Stem Cell Transplants 101: What's the plan?

I realize that for most people the news that "I'm getting a stem cell transplant" is about as meaningful as me saying "I'm having my naruffula collar removed" (which is to say that it sounds concerning, but doesn't mean a lot). This post is meant to serve as a sort of introduction for non-medically oriented friends and family, who would like to understand what this process will entail.

For starters, the stem cell transplant is not the first step in the process. I have to go through preparatory treatments (and those have to be working) before we move forward with the transplant itself. In the past, these treatments have always come in the form of chemotherapy. (Definition: Chemotherapy is basically poison that is most effective against cells that reproduce quickly, like cancer cells, hair cells, and the cells that line the interior of your mouth. That's why many people on chemo lose their hair and/or get mouth sores. But it is poison, so it makes people nauseous and feel cruddy). For my first transplant (Dec '09) I tried one prep regimen of chemo that ended up not being totally effective. We had to switch to a different sort of chemo, which shrank my cancer some but not completely. That was enough to move forward with the first transplant though.

Luckily for me there is a new treatment for Hodgkin's patients who have relapsed after an autologous stem cell transplant. (Definition: Autologous stem cell transplants are transplants where a patient's own stem cells are used, like my first transplant. These are less dangerous than Allogeneic transplants, which are transplants where the patient receives a donor's stem cells, like my upcoming transplant). The new drug that is available for treatment is called adcetris and it's only been available for the last 2-3 months. It was fast-tracked through the FDA's drug approval process after showing promising results in clinical trials (30% of patients had their cancer shrink down to nothing, another 42% had their cancer shrink somewhat). The great thing about adcetris (in addition to having good results) is that it is NOT chemo. This drug is a monoclonal antibody. (Definition of Monoclonal antibody: Your guess is as good as mine). So I'm not sure exactly what that means, but it's not poison and my doctor assures me that it will be the easiest treatment regimen I've been on so far. Since it's not chemo, I shouldn't have all the cruddy side effects associated with chemo. I'll get the drug once every three weeks. It only takes 1 hour to administer the drug, and then I'm finished until 3 weeks later when I go in for another dose. I'm also excited because this leisurely treatment schedule means the doctor probably will allow me to go through it without getting a port again. (Definition: A "port," or more correctly a portacath, is a small device that sits under one's skin and provides easy access to a vein. It feels like a MicroMachine lodged under your skin. Doctors and nurses can stick a "needle" in it, which Brynn calls a "nail," to administer medicine or fluids, or to draw blood. It's handy if you need to get stuck a lot, but for me it probably won't be worth it this time around).

My port, version 1.0 (in use). I'm hoping to avoid the 2.0 install.

We'll do 3 rounds of the adcetris (so for 9 weeks total) and then we'll do another PET/CT scan. (Definition: A PET/CT scan is an imaging scan that helps the doctors see where the cancer is and if it is growing or spreading. They inject radioactive sugar into my blood, which is mostly absorbed by rapidly reproducing cells, like cancer. Other kinds of cells that reproduce rapidly can absorb the sugar, like scar tissue, which leads to a false positive. Then I'm put in a machine that takes thousands of images of my body and shows where radiation is coming from. Since the cancer cells absorbed the sugar, and thus the radioactivity, they show up on the scan).

(Option 1) If that PET/CT shows continued growth of the cancer, we'll scrap the adcetris and try a chemo prep regimen. (Option 2) If the cancer has disappeared, we'll move forward with the transplant. (Option 3) If the PET/CT indicates that the cancer is shrinking but is still there, we'll continue with additional rounds of the adcetris and then reassess with another PET/CT scan at a future date.

Once we've shrunk the cancer down it will be time to move on to the stem cell transplant itself. Even if the adcetris eliminates the cancer altogether, the Hodgkin's might come back without the stem cell transplant. The transplant starts with a huge, HUGE dose of chemo. A dose SO huge, it completely kills my entire immune system. The hope is that the chemo kills off any remnants of the cancer, wipes my immune system clean, and we start with a blank slate. The problem with that, is that without an immune system I'd be a goner. Seriously, if we took no other steps after the "killer" chemo, I would die. This is where the stem cells come in. My body still hasn't fully recovered from the first transplant, so it's not making enough of its own stem cells for me to provide my own for the transplant. That's why I need a donor. So after the "killer" chemo has done its job and I have zero immunity to any germ in the world, I will receive the gift of life (aka. stem cells) from a donor. (Note: It is the chemo that might, fingers crossed, cure the cancer. The stem cells just repair my body after the chemo has devastated it).

