My Thanksgiving 2015

Earlier this month I celebrated one year of being cancer-free. Yay! It's been a strange year of ups and downs, as life is wont to do. Ultimately, I am incredibly blessed and have much to be grateful for:

—I'm grateful for eyelashes and eyebrows. I'm grateful my bangs hang over my eyes. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm also grateful for arm hair and stomach hair and back hair. You never notice how important some things are until they're gone.

November 2014

February 2015

—I'm grateful I can breathe without chest pain. A month after my final chemo treatment, I lay in my bed and inhaled a great, long, marvelous breath and there was no pain! I breathed for several minutes, reveling in the complete comfort I felt. Breathing air. No tenderness. No restrictions. I was free!
(Bonus: I can wear normal bras again! The tightness of bras exacerbated my chest pain and since no bra in the market matched what I needed, I had to create a makeshift bra to wear during the chemo months.)

—I'm grateful I can run. And take long walks in the park. And go shopping without feeling like passing out (or vomiting).

Mom and I went to Disneyland in February! Super fun!

—I'm grateful I can carry a purse. (Although I've grown rather fond of the mini purse).

—I'm grateful I can chase and wrestle my nephews, and give them piggyback rides.

—I'm grateful that when I had to change insurance providers, I was able to continue with my regular oncologist's care.

—I'm grateful I finally, finally finished my MFA! Hurrah! Thank you to my kind and understanding professors—Hillary, Chip, and Amanda—for supporting me while writing my thesis. =)

—I'm grateful I survived a season of unemployment and eventually found a full-time job. (Update: A week after originally posting this, I received news that I was going to be laid off. Huh. Onward to new opportunities!)

—I am extra grateful to my friend Mack who took me on an epic expedition! This summer we went to New York, Ireland, Scotland, England, and France. Of all the historical sites and museums and plays we saw, my favorite aspect of the trip was having energy to visit everything! We walked an average of 10 miles each day (our record high was 17 miles). Among our more rigorous activities, we hiked to Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, climbed 528 steps to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral in London, and ascended 704 stairs of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Considering during chemo I barely had enough energy to make a round trip from my bedroom to my kitchen, being able to hike and climb this summer was a blessing. Thank you, Mack! (Also, watching Jack Gleeson (a.k.a. King Joffrey) and his friends perform in Bears in Space at the Soho Theatre was astronomically delightful!)

Mack and Me atop Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh

We hiked from Arthur's Seat (left arrow) to Edinburgh Castle (right arrow) and obviously to the Ferris wheel.

July 31, 2014
Chemo Costume #6
Hermione Granger
(not Voldemort!)

July 31, 2015
Enjoying hot cocoa at The Elephant House,
where J.K. Rowling penned
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

St. Paul's Cathedral

Eiffel Tower

—I'm grateful for past experiences, present blessings, and future adventures!

Thank you to everyone—family, friends, neighbors, kindred spirits—who has supported me. I wish you the best with your endeavors!

Happy Thanksgiving!

My Long Overdue Post-Chemo Post

Hair has been growing. Energy levels are back to normal. Life goes on!

Nearly six months have passed since my final chemo treatment. Wow! Time has flown.

I've been meaning to post updates about life post-cancer. Because, it's a bit weird. My oncologist informed me that it was natural to have anxiety as a cancer survivor, and yeah there are days when the possibility of a relapse scares me and I wonder about my future. Ultimately, I can't worry about it, because the future isn't written yet. Gotta keep living!

I still need check-ups every three months to make sure everything is hunky dory, both in terms of watching out for long-lasting chemo side effects (of which I have none so far) and potential relapse (also none so far). Luckily for me, Hodgkin's lymphoma has a low relapse rate and most HL patients are cured with first-line chemotherapy. All of the statistics are in my favor. Hurrah!

As for other updates...

First, the sad news: back in November, my oncologist told me she would be relocating. I'm happy for her, moving on with her career and all. Sad for me. I could not have asked for a better oncologist to help me through the tumultuous journey. I was able to see her one last time before she moved in December.

