes you will feel bored with healing.  You will cross a threshold between feeling sick and well, spending days at a time in a wellness purgatory.  This period is difficult because you feel so much improved from your worst that your mind thinks you can walk around the block, or cook dinner, or play a game with your kids, but your actual capacity is to sit on your couch rather than lay in your bed.  These days will drag out.  Spice them up by listening to music, or inviting a friend over to visit you for a bit, or sitting outside.

I remember one particular boring, nauseous healing day during chemotherapy treatments for my second occurrence of breast cancer.  My brother was visiting, to keep me company and support my family.  He was working on his laptop at the table, and I was lying on the couch, feeling too crummy to watch TV or read but too good to fall asleep.  My brother wanted to help, so he put some salsa music on the internet radio.  I gradually let go of my whiny crumminess and started imaging dancing to live music outdoors in the summer.  Soon I'd be out there dancing in the summer again.  

See, cancer, you can't make me stop dancing.

Sometimes you will feel disappointed in yourself for not being able to do everything that you think you need to do.  That's okay, but let it go.  Indulge yourself, and immerse yourself in your own healing powers.  Let your friends and family help you in the ways that they can.

Sometimes you will need to be even braver than you were yesterday.  You might have things installed or injected in your body before you fully understand what they are or how they work.  You might receive news that is worse than the worst news you thought you could get.  But that's okay.  Because it's within your power to be braver than you were yesterday.

One of my best ways of being brave is to find humor in the situation.  A week after one particular chemotherapy treatment, I had terribly low numbers of cells in my blood.  This was causing me to feel dreadful.  My oncologist prescribed a blood transfusion, and as the transfusion was taking place I was filled with gratitude for the other human who donated his or her blood to me.  I was overcome with appreciation for those cells entering my body and what they were going to do for me.  I decided to write a letter.  To the cells.  From the other human.  I welcomed them to my body and presented them with some House Rules.  In addition to posting the letter on this blog, I also shared it with the doctors and nurses at my cancer center.  We all had a good laugh.

See, cancer, you can't make me stop laughing.

Newly diagnosed cancer patient, please feel free to email me if you want to chat (30carnations (at) gmail (dot) com).  I'm sure that I have much more to say, some of which I've already said in 5 years of blog posts during my cancer journey.  I'd be privileged to help you, if I can.

To your health and mine,

Heather