***Revision 3/14/12: In an allogeneic transplant the above description isn't quite right. In my case I will receive an intermediate dose of chemo before my transplant which will take my immune system down very low. I will receive donor cells and grow a new immune system (which will be the donor's immune system). The hope is that the new immune system recognizes any future cancer growths as abnormalities and attacks them. So the part above about the killer chemo being what eliminates the cancer is wrong. In an allogeneic transplant we're counting on the donor's immune system to keep any future cancer in check.***

Those stem cells will be infused into my body just like I was getting a blood transfusion. It's really kind of anti-climactic, and the nurses say everyone smells like creamed corn on the day of their transplant. Those stem cells are the building blocks for a brand new immune system for my body. But it takes a long time for that new system to be built and begin to work. In the interim, the danger is that I might get sick. With no immune system my body is entirely susceptible to any germ that comes near it. I have no defenses. The doctors can treat me with antibiotics, but often times that's not enough. Many people who receive transplants die from infections that they couldn't overcome.

One of the bags of my stem cells. Looks unexciting, saved my life.

From beginning to end the transplant itself, which is all spent on one hallway of the hospital, takes anywhere from three and a half to six weeks. Possibly longer with complications. Patients are terribly bored and many are depressed. Children under 14 aren't allowed on the floor at all, ever, for any reason. During my first transplant that meant I did not see Brynn for over 4 weeks, which included Christmas. I watched her open her presents via Skype. It was tough, but I knew that getting that transplant was the only chance I had of celebrating many, many more Christmases with her. I'm disappointed that it failed, but I'm committed to doing whatever is necessary to be around for many more Christmases. If that means another transplant, then that's the plan.

**Disclaimer: I am not a doctor (obviously). This post is full of my best attempt to understand my own treatment and share that understanding with others. Please do not confuse this with a real medical explanation from a medical professional.

Rediagnosis: Cancer

Last night I was walking around in the Dollar Tree when my cell phone lit up with a call from my doctor. "Oh good" I thought, I'd been waiting to get the official word about my recent biopsy for almost a week. The surgeon had reassured me that the mass didn't look cancerous to him, and so I'd not worried much more about it.

My doc: "So how did the biopsy go?"

Me: "THAT'S WHAT I WAS HOPING YOU WERE CALLING TO TELL ME!"

Doc: "ha ha. No, the actual procedure. How's your incision?"

Me: "It was routine. I'm no more sore than is to be expected. How are my results?"

Doc: "Well, there were Hodgkin's cells in the biopsy."

Me: "You've *got* to be kidding me."

Doc: "I wish I was..."

And so I sat down the cheapie dollar scissors I was toting around. Walked out to my car in a haze. And had a discussion with my oncologist about what happens now.

So what happens now?

First, I move back to northern Kentucky. Second, I start a new treatment regimen, meant to get me ready for transplant. Third, I have another stem cell transplant, this time using a donor's stem cells. Finally, I kick cancer's ass...again (again). Easy Peasie.

I'm sure I'll relate more details as we go, but those are the basics. Here's a terrifying chart, to convey the gravity of the situation:

Overall survival of 118 patients from date of relapse after autologous stem cell transplantation for relapsed or refractory Hodgkin lymphoma.

It's like the giant hour glass the wicked witch of the west flips to let Dorothy know when she'll meet her doom, except less pretty.

There's a new treatment though (only out 2 months) that I'll be doing to prepare for the transplant. Hopefully that changes the statistics as they now stand.

If any of you would like to help me, here's what I need:

Please go to www.bethematch.org and sign up to be a stem cell donor. It's free to join the registry. They send you a cotton swab and some easy directions and once you send it back you could save a life. Very few people ever get called (1 in 540 according to a friend). Those who do get called usually have no costs associated with donating. The procedure itself (as I understand it) is the same one they used to collect my stem cells, which was just like giving blood but took a bit longer. Of the 10,000 people (many of them children) who need a donor every year, only 50% find a match. Please, please sign up to possibly save a life. A life like mine.

In more practical matters, I will need help with the move. Loading in Tallahassee, unloading somewhere in northern Kentucky. If anyone has a lead on nice but affordable places for rent in Burlington, I'd love to know.

If other things come up I'll let everyone know. For now though, hugs, distractions, and support are warmly welcomed.