The good news, also back in November my port was explanted!

I'm grateful the device made receiving medications easier, however I am super glad it is gone. If I had kept it in, I would have had to revisit the infusion center once a month to get it flushed to keep the catheter clean and clear. Considering how accessing it each time made me nauseous—with or without chemo—because of my reaction to the saline and/or heparin, removing it was the best. It also signified an end to my cancer adventure.

On Friday, November 21, my Aunt Debbie accompanied me to the hospital. We arrived at 6:55am and left around 10:30am. The procedure itself lasted just over an hour.

Pre-procedure

I have learned to be more vocal about my needs and desires, so prior to the procedure I had a few questions/requests:

1) Can I be more conscious than sedated during the procedure, like last time during the implant? 
Answer: Yes! Woohoo!

2A) Can I keep the port? 
Answer: No, because it is a biohazard. =(

2B) Can I take a picture with the port? 
Answer: YES! (see below)

3) Can anything be done about the nasty little scar* from when the port was first implanted?
Answer: The doc wasn't sure. Usually they make a second incision or something. He said he would take it into consideration and see what he could do.

*Side note: Funny story. Sooort of. When the port was implanted, there was a little mix-up about when it would be okay to remove the surgical glue. The take-home instructions claimed it would fall off on its own within seven days. On day eight, the glue was still stuck in place so I removed it, which apparently was too soon (the nurse practitioner later told me fourteen days was the ideal wait length; um...that would have been nice to include in the instructions). When I removed the glue it was obvious the incision had not quite healed and I had to return to the interventional radiology department so the nurse practitioner could tape it with surgical strips. This technique was not very effective and the scar healed weird. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of a slug.

Source

Returning to my explant procedure story, as requested I was mostly awake, although the nurse increased my sedative at one point because she said she noticed I was wincing. All in all, I remember about half of the procedure: the set up, an x-ray, a blue drape, the prep, the stinging lidocaine injection...

A different doctor performed the explant, not the doc I met during pre-op. New doc and I had a great chat during the procedure. Unfortunately, I don't remember most of it. Apparently she gave me a lot of great life advice. Guess I'll have to fill in the gaps with my imagination!

Bonus: She removed the scar tissue as requested! Yay! The new scar is longer and just as wide as the old scar, but it looks a lot cleaner and less slug-like. I'm satisfied with it.

Post-procedure
Me + Port

Yellow bruise a few days later.
The bottom line is the new scar.
The top line was more bruising.

Those are all the updates I have for now. I hope more will be forthcoming, but I make no guarantees.

Cheerio!

My Gratitude

Thank you to everyone who helped me through this journey!

Thank you to the UC Davis medical staff and everyone who was a part of my diagnosis and especially my healing process.

Thank you to local businesses for donating art supplies, and for occasional discounts (this is by far from a regular occurrence, but when it happened it was a mini miracle!)

Thank you strangers for offering kind words and complimented my baldness, and for survivors sharing their stories with me.

Thank you friends and relatives for visiting me, sending gifts and cards and texts and emails, chatting and commiserating with me, "liking" my Facebook posts, and leaving words of encouragement through Facebook and blog post comments.

The biggest THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU goes to my family for taking me to every doctor and chemo appointment, crying with me, putting up with my shenanigans, running errands, babysitting me on chemo weekends, and supporting me emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially.

I honestly could not have gotten through this without everyone's love and support!

Hugs!

My First Chemo Costume: Time Warped

In keeping up with my out-of-order crazy tire swinging, here are some pictures and reflections from my first chemo treatment on May 8th. 

Wow, has the time swung by!

–   –   –   –   –   –   –   –   –   –

10:00 AM: Arrive at outpatient infusion center.

Only two days before my first infusion, I had my port placement surgery. Obviously my chest still felt incredibly bruised and sore from having been cut open and a small foreign object crammed inside it. 

I had not yet been able to get my prescription for lidocaine cream, which numbs the skin before a nurse jabs through it and the "soft top" (high grade medical plastic) septum with a needle to access the port. 

