The Storm Chasers.

One thing I didn’t realize about the South is how ridiculous the storms are. I’m talking sent-home-from-work, chain-down-your-patio-furniture strong. Since our “basement” now belongs solely to its spider inhabitants, my roommate & I decided to seek shelter in our favorite East Nashville dive bar (after bungee cording our patio furniture to the porch). Obviously. Shit ain’t free!

A bit about Nashville’s East Side & this dive bar: this neighborhood houses the hip. Like, God-Forsakenly-Cool, Brooklyn hip. & since this is a dive, it’s basically an unspoken rule the Southern douches aren’t allowed. Only the country glam, the biker goddesses, & the 90s grunge kings are allowed to partake in the beauty of the dive’s delicious meals & more delicious drink specials.

What category do my roommate & I fall into? My pink, Gap sweater couldn’t tell you – but whether it was our Kylie lip kits or the fact the cook sent me a video of his nude body 4 years ago – we didn’t exactly fit in. Regardless, we did what we came for: chased  storms whiskey with Velveta.

We sat at the bar, doing crosswords. Individually. We were individually doing our own crosswords. (Did you get that?) We ordered Cheese burgers, french fries covered in chili cheese sauce, a grilled cheese, and 2 beers. …and 4 shots. We only spoke to those offering clues for solving our puzzles. Mostly, this happened through shouts at a very busy bartender – complete with mouthfuls of potato.

So, CLEARLY, with my very petite frame, the 4000 calorie meal was too much. What’s a girl to do – aside from invite a new tinder match to help her finish the meal for a family of four? & we all know that is exactly what I did.

While I usually dedicate 600ish words to the motherfuckery of internet scum, I will tell you he was nice. He was interesting. He knew the 4-letter words for the Greek God of War. He was invited back to my house.

A-ha! This is going too well. Allow me to self-sabotage.

As soon as I walked into my bedroom, I started projectile vomiting. Like – opening scene from Pitch Perfect vomiting. Like – the work of a Devil possession vomiting. Nothing like this had happened in my life thus far. Sure, we were drinking. Sure, we consumed 3 meals worth of saturated fats. But WHERE. DID. THIS. COME. FROM. I had less horrifying bodily functions during chemotherapy, y’all.

I emerged from my bathroom just long enough to: 1) find him lying on my bed, & 2) inform him, while covered in partially digested cheese, maaaybe this wasn’t a good time.

Later (weeks), he let me buy him dinner. Thankfully, I didn’t puke that time – despite him being an Alabama fan. Either way, we never saw each other again.

JUST KIDDING, YOU GUYS. I see him everywhere (because Nashville). & this time – the man isn’t the jackwagon being whispered about. IT’S ME: the cock block who has forever tainted the Dino’s cheese fry.

The One We’ve All Been Waiting For

That’s right. After 100+ date mishaps, I met him. Him. The nice guy. The one who deleted his Tinder after meeting me. I didn’t even bring it up. He just did it & proudly announced doing so. The one we’ve all been waiting for.

Who is this guy? A Michigan native. A musician. A man who willingly shared a pitcher of Coors Banquet with me on our first date. Somehow, the ol’ cancer diagnosis slipped out in conversation. I guess that’ll happen when you show up to a bar with red, curly hair – even though you’re a blonde online. He wasn’t phased. We spent hours discussing it & comparing my experience to one of his best friends. Leaving that night (it was a “school night”, & I ended up going to bed at 4 am), he promised we’d do this again. For the first date ever, I believed this man. First thing in the morning, I called my best friend to tell him about this dreamboat who just floated into my matches.

& then – it was dating bliss.

We stayed up way too late every night, laughing. He took me to Warped Tour & stuffed my favorite snacks into his backpack. He made my bed every morning using a different pillow/blanket arrangement. & by week 3, he told me he loved me.

He accompanied me to my 6 month follow-up scan & 100% saved the day. About an hour before the doctor’s appointment, I was in hysterics at a very posh, very busy, Nashville restaurant. He handled the entire event like a pro – complete with a McDonald’s diet coke & a trip to the dog park.