We've Got the Beat, We've Got the Beat, We've...Forgotten Our Dance Moves

I am supposed to be at a conference. A national conference. The premier national conference in my academic field. In San Francisco. I am supposed to be networking, discussing, and engaging. And, of course, drinking, sight seeing, and spending time with friends. I am not supposed to be in Tallahassee. But I am.

Today was Brynn's hip-hop recital at the local gymnastics center. The dance classes there aren't a huge deal, but it was important to her. So important that when I told her I was going to miss it, she burst out in tears and cried for a solid five minutes. I've never missed one of her dance recitals (or music recitals for that matter). And where other kids have aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, even dads; here in Tallahassee Brynn has me. Sure we have lots of amazing friends, but Brynn just couldn't fathom the thought of me missing her star performance.

So I stayed in town. We've had a friend over for dinner and a puzzle. Brynn made brownies. We watched a movie together. It's been nice.

Today was the big day, Brynn's hip-hop debut. She had skinny pants, funky shoes, and a high ponytail. Recital time.

Brynn, in an attempt to look "thug," throws peace signs rather than gang signs.

The girls started out strong. They've been rehearsing for weeks and the first three quarters of the song saw the class dancing almost in sync. I'm not sure exactly why things fell apart for the girls, but as you can see here, the entire class forgets the moves to the last quarter of the song.

You can see them all look helplessly at each other and then scurry off in a mix of relief and embarrassment when the song comes to a merciful end. Brynn told me that they were extra disappointed because they all thought they wouldn't get medals at the end (that everyone got for participating!) since they'd messed up.

All in all though, Brynn stood up in front of a couple hundred people and performed a dance that she's been practicing for weeks. She looked for me, and found me, supporting her in the crowd. Afterward we spent time together taking silly pictures and then she picked out the biggest, brightest bouquet of neon daisies a girl could want.

I miss my friends at the conference, but I wouldn't have missed something this important to Brynn for all the sights in San Francisco.

Fair Play

Today Brynn and I ventured to the North Florida Fair for fried dough, freak shows, and all you can ride collapsible whirling machines. The fair did not disappoint.

For $.50 a piece Brynn checked out "The World's Smallest Woman" and "The World's Smallest Horse." She pleaded for more change to take a gander at "The World's Largest Rat" and "Spider Woman with Eight Legs--Answers Your Questions!" but there are only so many quarters I'm willing to dole out for that sort of thing.

Before setting foot on any of the "unlimited" rides I'd paid $20 for Brynn to have access to, she asked for a $5 camel ride, a $5 surfing simulator attempt, a $5 giant hamster ball on water ride, and a $5 trampoline experience. Once I told her she could choose between any of the $5 diversions or her fried dough later, she promptly re-directed and found the regular fair rides.

Flight of the Fifth Graders

After a long day of riding everything from bumper cars to fun houses, it was finally time for fried dough. You can't eat too many fried foods too early in the day or else unlimited spinning rides turn into a really bad idea.

Going...

Elephant ears are our favorite fair-fried dough. You can't always find them, but they're infinitely better than funnel cake as far as we're concerned. Brynn went with powdered sugar AND cinnamon sugar (what could I say, it's only once [or twice] a year).

Going...

The timing was perfect. The night was beginning to cool down and our hands were a bit chilled. Giant, fresh, warm elephant ears warmed our hands and our insides.

Gone.

Brynn ended up covered in powdered sugar. I ended up feeling like maybe I should have worked up slowly to so much fried food (I also had a corn dog for dinner). Overall though, as long as fair food only works its way into my diet once (or twice) a year, I think it's an essential ingredient in personal happiness.

Many of you know how much I love fairs, my home town county fair especially, but all fairs everywhere as well. There's something magical about how time, responsibility, and calorie counting can be suspended for a few hours. I wasn't nestled at my computer working on a paper. She wasn't running around the house doing chores. Neither of us was eating a single tuft of broccoli. We could run, ride, play, and munch to our heart's content (or at least until we got a belly ache). And in the midst of so many people, all having a good time, we could walk around together and just enjoy each other's company. Sharing all those things, and just a general love for fairs, with Brynn is so special to me. Every year in my fair photos she looks exponentially more grown up than she did just one elephant ear ago. But at least I know that some part of both of us will always be a kid at heart.

So Someone You Know has Been Diagnosed with Cancer...Now What?