Source

Source

Add to my predicament a sharp fear of needles, and you've got a recipe for a hurricane of tears, which I did my best to hold back.

My nurse for the day, Cheri was amazing. She listened to my concerns and talked me through the procedure, per my request. As I braced myself for super intense pain— squeezing Mom's hand, closing eyes, tissue ready, big deep breaths, big deep breaths—Cheri accessed the port faster than a dart hitting a bullseye. 

Whoa. No tears at all. In fact, I distinctly remember thinking, "That was easier than getting a navel piercing." 

(Note: I have to give praise to all of the nurses at the infusion center. Cheri, Terri, Mary, and Jayne are exceptionally skilled at accessing those ports with precision and speed, which leads to minimal discomfort even when I haven't used the lidocaine cream.)

With the drama of needles and port access out of the way, my first infusion continued.

During the first hour while anti-nausea meds dripped into me, Cheri gave me and my mom a quick tutorial on each of the four chemo drugs I would receive (Adriamycin, Bleomycin  Vinblastine, and Dacarbazine) and their side effects. (Click here to read more about my chemo course.) 

Then, chemo-ification time came! Usually I receive the drugs out of ABVD order. It's more like AVDB or AVBD. The order doesn't matter, as long as it's the correct drug and the correct dosage.

Adriamycin and Vinblastine come in syringes and the nurses "push" each drug in small amounts into my IV. Bleomycin and Dacarbazine hang from the IV pole and are pumped through automatically.

Total chemo time:

Adriamycin: 10 minutes

Vinblastine: 5 minutes

Bleomycin: 30 minutes

Dacarbazine: 60 minutes

Nurse Cheri and the four chemicals she's about to infuse me with.

You will note a lack of costume. The advice I received was to "dress comfortably," and dress comfortably I did. The idea to dress in costume originated sometime near the end of my first treatment.

Almost done for the day! (Oh my goodness! I still had hair back then!)

2:00 PM: First infusion DONE!

I was surprised I felt as good as I did when I walked out of the infusion center. Mom and I went grocery shopping to pick up some grub for the weekend.

Afterwards, I celebrated my first successful chemo infusion by dressing up and nibbling on a piece of pie. Because everything is better with pie. And steampunk gear.

My Facebook friends might be familiar with this lovely photograph:

It's all smiles and silliness for a little while...

By 4:00 PM the chemo caught up with me and my body felt as if it had gone through a blender.

Yuck.

Just…yuck.

Yet I still tried to attend a small family gathering to celebrate my brother-in-law's birthday. This was the result:

I've used this pic before, but it captures the distress of chemo day.

My mom and I left the party early, and I sat in my shower for a solid thirty minutes letting warm water soothe me. I had an evening snack of fruits and veggies, and my body felt better. Lots of rest over the weekend also helped.

–   –   –   –   –   –   –   –   –   –

So, that was my first chemo experience. Of course, over the next two weeks there were a lot of side effects and gross days and ickiness that I'm glad are in the past.

I've adjusted over time and basically become a pro at it now.

Most chemo days have followed a similar pattern: wake up, apply lidocaine cream, rest/nap while getting infused, endure nausea, return home, sleep off the side effects the rest of the day and most of the weekend. Take pain relievers and warm showers as needed.

Also über important: Take anti-nausea meds on time.

It's weird to think I'm almost done, and also super relieving. The first treatment is rough because neither you nor your body knows what to expect, and it's only the beginning. Looking back is kind of empowering because Hell yeah, I did it!

Well, I've almost done it.

Only one more to go!

My Dark Moments

Tire swinging would not be complete without its dark moments. Except the monkey isn't swinging because she's fallen off and landed in a pit.

I once cried so hard that I made myself nauseous and almost didn't make it to the bathroom to throw up. I've also huddled up in a fetal position next to my coffee table because I had no energy to pull myself up to the sofa. I've cried in my kitchen, in my bedroom corner, in my sister and mother's arms.