Immediately afterwards, I made him a key. We adopted a cat. We met each other’s families. Even grandma. That’s right – the man with longer hair than me & no health insurance met my grandmother. & listen to this – she wasn’t phased. Who needs insurance when you can have grandbabies. AMIRITE?

It was so goddamn perfect. Like, cringeworthy perfect.

Until… it wasn’t.

See, these genetics of mine are not only prone to cancer, but they’re also highly susceptible to depression. As cliche as this sounds, once Halloween hits, I become this emotionally dead corpse – who just lurches through the winter months. Everything fun/positive/happy in me goes into hibernation. After 30 years of this, I still haven’t figured out how to love that version of myself. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that he couldn’t figure out how to love her, either.

I couldn’t face anyone on Thanksgiving, & despite him having dinner plans, we ate Big Macs at the movies together. He made a big sacrifice (one that he wouldn’t let me forget) to be with me. So, we swayed.

On Christmas, I wasn’t feeling the spirit. What was scheduled to be a 5 day trip home turned into a 15 day seclusion retreat. While he made up lies for my whereabouts & plans, I refused to leave my dad’s street. We didn’t kiss on New Years. He worked in Nashville while I played cards with my grandparents. S0, we stumbled.

Once I was finally ready to return to real life, he & the cat were waiting for me. I had missed my 2 favorite guys & couldn’t wait to marinate with them. That day never came. This time, my plans were the ones that had to change. By now, he was working 2 jobs. He was writing music for 2 different bands. His BFF/roommate returned from a job abroad & couldn’t wait to bro-the-fuck-out. For the next 3 weeks, I only caught minutes of his time between all of this. Mostly, I felt he was only staying with me because of that cat. You laughed at this, but I actually asked him on a few occasions.

Then, I wrote this silly blog because I had nothing else to do & no one to hang out with. Incredibly, over 4,000 people read it. I was so proud & couldn’t wait to tell him. After begging him to eat lunch with me that day, I asked what he thought about the blog – pumped to share the exciting news.

“It was bad advice.”

For at least 2 additional minutes, he continued ranting about what stupid advice I had chosen to include. 120 seconds later, I still had my mouth open, I don’t think I had taken a single breath, & my tiny grinch-like heart exploded. Honestly, I’m floored hot chicken & smoke didn’t come shooting out of my nostrils.

I slid his key across the table & walked back to work.

Immediately, he changed his facebook status to single. He also immediately declined my 3-week-old venmo request for grocery money. Talk about cold hearted.

A week passed with radio silence. He let himself into my apartment & grabbed most of his belongings. He didn’t leave the key. I sent him a photo of the cat, texting “you forgot this”. Still nothing.

Last night, he brought my things back. I gave him the items he had forgotten (cat not included). Hysterically sobbing, I couldn’t speak. Turns out – that was fine because he had nothing to say. Well, he did have 1 thing to say. He gave me a pat on the back & wished me good luck. Like a coach. Like some demented life coach. There wasn’t even a “nice try” butt slap. & you thought the venmo request was the worst part?

I followed him to his car & watched him drive away. Because this is just like The Notebook. & because I have a blog to write here.

Then, I bought myself the most BEAUTIFUL engagement ring ever because I never want to speak to another man again.

JK. My fur child is acting out. I can only assume it’s because he doesn’t have a male role model in his life. I’ve already created a new dating profile seeking co-parents.

Here’s to the next chapter in blogging: parenting.

 

 

 

The Canc-iversary.

Earlier this month, a coworker came over to my desk. We were making plans for handling workflow while he was on vacation. Every year, his family celebrates Fall break by taking a trip. Last year, he received the email about my diagnosis on his way to the beach. He told me this in the middle of our conversation about web deployments. Honestly – I think I’ll remember the look on his face for the rest of my life. His eyes were so sad during our discussion. They said “I’m so sorry that happened to you – I’m so sorry you’re still dealing with it a year later – I’m so sorry chemo tricked your body into thinking you were part bear & now you’re covered in blonde fur”. Instead of feeling touched by his empathy, I felt like screaming. IT’S FINE. I’M NORMAL. IT WAS JUST THIS SMALL THING WE CAN FORGET HAPPENED.