When I was diagnosed with cancer I went through a period of shock, disbelief, and denial...all unwitting strategies for staving off the uncertainty and terror that comes with such a diagnosis. Thankfully I have an amazing group of friends and family who supported me through that difficult time. But as days and weeks of remission turn into months and years, I'm increasingly aware of how many others are dealing with cancer diagnoses. That alone-ness I felt when I discovered I had cancer was a lie. It seems like about once a month someone new comes to me to relate a story of their friend or family member who has just found out they have cancer. It's devastating. I hate knowing that someone else is going through that experience, preparing for that battle. But everyone wants to know what they can do. I don't have the perfect answers, but I have a few suggestions. Many are things that someone did for me when I was sick.

The first thing to do is simply to ask if the person has anything they need or if there's something you can do to help. Don't push for an answer though. When I was sick I was terrible at this. Frequently I didn't know what I needed. If I did know, I was often too hesitant to actually ask. Your friend or family member might not want to admit that they can't do certain things, but I think it's always better to ask outright first. If they can't think of anything, but you know of something they are going to need help with (such as scooping a cat's litter box, which they're not supposed to do) maybe you can directly offer to do that thing.

Apart from asking directly, here are a few additional ideas for how to boost the spirits of, or lend a hand to, a person who has just found out they have cancer. (in no particular order)

1. Buy them cancer schwag. There's a colored ribbon for almost every variety of cancer. You could buy a car magnet, a keychain, or a t-shirt with their ribbon on it. For the most part these things seem kitchy, but at some level they reminded me that there were other people out there who were in the same boat I was in. I wasn't the first to have this kind of cancer and I wasn't the only one fighting it. One shirt I especially liked said "I fight like a girl!" and had a purple (blood cancer) ribbon on it.

2. Tell them stories of people you know who have beat cancer. When I was diagnosed I didn't know other people who had cancer. The only other person I'd known to have a blood cancer was my papaw, and he passed away shortly after his diagnosis. If you know success stories, share them! Whether it is simply that chemo wasn't as bad as someone anticipated, or it's a story about full on remission, these sorts of stories provide encouragement at a very discouraged moment. DO NOT relate stories about others you know who have lost their fight with cancer. It's good to be realistic (chemo sucks, radiation can be irritating) but someone who has just been diagnosed with cancer is keenly aware that it is a disease that kills people. That's not where you want to focus.

3. Send cards regularly. I loved getting cards with words of encouragement and support. I taped them all over my bedroom and, later, all over my hospital room. It's a simple gesture, but the outpouring of support meant a lot. I think it's especially nice when you can send a card every couple of months. Friends and family sometimes forget that the battle is a long process and support dwindles. Getting cards in those lulls is especially nice.

This was my home for over 3 weeks. See the cards on my bulletin board on the left?

  4. Send support. Many cities have services where one can order a warm, home-cooked meal to be delivered to one's house. These are nice on nights when your friend or family member is too tired or sick to prepare a meal. You can usually purchase any dollar amount worth of meals (sort of like a gift card) and your friend/family member can use them at their convenience.

Several friends gave me books, magazines, and even a kindle for leisure reading on long days while I was at doctor's appointments and getting treatment. Whatever your friend or family member enjoys (or maybe has always wanted to do) that can be accomplished sitting in a chair would be great. Buy an electronic fishing game, scrapbooking supplies, maybe even a rubik's cube. I crocheted a queen size blanket (entirely with a sc stitch for any fellow crocheters out there). Anything to provide a diversion during hours of chemo, blood transfusions, hospital stays, etc.

I was also very fortunate in receiving the gift of a cleaning service. Someone came to clean my house every other week. It was amazing, since it was important for me to be in a clean environment, but I was always too tired to do much cleaning. You could always pay for just one detailed cleaning, to get the house super clean before treatment. Alternately, if you have the time and live close-by you could offer to go out and do the cleaning yourself.

DO NOT send flowers if your friend or family member has already started chemotherapy. They may not even be aware of it, but once their blood counts (and immunities) are lowered, they're not supposed to be around fresh flowers. The hospital had to take my flowers away after my counts dropped. Luckily I was able to enjoy them for several days before that happened. One friend was clever and sent a bouquet of balloons instead. By special request they were all tied to a diet pepsi (which was especially exciting, since the hospital didn't stock caffeinated beverages).