With all of the side effects and everything else, depression happens. And life keeps going on. And that gets depressing because what the hell do you do when your finances spiral down the toilet, but you're too exhausted to work, and as grateful you are that your family is helping, you also mourn the lost aspects of your autonomy, and some days no matter how much you wish everything would just go away and life would be a bucket of rainbows you know that's just not possible. At least not right now. Not for a while.

When I was in the ER back in May, my nurse shared her mom's philosophy with me (her mom was a cancer survivor): 

It's okay to cry. You have to cry. Having a pity party once in a while does not mean you are weak. It means you are recharging. It means release. Getting stuck in pity mode for too long is not good; the party has to end sometime. However, neither is it good to pretend to be happy 100% of the time.

The darkness is temporary. It always passes.

Treasure the good days. Because they happen, too.

So climb back on that tire, little monkey, and keep swinging!

My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 3: Port Placement and Other Procedures

The final installment in My Tiny Tumor Adventure and all the tests, procedures, and whatnot leading up to and following my first chemo treatment. Basically the chapter between the beginning of my adventure and my brief hospital visit.

Short version at end of post.

Click here to read My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 1: A Diagnosis Story.

Click here to read My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 2: A Cancer Staging Story.

Quick Recap

April 30: Diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma.

May 1: Met with my amazing oncologist.

May 2: Diagnostic tests confirm my cancer is Stage IIA.

Monday, May 5

A much needed night of normalcy. My sister, Michelle and I attended an awesome Ingrid Michaelson concert in Oakland.

Tuesday, May 6

10 am: Port placement surgery at the Interventional Radiology department.

A port is basically a little device surgically implanted under one's skin. A connecting catheter is also tunneled under the skin, over the clavicle bone, and guided close to the heart through a vein. This allows chemo to be administered safely (direct exposure to chemo can cause tissue damage if, for example, the chemicals contacted the skin) and more efficiently (the heart pumps the chemo throughout the body, and the blood in the heart dilutes the chemicals). There are, of course, other options for administering chemo. The port seemed the best for me.

Source

Source

This procedure was done under conscious sedation. Normally this means a "twilight sleep" which means the surgical team can communicate with the patient during the procedure, yet supposedly when the patient wakes s/he forgets everything. 

Well, since I'm slightly crazy/curious, I asked if I could be more conscious than sedated because I wanted to remember the procedure. The nurse grated my request. 

The memories are hazy since I was still sedated via IV. Mostly, I rested and occasionally opened my eyes. When I saw all the blue drapery around me I mentioned the fort a friend and I made last Christmas (I think my speech was too slurred to make any sense). The surgical team probably thought I was nuts. They've probably had sillier patients. As for the gorier details, there isn't much to tell. They used a local anesthetic, which stung each time they injected it (five or six times), but I was so loopy the pain was diminished. I also remember a lot of pressure on the right side of my chest as they tucked the port under my skin. Once the procedure was complete, I glimpsed an x-ray projection of my torso with the port implanted. I also mentioned pirates (the surgical hairnet/cap was covering my eye—like an eyepatch—and I asked if someone could fix it for me because my wrists were secured because they don't want patients Kermit flailing during the procedure, as if I would do ever such a thing). The whole experience was kind of cool. Glad I asked!

Afternoon: Infusion Center called to schedule my first chemo. I really wanted to postpone this until after my sister, Christine's 21^st birthday because months before I had promised we would get cocktails together. I did not want that moment taken from me. Unfortunately, there were scheduling conflicts, yet I stubbornly insisted on keeping my moment.

Five minutes later: Oncologist called to convince me to start chemo ASAP. Despite some tears, I listened to her advice and scheduled my first treatment for May 8th.

Wednesday, May 7

9 am: MORE BLOODWORK! Because my blood counts need to be checked at least 1-2 days before chemo. Sheesh. Just take it all.

Aaaaand because I’m crazy, afterwards I play at the park with my sisters and nephew.

Queen of the playground!

All right, I’m not that crazy. I spent most of the time sitting at a park table. And I didn’t play so much as saunter around and take silly photos.