So, I “forgot” Leukemia and Lymphoma Awareness Month. I spent exactly zero days participating.

I “forgot” Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Light the Night Walk. Didn’t raise money or awareness. Didn’t advocate for additional research for the disease that almost killed me. Didn’t wear white to indicate I’m a survivor (obviously, I wore all black instead. duh).

I “forgot” the day of my diagnosis. I “forgot” my 1 year chemo anniversary. I “forgot” holidays where I was supposed to act be thankful. Well, I tried to forget by burying my head in a mound of pillows & my face in a Quarter Pounder – instead of answering my family’s phone calls. Then, I saw this perfect blurb on Facebook:

“The pressure of being “merry” and “joyful” can be really difficult while being in the midst of something as painful, emotionally and physically, as a cancer diagnosis. The amount of holiday messages we see everywhere can be overwhelming. Please don’t take it personally if we start to withdraw during what used to be our favorite holiday traditions. It does not mean that we want you not to enjoy either—we promise we are doing the best we can.”

But, that was last year. Can’t we move on?

No – we can’t. Because there isn’t one single day I’m not reminded of how different things were before last September. I see it in my stupid mom haircut every time I look in the mirror. 5 out of 7 days a week, I have a great view of the chemotherapy room from my parking garage at work. I have a doctor’s appointment every 6 weeks to have my port flushed. Thankfully, though, the gynecologists office that was down the hall has moved – & now I no longer have to avoid grimaces from pregnant women as I follow the signs to the Tennessee Oncology office. I’m reminded every 12 weeks when I have another dirty PET scan.

Clearly, I have not dealt with it – since my entire life revolves around getting poked in the chest & plotting an office fire. I mean, after hours obviously. I want treat it like such a small chunk of my life. Something that I managed (miraculously) to do & can now pretend it’s in the past. But instead, I write these ridiculous blog posts in an effort to keep my mind off the impending doom of my lymphnode tissue.

Treatment 1 -> Treatment 12 -> 6 months out.

I guess it could be worse, though. I could still look like the gremlin pictured in the middle. I’ve never shown that photo to anyone. Now – it’s going to show up permanently on the internet. Do you think this look will hinder my chances with online dating? Good. Had to experience that look to achieve the “dope” curls in photo 3, though. Oooofff.

Finally, for an actual PSA. If you feel like garbage, tell someone – especially if you have a bunch of weird lumps growing in your neck. I have so many friends in my Gilda’s support group whose doctors tried to diagnose them with every other disease possible before finally landing on cancer. No one gets Cat Scratch Fever, okay? Plenty of young(ish) adults get cancer. & once those young(ish) adults are cured, they march on capitol hill & organize walks to raise awareness. & I… I pretend to have this dumb, short hair on purpose & chase antidepressants with wine while trying to “forget”.

The One Where I Turn 30.

Here I am. On my 30th birthday. Sitting at the office. Listening to Tears of a Clown on repeat. Not because I’m sad, necessarily. But because the internet has tricked me into thinking 1) 30 is old AF, & 2) I should be at a very different place than I currently am. Even though my strict moisturizer regimen keeps my skin SO TIGHT & I’m not sure I’ll ever want an army of Nikki Davis spawns, it’s easy to feel bad about what I’ve accomplished in the past 3 decades.

The plan? I tried making a short term plan (dubbed the 30 before 30) to ensure I’d use the remainder of my 20’s accomplishing all these gnarly tasks I could be super proud of. In reality, I saw someone on facebook do that same thing & was super jealous. & like, #goals, amirite? Anyway, I knew I couldn’t realistically lose 30 pounds, travel to 15 new countries, or learn 5 new languages. I displayed a serious knack for realism & balanced my list with “easier” tasks. Or so I thought. You would not believe how hard it is to perfect a banana bread & read Persuasion. But guys! I had a plan!