5. Donate to the cause. From the American Cancer Society to smaller, more specific groups like fight2win.org, there are a wide array of organizations dedicated to researching and fighting different cancers. You could make a donation on your friend or family member's behalf. Again, this is the sort of "help" that isn't direct, but provides a morale boost. It always buoyed my spirits to think about the cutting edge research that is increasing survival rates every year. I was also touched to see the physical work several friends dedicated to Team in Training, which supports the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society

6. Buy a photography session. If your friend or family member is going to have to have chemo (and lose their hair) it might be nice to purchase a photography session for them and their closest friends or family. A friend arranged to have photos taken of Brynn and I before I started treatment, and I treasure them so much now. They're some of my favorite photos ever.

My post-diagnosis, pre-hair loss photo shoot

7. Help them find help. Discovering you have cancer is overwhelming enough, but there's so much more to deal with. In the months after my diagnosis I had to apply for several financial assistance programs. One was non-negotiable, as it was the only way I could afford to take one of my required medications. Another required receipted expenses be sent for reimbursement. Yet another would only accept applications on the first business day of the month. I was also unaware of several programs that would have been beneficial to me (such as a local blood cancer support group, the American Cancer Society's "Look Good, Feel Better" program, and their gift closet). There's help out there, help your friend or family member find it.

8. Offer them a ride, or a grocery run, or cook a meal one night. Ideally your friend or family member would be able to express what it is they need and when they need it. For me, however, that was almost impossible. There were days when I woke up, prepared Brynn for school, and got her on the bus,only to come back home and sleep until it was time to pick her up at the bus stop in the late afternoon. Even on those days I wasn't able to admit to my friends that I needed help. I was more likely to accept help when it was a specific offer made by someone else. I couldn't request help, and I was reluctant to accept it, but at some point an offer like "Why don't I make dinner for you and Brynn and bring it by on Thursday night?" was one I couldn't refuse.

9. Finally, remember that this is still the same person you've always known. After I was diagnosed I found that people began to discount their own problems or avoid talking to me about them at all. It was certainly done out of concern for me and respect for the rough time I was experiencing, but it made me feel a little out of place. In fact, sometimes hearing about what was going on in someone else's life (the good and the bad) was just the thing I needed to pull myself out of a funk. Everyone will be different in this regard, but don't take "special treatment" too far. At some point I said I didn't want to be "the girl with cancer" anymore, I just wanted to be plain old Shawntel. Don't let the cancer change your image of your friend or family member too much. 

All in all, there's no sure fire approach to dealing with a cancer diagnosis. Even the person who is dealing with the news is often unsure of how they want loved ones to react. Still, I think most people who are diagnosed with cancer understand that their friends and family don't always know the best way to offer their support. I appreciated everyone's efforts to encourage me and support me in gestures both big and small. Show your support in the best way you know how, just be sure to show it.

Tonight's Dinner Brought to You by the 1980s and the letters S, P, A, and M.

When I was growing up my mom made a heroic effort at cooking for our family. She never enjoyed cooking, but made us a meal every night. That said, my mom is not a great cook. One of my favorite dinners growing up was made by Hamburger Helper. In fact, I would guess that the majority of dinners we ate either came out of a box or out of the freezer. I didn't even realize that you could make beef stroganoff without the Hamburger Helper mix until I was in college.

These days Brynn and I have a broader (and fresher) range of foods that we eat. Sure I still buy the occasional box of Velveeta shells and cheese or Rice-a-roni, but Brynn has been exposed to hundreds of foods I'd never dreamed existed when I was 10. And yet, old palates die hard...

Recently I found myself craving my mom's potato casserole. As a kid I'd looked forward to this dinner, even requested it as my special birthday meal. So I called my mom and had her relay instructions to me over the phone. It's a simple recipe that, in retrospect, screams out "blue collar" and "1980s" all at once.

What you need: 6-8 potatoes (peeled, halved, and sliced about 1/8" thick), 2 cans of condensed Cream of Mushroom soup, half an onion (chopped), 1 can of SPAM (I chose the "healthier" turkey variety), pepper, and butter.

What you do: In a casserole dish (I used a glass cake pan) mix potato slices, soup, onion, pepper and SPAM (cut into 1/4" cubes). Dot the top liberally with butter. Bake at 375 degrees for 40 minutes (or until potatoes are soft). Eat.

Get your weekly allotment of sodium and retro, all in one helping.

I know that the thought of a dinner with SPAM (and condensed soup on top of that) makes most stomachs turn. At this point in my life 40% of my friends won't eat any sort of meat, more or less mystery meat. I grew up loving this dinner though, and while I can recognize how unhealthy and unappealing it is, I can't get rid of that craving. For the record, Brynn's favorite thing about it was the "chicken." When I told her it wasn't chicken and she asked, "Well what is it then?" I just sort of shrugged my shoulders and changed the subject.