Cuts and boo-boos.
Long cut on neck = lymph node biopsy
Small cut on neck = catheter placement
Medium cut on chest = port placement

Thursday, May 8

10 am: First chemo treatment. Mom goes with me.

After thinking about it, I want to give my first chemo treatment its own post, so I'll be brief.

The infusion went extremely well, much better than I expected. That is until later that evening when my body felt as if it had gone through a blender. 

Mom spent night with me.

Friday, May 9

Felt surprisingly well. No nausea thanks to anti-nausea meds. However, also minuscule appetite. Juice was my friend. My amazing mom cared for me all day. 

Afternoon: Attended a "Chemo Class” with my mom and two youngest sisters, Julie and Christine. Learned about all the fun side effects I could look forward to. $#^†. Gonna take it easy, one day at a time.

Source: UC Davis Comprehensive Cancer Center Chemo Class slide show

Sunday, May 11

Celebrated Mother's Day with family.

Mouth burning begins. OMG!!! Like thousands of bees stinging the inside of my mouth!

Monday, May 12

Celebrated Christine's b-day despite feeling ill and lingering mouth burning because nothing was gonna stop me!!!

Tuesday, May 13

10 am: Echocardiogram. As I mentioned in Part 2, this test was required to establish a baseline for my heart's health because one of the chemo drugs I receive, Adriamycin can cause heart damage.

Mom accompanied me. One hour of ultrasound imaging and measurements of my heart. I was so exhausted, I was beyond caring that the male sonographer could see my very exposed chest. Wearing an open-front paper shirt/cover thingy proved pointless. Whatever. I closed my eyes and pleasantly recalled the time I visited Baden-Baden's Friedrichsbad (a nudist spa). 
(P.S. Don't worry. That link goes to the spa's totes appropriate (PG-ish) homepage. If you ever visit Baden-Baden, I highly recommend Friedrichsbad and the Caracalla Spa, which is more family-friendly (swimsuits required)).

2 pm: Biopsy post-op with ENT. Tiny’s scar was healing nicely. I thanked my ENT for his help during the diagnosis process.

Thursday, May 15

Follow up visit with oncologist to make sure things are going well. They are! (Relatively, speaking.)

Friday, May 16

8 am: Pulmonary function test. Also mentioned in Part 2, this test was required to establish a baseline for my lungs' health because the chemo drug, Bleomycin can cause lung damage.

Christine accompanied me. One hour of various exercises breathing into a tube, having measurements recorded by a computer, and feeling like an idiot the entire time. (At least I could wear my normal clothes.) I was terrible at following the instructions the technologist gave me. Inhale quickly, exhale slowly, vice versa, use your diaphragm, pretend you're blowing out a thousand candles, breathe in in in in in yourlungshavemorecapacitythanyouthinktheydoooooo, breathe out out out out out almost theeeeeeeeeere *gasp!* Great. Now let's do that five more times. 

The tech was a nice guy though. Fun to talk with. 

Weirdest aspect of the test: sitting inside a large, clear plastic box (to measure volume and lung capacity). The box was closed for only one exercise, but I had to stay inside it throughout the full hour of testing.

Source

Saturday, May 17

Intense back pain.

Sunday, May 18

Belly button feels a bit sore...

And that brings us up to speed on the first month* of my odd little adventure with lymphoma. Phew! It was quite the whirlwind of appointments, a medley of miracles, and a whole lot of emotional tire swinging. 

Super grateful to all of my doctors for their prompt care, as well as all the other health professionals for helping me arrange appointments and complete needed tests. 

*Seriously. Only three and a half weeks transpired from my first visit with my primary care physician ("Hey doc, what's this lump in my neck?") to my first chemo treatment ("So long, cancer!")

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  

THE SHORT VERSION

May 6: Port-a-cath implanted to make chemotherapy easier and safer to administer
May 8: Had first chemo treatment
May 13: Echocardiogram
May 16: Pulmonary function test

My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 2: A Cancer Staging Story

Ahh! I meant to write this months ago. Then got side tracked (chemo and fatigue and all). So here is a long overdue post.