How did it go?

The past decade? I had more fun than you did in college. I finally decided to graduate after my 6 year, Van Wilder experience. I met the man I should’ve married & broke his heart instead. I’ve gone out with 100 men since & opened up to zero of them. I tried out nearly 10 different career paths. Still no closer to which direction I should head. I moved across the country for no reason other than weather. I made new friends. I read so many books. I saw so many bands. I killed so many plants. Goddammit. Still working on that last part.

The past year? I found a weird lump in my neck. I ignored the weird lump & YOLO’d like 29 year old should. I made a lot of very morbid jokes about said lump. Morbid jokes came true, & I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I had to write my friends an email explaining what was going on because the first 2 phone calls consisted of nothing but nose blowing & heavy breathing. I fought cancer 600 miles away from my nearest family member (no idea if I’m cured yet or not). I spent 6 months in bed & sobbed the last 3 of them. I moved into a tiny apartment – marking the first time in my entire life I’ve lived alone (& alone is exactly what I am). I got skinny. I got fat (SO FAT). I lost my eyebrows. I grew them back (sort of).

Does anyone see the pattern yet?

I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. I certainly don’t have a long term plan, & the short term plan was destroyed. Therefore should I really be using my lunch breaks to craft elaborate lists of To Do’s – because things never seem to go as planned? After a 15 year awkward phase, I figured I’d still be in my prime; giving 20-year-old hard bodies a run for their money. Instead, a six month bout of chemo has left me with a beard, a sphere body shape, & in a pre-menopausal state. That is so dumb! Most Some days it’s impossible for me not to cackle hysterically at how incredibly ridiculous life can be.

Somehow, despite all of this, I’m much more thankful to turn 30 than I ever thought I’d be. I’ve accomplished a hell of a lot so far, even if I wasn’t able to stick to the plan. And let’s face it – it’s pretty amazing I’m here & not dead – from cancer, chemo, or otherwise.

One pro tip I can give everyone who’s reading: under no circumstances should you weigh yourself following a week-long birthday celebration. It’s just better this way.

The not-so-final “final” scan.

After 6 weeks of marinating, I had my “final” scan. The results were “interesting”. In my experience, “interesting” is a way for your doctor to deliver bad news without having to scrape up your weeping body off the floor.

Let’s start with how a PET scan works. This is the Nikki Davis version, so don’t quote me. Or correct me. I AM MENTALLY FRAGILE. You drink all this contrast fluid (I chose fruit punch flavor) & are injected with this weird sugar mixture. Then, you sit in the dark for an hour. Cancer cells metabolize sugar differently than normal cells, but other areas of your body do it, too – like your brain, your heart, & your kidneys. So, areas with a lot of activity are darker on your scan than those without. Here’s an example – http://bit.ly/1WmxyaJ. 

Things look clear except for 1 lymph node that is behaving strangely. It popped up darker than my last scan in January. This could be a fluke – because all you’re going on is the grey gradients & sugar. Or it could be a rogue node who’s acting rude AF & resisting treatment.

We rescan in 3 months to compare. Again, it could be nothing. If it grows or still shows up darker than his friends, I’ll likely need additional chemo. She did say it was up to me if I wanted to have my port taken out in the meantime. & I doubt they recommend that where there’s a serious risk of cancer returning. Or maybe this is a conspiracy & they are just trying to get paid with BCBST dollars? Either way, I ignored the doctor’s & surgeon’s phone calls for a solid week before making a decision. In order to stop adding to my scar collection, I’ve decided to leave it in. Maybe not a proud display of optimism, but hey – at least I’ll still have something interesting to show off on first dates.

Meanwhile, 3 months should be just enough time for my eyebrows to grow back. Currently, I look eerily similar to Mr. Fredricksen from Up. A small step up from my Voldemort days. They’re super bushy & bright white. Also, I just found a patch of black hair growing on my cheekbone. Looks like I have all kinds of interesting things to show off on first dates now! Come & get it.