The greatest fact about this recipe though, and I only just learned this, is that it originated in a microwave cookbook. That's right. An entire book of recipes devoted to never turning on your stove. If you could eat the 80s, they would taste like this casserole.

The Bird, the Bees, and the Best Question Yet

It's not that I'm afraid to talk to Brynn about sex. I've always answered her questions and tried to provide just enough detail to satisfy her curiosity without scandalizing her ten year old innocence. That's a delicate balance though. So while I'm not scared or avoiding the subject, I do try to approach it with the utmost care.

Currently, Brynn's working definition of sex is when two people touch their private parts together. I'm not sure she's ready for a more mechanical definition than that, seeing as how she's mostly appalled at the idea people would voluntarily engage in such behavior.

At one point she confidently asserted that she is "never gonna have sex." I inadvertently chuckled. She took offense and restated her point more passionately. That's a fine plan to have, I assured her, but also cautioned that one day, when she's an adult, she might change her mind.

A few weeks later, out of the blue, Brynn came to me with the question "Can people have sex and not know about it?" With her limited understanding of how things work she was afraid that private parts might brush together accidentally. I explained how you would certainly know if you were having sex. Being the overcautious mother that I am though, I countered that with a simplistic explanation of date rape drugs. Basically I told her the only way someone wouldn't know they were having sex is if someone else gave them an illegal kind of drug that makes people forget things.

Fast forward to tonight. Brynn's brewed on all the information she has for about 3 weeks since the roofie conversation. She knows that people have to have sex to make a baby. She knows how sex works. And she knows people are cognizant of when they are having sex. So over dinner Brynn asks:

"Do you think daddy gave you one of those drugs that make you forget having sex?"

Me: "No sweetie."

Brynn: "Well how did I get born then?!?"

Only my child would think that there was a higher likelihood of her dad giving me an illegal drug than there was of me voluntarily sleeping with him. You should have seen the speechless look of utter disbelief when I told her I had slept with her dad (and remember it). I know no one likes to be reminded that their parents had sex, but roofies are a whole new way to try to explain it away!

Terrific Tuna Salad, without the Mayo (a Brynn-endorsed recipe)

Around our house, mayonnaise is more likely to expire than to find its way onto a sandwich. Really we just keep it around for the occasional hamburger. As a result, I ran into a dilemma: Brynn loves tuna on sandwiches, but hates mayo and relish. We experimented with a few alternatives, but this recipe has become our favorite tuna salad.

Ingredients:
- 1 can (or pouch) tuna in water
- 2 HEAPING tablespoons of hummus (our favorite is Sabra)
- 2 teaspoons of sundried tomato spread (for southern friends, Publix sells this in the produce section)
- 1/4 cup of feta crumbles (we like Athenos tomato and basil)

Drain your tuna. Combine ingredients. Mix. Enjoy.

No, it usually doesn't look this fancy.

My measurements are approximate. Add more or less to suit your tastes. If I was being more honest it would be "enough hummus to make the tuna stick together, enough sundried tomato spread to make the mixture a light red, and enough feta to make it delicious." I suspect that other sorts of cheese crumbles (blue for example) would work as well, but we can't get enough feta, so we stick with what works for us.

Wheat pitas (cut in half and opened up) make a perfect pouch for this tuna salad. We stuff a few fresh spinach leaves in there and call it lunch.

A Simple Hug

Tweens are, biologically and emotionally, a hot mess. As someone who was once a tween (and then a teen) I can recognize the misery of being entirely overtaken by hormones, but not understanding what that overwhelming feeling is. Unfortunately for me, Brynn almost always channels those feelings into outbursts of anger directed at me.

Seriously. Two days ago she was furious at me because 7x8 did not equal 58.

The majority of our time together is spent in a delicate dance of managing or evading rampaging hormones. Without fail there's a minimum of one rage filled outburst every day, sometimes many more. Frequently it's a string of things, as if once she begins acting out she just can't reign it back in.

Years ago I read an article explaining that a child who could keep it together at school, but started unravelling at home, was actually rather well adjusted. So at least Brynn knows not to berate her teacher when the multiplication tables don't meet her creative mathematical interpretations. Still, it wears away at both of us at home.

All of this is to set the scene for Brynn walking silently into my bedroom two nights ago, walking up behind me, wrapping her arms around me, and laying her head on my back. No one said anything for a couple minutes. We just stood there with each other. Exhausted.