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  

Getting diagnosed with cancer is only one part of the process towards healing and whatnot. The next steps include meeting with an oncologist, getting the cancer staged, and determining an appropriate course of treatment. This, of course, all happened months ago for me.

Click here to read My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 1: A Diagnosis Story.

Click here to read My Tiny Tumor Adventure Part 3: Port Placement and Other Procedures.

Quick Recap

On April 30^th, my ENT informed me I had Hodgkin Lymphoma. He ordered a couple of staging tests so that I could be ahead of the game for my oncology consultation scheduled for May 8^th. When I made this appointment, I also asked the Cancer Center to put me on a waiting list should an earlier appointment become available.

The adventure now continues (short version at end of post):

Thursday, May 1
(Literally, the next day) 

10:00 am: Got a call from the Cancer Center. They had a cancellation and wanted to know if I could come in that day at 2pm. Yes! After making some quick arrangements, my dad and sister, Michelle were able to go with me. My mom wanted to be there, but was stuck at work.

2:00pm: Sitting in the exam room was trip-py. OMG. I have cancer. Everything kept getting more and more real.

2:30pm: From the moment my oncologist walked in the room with a smile, I loved her. She's an assistant professor, likes working with lymphomas, explains things perfectly, and is extremely friendly and optimistic. 

During the consolation, she told us about:

• Lymphoma 
• a cancer of the white blood cells 

• The chemo regimen I would be receiving 
• ABVD (Adriamycin, Bleomycin, Vinblastine, Dacarbazine)
• once every two weeks
• six cycles of two treatments each
• twelve treatments total  

• What tests I would need 
• PET scan (to stage the cancer)
• Bone marrow aspiration and biopsy (to stage the cancer)
• More blood work
• Echocardiogram (because Adriamycin can cause heart damage)
• Pulmonary function test (because Bleomycin can cause lung damage)

Fun times!

I anticipated a lot of the information my oncologist provided (I do my research). About halfway through the consultation I started revealing what I already knew, mostly to confirm what I had read. For example, before my oncologist mentioned anything about a port-a-cath, I asked if I would need one implanted in my chest to administer chemo and limit vein and skin damage. She confirmed I would, and mentioned other options. The port seemed the best option.

Overall, the consultation went extremely well. She also mentioned a clinical trial for Stage III and IV HL patients and I told her I’d be willing to participate, depending on my staging results.

Source

Source

Silly moment of the appointment: While I sat on the exam table, my oncologist asked me to hold my arms up so she could check my lymph nodes and I announced, "I'm an airplane!" She laughed and appreciated my joke. She later told me she lucked out on getting an excellent patient. Woot!

Source

3:30pm: As my sister drove us home, I silently wondered what else the universe could throw at me.

6:00pm: The universe answered. My car refused to start. My life turned from surreal to absurd. At least all the places my car decided to fail, it was in my sister’s driveway. Silver lining?

Friday, May 2

Looong day. Mom accompanied me.

8:00 am: Six-hour fast officially started to prep for PET scan. Technically hadn't eaten since 2am. Only water allowed.

9:00 am: Called AAA for towing services.

9:30 am: My oncologist called and said she could perform the bone marrow biopsy that day, as in within the next couple of hours.

10:00 am: Dropped car off at mechanic. Mom and I skedaddled downtown to the medical campus.