I’m kind of freaking out – something the doctor told me specifically not to do. It’s tough to remain sane, though, when your oncologist’s answer to if you have cancer still is “we aren’t sure”. WEEPING. FLOOR.

The Twelfth.

Welp, I think I’m finished with chemo. For 6 weeks, at least. They want all the chemicals from your “final” chemo to marinate in your body before you have a final scan. From there, we decide (we? medical professionals) decide if I need more drugs or we can take my port out. While I think port removal will be an excellent day, I did just let a guy feel it on the first date. What will make me stand out from the other women in Nashville now? Dammit!

So, how am I celebrating my 6, chemo-free weeks? Eating Easter candy. All of it. & then feeling guilty because I’m no longer getting injected with steroids every other week. Thus, I have no excuse to be this puffy. 

So then I make a salad. 

…& then I eat 3 mini cadbury eggs promptly once I’m done. 

Whatever. I think I just beat cancer. Let a bald woman indulge!

Now I wait & figure out what to do with my new self. Who, bee-tee-dubs, looks & feels super awkward. At 29 3/4, you get pretty comfortable with who you are & how you look. But then, one of your dude friends buzzes your head & all your eyebrows fall out & things get complicated. I hope I feel better once I stop looking like a boy. I’ve been googling, though. The internet says it takes a while for things to grow back. Currently, I’m sporting an infant look on my head. Like, I didn’t lose all my hair, but I lost a lot of it. So the hair that’s left is sparse & sticks straight up. I joked about having to wear bows in my hair so people would know I was a girl with a pixie cut. Imagine how I feel with infant hair. Adam has pointed out that at least I still have my teeth? We think it should be my new tinder bio.

Aside from dealing with my new look & binge eating, not much to report yet. Maybe there are still too many chemicals in my brain to make a decision about how I feel? I do think I should feel a lot happier than I do? But I just feel relief & still want to lay flat often. My doctor told me it can take months before I have the energy to do my makeup standing up. Which, when compared to what I just dealt with, seems okay. I do have this strange feeling someone is going to pinch me & when I wake up it will be December of 2015. Then I’ll have to do this all over again. Thankfully, I’ve actually woken up for the past few days. It’s still April.

I can’t believe it’s probably over. Well, as over as it can be. I can’t believe I didn’t quit. I can’t believe all I got out of it was this certificate (pictured, along with my “new” body. Yikes. Lookout Drake). Seriously, though, I can’t believe I have such incredible friends. I know that it hasn’t been hard on only me. (Stephanie & I were quizzing each other about geography in order to hold it together during my last treatment.) I’m so glad that not only were all of you with me emotionally the entire way, but I got lucky enough to have some of you physically with me, as well. & on multiple occasions! For multiple tests! For all of my infusions! I 100% believe I could not have done this without each & every one of you. I. Am. Not. Kidding. 

I’ll keep you updated about my progress. A clear scan is labeled NED (no evidence of disease) & since those are also my initials, I’ve got a good feeling.

Thank you. Thank YOU. THANK YOU. 

The Other Side.

Remember my friend Adam? Well, you should. He kept me alive after one of my treatments. He graciously volunteered to write his side of the story for us to enjoy. Now, let’s see how one reacts upon learning one of their best friends has cancer.  

It’s the monster under the stairs, the patient scythe of the grim reaper, a dark alley on an unfamiliar road. It’s a fear of mythical proportions that no one can fully comprehend until it affects yourself or someone close to you.

I feel fortunate to say that I’ve never experienced even the most casual of encounters with cancer until this past year. It’s not in my genetics, it’s not in my friends or acquaintances or coworkers; it’s barely in the few celebrities I adore.