Eventually I turned around and wrapped my arms around her too. Not too soon. I didn't want to ruin that hug. It was spontaneous, honest, and increasingly rare. I couldn't risk ending it. But when I turned around Brynn didn't go anywhere. She just leaned on my chest and we rocked back and forth for a minute. All the stress and tension just melted away.

Then I tickled her and we fell onto the bed, laughing wildly.

In all, the scene lasted maybe 5 minutes. It made my whole night, maybe my week.

That hug will have to keep me going through the resistance to chores, demands to abandon our dog, Ke$ha, indignant complaints about having a bedtime, makeup, pleas for everything from a bigger room to strapless bras, the dreaded homework hurricane, and so much more. It will though.

The tween emotional roller coaster takes its toll on everyone who's drug along its ups and downs. But there are ups. I cherish those. The downs are intense and hurtful, but when you love each other you get each other through. Sometimes with a hug.

They Just Don't Make "First Days" Like They Used To

On the first day of kindergarten proud parents spring out of bed at the crack of dawn to prepare their munchkins for their very first encounter with elementary education. There are dresses and bows and enough pictures to fill an album. Children want their parents to drive them to school and walk them to their classrooms. These tiny pupils even tell their anxious parents everything about their day once they get home.

Brynn's first day of kindergarten was like that. Her first days of a few subsequent grades even resemble this fairy tale model. Fifth grade was not a fairy tale first day. In fact, it was kind of a bumbling mess.

The night before, Brynn couldn't fall asleep. One thing after another spun through her head and kept her up past 11pm, despite laying down at 8:30. No worries though, her outfit was chosen, lunch packed, and shoes located. Monday morning was set to run like clockwork.

Except I screwed up the clock. Like countless times before, I managed to set my phone alarms for pm instead of am. Two out of three alarms were accidentally set to sound close to dinner-time. When the third alarm went off at 7:35 I immediately knew it was too bright outside and that something was terribly wrong.

I sprung out of bed. Ran to Brynn's room. Threw on the light and yanked back the covers.

Good morning, welcome to fifth grade. You're about to be tardy.

In the end Brynn made it to school in plenty of time, but she'd missed the bus and her friends. I'd missed any chance to take photos. I did get to drive her to school, but I think we'd both have been mortified if I'd walked her to the classroom in my pajama pants.

To make up for the rocky start I walked to the bus stop, camera in hand, to meet her and take an action shot as she strode off the bus. As they turned the corner and I readied the camera I realized the memory stick was in my laptop. Foiled again.

I did snag a couple quick shots before Brynn made it inside the house, but she wasn't exactly ecstatic.

                                       Impatient is really more the emotion she's got going on this year.

I'd like to say that her second day ran smoother. It did not. Brynn and a friend bounded down to the bus stop ten minutes early. Forty five minutes later...<knock, knock knock>. I guess the bus driver overslept. So we're 2 for 2 on pajama clad last minute rides to school. Not an auspicious start.

On the bright side, Brynn got loads of compliments on her second day of school outfit.

                                                      One of these days these hightops are gonna walk all over you.

It's gonna be a long year folks. A long year.

Confessions of a Rotten Chef; My Pot Roast is the Pits

Tonight I did everything right. I set aside plenty or time. I bought fresh veggies. I followed the recipe like I was a first year chemistry grad student in the laboratory. Still...failure.

For years now I've attempted to make the perfect pot roast. I'd have even settled for a very good pot roast. Most of my attempts have been edible, perhaps even "okay," but never delectable.

Pot roast is one of my very favorite foods. It's a dish that's even able to make carrots taste fantastic. The perfect comfort food. Unfortunately, it always turns out a little less than comforting when I make it. This failure is all the more poignant in the face of how simple pot roast is supposed to be. Tonight, after my latest less-than-melt-in-your-mouth roast, I called a friend who suggested I just needed to put the roast in water with a little bit of salt, pepper, and oil. How can I be screwing this up?!?

Tonight, I started with a 2.5 lb chuck roast. I braised it, put it in water with lipton onion soup and red wine, added minced garlic. I waited until just an hour before presentation and added potatoes and carrots. Aromatically it was 110% success. It looked juicy and mouth-watering. I could barely wait to taste it! Ultimately though, it was bland and sort of rubbery. I'd been worried that the onion soup mix and the garlic might be too flavorful, how could this roast be bland?!?