11:30 am: Bone marrow aspiration and biopsy. Prior to the procedure, my oncologist correctly guessed that I had researched the procedure and watched a YouTube video. She knows me well! She assured me it would not be that bad. She was right. Not a picnic, but not nearly as bad as I anticipated. Highlight for details: Every time I go through a procedure, my strategy to reduce anxiety is to ask my doctor or nurse to talk me through each step. (No mindless, "distracting" chitchat. Stay focused.) My oncologist explained each part of the procedure perfectly. She also checked to make sure my mom, who was also in the room, was okay. Usually I like to remain silent, but this time I broke my own rule and chatted occasionally about the procedure (focus!). I lay on my stomach on a table with a few pillows to support my head and shoulders. My left, back hipbone was the official biopsy site. First came the lidocaine injection. Stung like a scorpion! (Or so I imagine; I’ve never been stung by a scorpion.) My oncologist injected my hip several times, and each was less painful than the previous one. At one point I felt like a needle was stuck in me, but my oncologist assured me there was not. Weird. Once the lidocaine numbed my back, the harvesting began. I felt a lot of pressure as my oncologist manually cored out a sliver of my bone. This lasted for several minutes. Then came the aspiration—acquiring bone marrow. The whole time I mentally prepared for a surge of excruciating pain. Never happened. Maybe a pinch? My oncologist even had to reinsert the needle at one point. If I ever had to, I could endure this test again. My oncologist is amazing! I thanked her for doing a great job. She said if she had at least one patient out of one hundred who was grateful, then her job was worth it.

Afterwards, I asked if I could see the bone marrow and bone fragment. Super cool.

12:00 pm: Procedure over. Biopsy site (left back hipbone) ached for rest of day. Like moderate menstrual cramps. 
Also felt woozy. Probably a combo of losing bone marrow and having no food for several hours. PET scan was still two hours away. At least I could have water. Mmmm. Water. 

Source

My oncologist said I could rest in the procedure room as long as I needed. While I recuperated, I asked to speak with the clinical trial coordinator. She chatted with us and went over information about the trial. Although my mom was concerned about the idea of my participation, I was completely fascinated.

1:00 pm: Scheduled several future appointments, such as the echocardiogram, pulmonary function test, and port-a-cath implant.

1:30 pm: Lab work. More blood drawn. Like, a lot of blood. It's okay. I don't need it.

2:15 pm: Arrive for PET scan. Mom had to stay in waiting room. Radioactive sugar injected intravenously. (Cancer cells apparently have a sweet tooth…er, membrane. Anyway, they gobble up sugar, and if it’s radioactive sugar the PET scanner will detect where the gluttonous little cancer cells are congregating.) 

One hour required rest to allow the cancer cells to feast. No visitors allowed. Not allowed to read or sketch or play games on phone or do anything except lie down, which I was more than happy to do. Blankets and pillows provided. 
Within minutes, boredom ensued. 

Source

Source

Source

Source

So much boring! 
And no clock to tell if time was passing. Ahh!

3:45-ish pm: PET scan. Finally! Had to stay still the entire time. I asked if I could close my eyes and the technician asked if I was nervous. Nope. Just exhausted. While I was in the middle of the machine I opened my eyes and was glad to learn I am not claustrophobic. Then I shut my eyes again because so tired!

Source

4:15 pm: Done with tests for the day! Yay! 

4:30 pm: Mechanic called. Car fixed and ready to be picked up. Double yay!

4:45 pm: My oncologist called to let me know that only the lymph nodes above my diaphragm were affected, which meant my cancer was a Stage II, ergo I was not eligible for the clinical trial, much to Mom’s relief.
(Although I don’t remember exactly when I received confirmation about the official stage of my cancer, I do know after all the test results came in I was Stage IIA. Four affected lymph node groups, with a total of six tiny tumors, not including the original Tiny). 

5:00 pm: Had dinner with Mom. Monkey on a tire swing metaphor is born.

6:00 pm: Returned home for R&R. Back ached for the rest of the evening. And the following days. Yeouch! 

That's all for Part 2! Stay tuned for the final installment in which Amanda get her port-a-cath implanted, first chemo treatment, and more diagnostic tests! (You know, whenever I get around to writing it.)

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  

THE SHORT VERSION

On May 1st, I met my oncologist (whom I absolutely admire and adore!) and we began staging the lymphoma. After a bone marrow biopsy, PET scan, and more blood work, we learned my lymphoma was Stage IIA.

Further Reading

Cancer.org: How is Hodgkin disease staged?

Hodgkin Lymphoma Staging

Bone Marrow Biopsy

PET Scan