I met Nikki Davis, aka NED, circa 2012 through work. She was known then as my Dow Chemical purchasing client with the comically cartoonish voice, and we bonded almost instantly on topics ranging from Harry Potter to punk rock to sarcasm to leather footwear to an insatiable infatuation with death. She’s like the awesome sister I never had, except that I already have an awesome sister. She’s like the second awesome sister I never had. I bully her like a brother and we confide in each other with depths that few human relationships allow. Let me put it this way: if we were billing each other for psychiatric advice, we’d easily pay for the other’s retirement.

On September 11th, 2015, Nikki visited me in Chicago for Riot Fest. We partied beyond hyperbole, saw a shit ton of bands, took a picture under a demon mouth, and almost got stabbed in an alley (in Chicago, we consider almost a win). On September 13th, for the conclusion of the festival, we went to brunch and watched football. We joked about the lump on her throat and how cool it will be to have a gnarly scar from getting it lopped off. On September 14th, Nikki had a doctor’s appointment in Nashville.

There’s a conference room in my work office with stark yellow walls. I mean the ugliest of Big Bird, rancid Easter, smoke dulled flaxen, hangover piss yellow. When Nikki called me to tell me she had cancer, I answered the phone in that room. When I heard crying on the other end of the line, I was staring at the northern wall. I remember thinking I had never noticed how yellow it was before, and I continue to notice just how revolting the shade of it still is today. I haven’t been in that conference room since that phone call, and I’ll probably avoid it as long as I work in that office.

Excuse me for the reiteration, but, Nikki and I talk about death a lot. I’m specifically consumed by it; the ins and outs, the religious implications (or more pertinently for me, the lack thereof), and what happens before, during, and after the brains and bodies we inhabit finally decide we’ve used up the odometer. I watch a couple horror movies a week, read anything Stephen King scribbles on a napkin, and sleep next to a plastic skull I’ve named “Tenant One”.

I made a promise to Nikki, and more so to myself, that I was not going to alter how I behaved around her during cancer. I wanted to remain a sliver of normalcy in the chaos that was about to transpire in her world. If our friendship was able to get us both through idiot relationships, idiot family members, and the utter idiocy of the humans we’re all mostly surrounded by on a daily basis, then goddamnit, it will be enough for some anomalous cell mutation.

On February 11th, I went down to Nashville for five days to “take care” of Nikki during her treatment. I quickly discovered that “take care” basically means to cook ridiculously offensive concoctions of food for meals and watch shitty Netflix while talking to myself. I likened it to checking a fish tank to make sure the piranha isn’t upside down, or whatever it is garden people do to keep their plants standing.

Anyway, upon my arrival and after eating a delicious pulled pork sandwich and whiskey(s) at Martin’s, we quickly got her hat removal awkwardness out of the way and discussed how the rest of the weekend would play out.

Here are the highlights:

• One chemo treatment filled with LOTS of questions on my end (What does it feel like? Why do you have 18 more drug bags than everyone else? Why does everyone like to talk? Why are we forced to watch The View?)
• One post-treatment elevator ride side arm hug and pat on the back.
• A long list of Nikki’s hair comparisons (Baby Grinch, Homer Simpson, Gollum, Stewie Griffin, Voldemort, Pinhead, Quinn from the Used, Sinead O’Connor, 2007 Britney Spears, etc.)
• My shopping list: Organic apples, organic peanut butter, cottage cheese, fruit, milk, whole grain bread, guacamole, organic granola, eight yogurts.
• Her shopping list: Ice cream. Two pints of Blue Bell ice cream.
• Three bullying conversations to drink water ANYTHING LIQUID.
• One purchased 1966 Supro Croydon at Carter Vintage Guitars.
• Four serenaded Tyme Machines songs, three serenaded Nada Surf songs, two serenaded Metallica songs, one serenaded Meshuggah song (I think hope she was sleeping for my whisper growls on that one.)
• Precisely three syncopated tears under a spotlight on a dark couch, in a scene built only for Hollywood.
• One Valentine’s Day flowers delivery (I might have a soul!)
• Approximately eighteen hours of horrible Netflix, including one particularly bad recommendation (looking at you, Taylor).
• One awesome post-treatment meal filled with good laughs, fried everything, and blood red ales.

In retrospect, this weekend taught me as much about myself as it did about Nikki and our friendship. You really don’t know what you’re willing to do for a person until you cook them beef ramen and black beans in tortilla shells while watching Cruel Intentions on a twin sized blow up mattress with a cat on your lap in a 40 degree room, right???

Nikki is tough as nails and punk as fuck. She’s also hilariously sarcastic when in anything but a lucid state. 

I’m proud to call her one of the best friends I’ve made in my 31 years on this planet. I’ve met a lot of shitty people and have even been one myself on occasion. If you could bottle funny, realistic, bright, sarcastic, beautiful, self aware, vivacious, kind, and sincere in one person, and turn those volume knobs permanently to 11, then you’d have Nikki Davis.

Cancer is a bogeyman…and my buddy Nikki is about to call his bluff.

The Eleventh.

I spent the 2 weeks between the last treatments completely raging. For a cancer patient anyway. Out of the 10 days I felt good enough to leave the house, I made plans for 8 of them. The other 2 resulted in pajamas & the starfish position. Pretending to be a real human is a lot of work! I did all kinds of fun things. For example, I went to the Ohio Valley Conference tourney. It’s like, the pre-March Madness college basketball tournament to decide who gets in. It. was. awesome. There were hot dogs & slam dunks & screaming. So fun. Not only that, but I got to attend my first real black tie event. Gown on, wig ratted. I don’t think anyone even knew I had cancer until after midnight when my carriage simultaneously turned into a pumpkin. Picture (of me, not the pumpkin!) attached as proof.

Remember the Bumble app? Well, I went on 2 Bumble dates. Anthony, 39. A sexy, Southern Italian. & Adam, 32. A nerdy, Vandy professor. Anthony asked if my hair was real & I freaked out. I ended up airing all my dirty, cancer laundry. & do you know what? He still wanted to kiss me on the mouth. ON THE MOUTH! WITH CANCER! He also kept asking to see my infant hair, though, so perhaps I should not be using him as a proper indicator of what dating with cancer is like… I didn’t tell Adam. I merely pretended I was a sassy ginger (had my red wig on that day). Chump totally fell for it. N00bs! I don’t think I’ll be going on anymore dates until this is all over. Which, bee-tee-dubs — is less than 2 weeks away!

I’m trying not to get too pumped about the end of chemo, in case some horrible tragedy happens. The oncologist seems fairly confident my final scan will be clear & I can go back to growing eyebrows. I’m going to continue with caution anyway. The psychologist has mentioned it’s a lot harder/takes a lot longer to feel “normal” than I’m anticipating. So, while she is pumped for my Harry Potter World blowout, she thinks I’ll probably still be in recovery. Maybe we can just rent a wheelchair & pop wheelies? 

Enough of my pre-treatment post-8 pm bedtime shenanigans. How did treatment #11 actually go? Meghan was here as my buddy, & either this chemo was completely brutal or I must have been exhausted from my 2 week bender… because I slept from Friday – Monday morning. While I was unconscious, Meg stocked my freezer with all kinds of meals & scrubbed my bathtub. Like my own personal house elf! When I finally woke up on Monday, we got to catch up & spent most of the day outside (it’s been between 70-80 in Nash). It was perfect. The next day, I caught my final flight to Michigan & have been hiding at my dad’s ever since. I hope I follow through with leaving on Tuesday, though, because currently – I want to stay & hide from my last treatment. Here’s hoping he can convince me to get on the plane & get this over with!

The Tenth.

I can’t believe it. I made it through treatment 10. We are in double digits! Thanks to either the hippies at acupuncture or the grace of God, treatment 10 is the easiest I’ve had. Well, maybe I shouldn’t use the word “easy”. Maybe I should go with “noticeably better”. I wasn’t able to brush my teeth without gagging, but I did participate in casual conversation & drank some coffee. Total win.

Stephanie was scheduled to hang (AGAIN! How do I have such wonderful friends?). We spent Thursday night at a hotel. Since Steph is fancy, we got to stay on the Hilton Honors floor. I got free breakfast, & we cackled at the republican debate. & then, my aunt decided to join us. She drove down on Friday to spend the weekend with Steph & me. We binged on Fixer Upper (Chip is a dreamy ginger) & had 2 Bonfires. With drinks! I had hot chocolate, but basically – it was a party.

I signed up for this app called Bumble. It’s like the Sadie Hawkins version of Tinder. Females are required to message males first, & you only have 24 hours to do it. Talk about pressure! My bio read, “So…I totally have cancer, & that’s probably the least amount of baggage you’ll find on here.” No hits. Notta. One. Had to switch it up so I can get a hot date. No idea what I’m thinking, especially since one false move & I’ll lose an entire eyebrow. …why is my whole life so focused on eyebrows right now? Also, how do you preface the fact you no longer have hair? “I may be a blonde in my photos, but today, I’m feeling like a redhead.” Does that work? Does anyone even care? & here we thought dating before cancer was tough. Yeeesh.

Oh, & I totally had coffee with the Gilda’s Club babe. No kissing, though, so I don’t think it was a date. It was more of a motivational pep talk, so I think it was actually the furthest thing from a date. He’s very rah rah rah. I am very into black & snarling. I’m not sure it would ever work. Unless opposites really do attract. Then, I should totally invite him over to Netflix & chill.

2 treatments left. I can totally do this. I can’t believe it took my until treatment #10 to feel this way. I also can’t believe I’ve been listening to a breathing techniques CD from a psychologist, but here we are. (Spoiler alert: exhale FIRST.)

The Ninth.

Adam (my best male friend) flew in from Chicago to spend nearly 6 days with me this treatment. Most of it was spent force feeding me ramen & berating my post-chemo, 2 fans blowing directly on my body routine. My body is burning WITH POISON. He ended up buying a guitar while he was here & serenaded me with Metallica covers. I thought it was lovely. He, on the other hand, will likely never return to Vaughn St. We did get to eat a few potatoes once I started feeling a bit better. So not a total loss in my book.

Currently, my bathtub is one of the only items giving me joy. At this point, it’s more like a witch’s cauldron. I fill it with everything: essential oils, ginger, peroxide, Lush bath bombs, bat wings (kidding but very serious about the others). I’m surprised my skin doesn’t smoke once I get out. Now that I mention it, I’m surprised my skin doesn’t smoke post-chemo. Reference 2 fans above.

I had a flight back to Saginaw scheduled for Tuesday. On my way home, I got trapped on the runway during my first flight. I ended up missing my connection in Chicago & had to stay overnight (since flights to Flint don’t exactly happen on the top of every hour). I was super tired from carrying around my laptop (& not an actual suitcase), so staying at the airport was not an option. You’re thinking why didn’t I call Adam, right? He just spent 6 days babysitting me. I couldn’t bring myself to ask for more help. I also couldn’t bring myself to get on the Blue Line at 11 pm. Instead, a United agent ended up booking me a hotel after I confessed: 1) I had no idea what I was doing, & 2) I have cancer. Nice guy. Not-so-nice experience. I did get a warm, double tree cookie out of the deal, too.

Mentally, I’ve been feeling okay. I only cried 3 tears total on Thursday before treatment. Adam saw all of them & ignored me. I can’t tell if that’s why I was able to pull it together so quickly or if I’m numb from the increase in antidepressant mgs. Strangely, either one is okay with me.

Now only 3 treatments left. Still, it feels like there is no end in sight. I can’t wait for this to be over & my eyebrows to grow back. Though word on the street is I’ve become quite the eyebrow pencil master. Crushed it. Thank you, Professor Mosher & Intro to Drawing. Attached is a photo for proof. Before & after. Hah. Check out my berry lipstick, though. Looks awesome paired with that beanie. #accessories