 The real stars of tonight's show. It was better in the glasses than in the roast.

I wish I had answers, but it turns out I really am a struggling cook. I'm hoping my kitchen-savvy friends will be able to set me on the right path. I beg of you, please save my next dinner party (my apologies to my friends who've been subjected to multiple failed pot roast attempts). Short of buying a crock-pot or smuggling in a roast cooked by a friend, what's the secret?

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...Unless You're Brynn

So Brynn got dumped tonight.

For more than a year she's had a long distance boyfriend. Once a month or so they'd exchange a phone call or an email, but she put a lot of thought into whether or not to stay with him in the face of other cute little boys liking her. I wasn't sure exactly how she was taking the news after her now ex-boyfriend popped out of his house and announced that he'd just broken up with Brynn. Would there be tears? Was she going to be snippy or say mean things?

She tagged him, shouted "you're it!," and ran for base. They played for at least another hour before I pried her away because it was getting late. The only time she mentioned it again was in a whispered voice in my ear assuring me that she "was going to break up with him anyway."

When we piled in the car I wondered if maybe now she'd be a little sad. I asked her what had happened. He simply said that since she lived so far away he was breaking up with her. She responded "okay" and reminded him that she'd suggested that months ago when we first moved. Then they went to play. As easy as that. Was she sad?

Brynn: "Sad?!? I'm SINGLE!!! I'm gonna get a new boyfriend!"

She even sang a little made up tune about having a new boyfriend.

Without a doubt, future breakups will be heart wrenching for Brynn. There will be tears. For now though, breaking up is about moving on when the time is right for everyone...and about staying friends. I know she's only 10, but I couldn't hope for a better breakup for her.

Winning Isn't Everything, Except When You Won, A Tale of Two 5Ks

Running a 5K in July during a heat wave is probably not a brilliant idea. That's exactly what Brynn and I did yesterday morning though.

Physical challenges aren't my strong suit and this was the first 5K I've ever entered. Last year when Brynn was running cross country (she was awarded for being the most improved runner of the year) I promised her I'd try to walk and get in good enough shape to do a 5K with her. The transplant had lowered my blood counts and my physical endurance. If I was going to do a 5K, I had a lot of work ahead of me. Despite the stifling heat, I started walking at a local park this summer. I was slow and I wasn't walking very far, but I was out there giving it a go. When we saw there was going to be a 5K at the very same park we knew this had to be the one we "ran" together.

                            Me before the race. Yes before. I know I'm sweating. It was hot.

I certainly didn't run. Well, just for a few feet off the starting line because I signed up for the "run." The runners started 5 minutes before the walkers and I knew I was going to need that head start. Before the starting line was out of sight I was down to a walk and I walked the remainder of the race. My victorious last place finish was fine by me though. My goal was to finish the race without crawling or crying. I might have come in behind every runner in the race (and six of the walkers who passed me) but I completed a 5K and kept my promise to Brynn. It isn't all about winning anyways, right?

Actually, it is all about winning when you've won. In this race there were awards for three different age groups, with the youngest being 3-11 years old. Brynn knew 3 things: there weren't many kids, she was one of the oldest kids in that age range, and she'd run cross country in the past. She ran with her eyes on the prize and finished at around 40 minutes. Not her best time, but she was convinced she'd come in first for the elementary category. Imagine her disappointment when they only gave ribbons to the adult and the older youth (12-17)! As soon as the awards were finished and the raffle prizes had been given away her lip began to quiver. Act fast mom! "Brynn let's go to the car and talk about it there!" Too late. As the tears started rolling down her face she put her head down on the picnic table. She cried for several minutes before sulking and sniffling her way to the car. Ever heard of a sore winner?

As soon as we arrived back at my mom's house Brynn trudged up to her room, still sniffling with the occasional tear. Being the protective mom that I am, I headed straight for the computer and composed an email to the race director. Without being forceful or rude I explained how disappointed we were with the elimination of the kids awards. I mean, who does that? Especially to 3 to 11 year olds! In other words, I sent a politely worded guilt trip to her inbox. Within 15 minutes my phone was ringing.

Director: Hi, is this Shawntel?

Me: It is. How are you doing?

Director: Just awful actually. I feel completely terrible.

Good. That's not what I said of course, but you should feel terrible when you make kids cry, particularly when you make my kid cry. She was SO apologetic that I couldn't be upset for long. The ribbons had been left in her trunk and she'd forgotten all about them. Who knows if that's true, she might've just run to the store and bought three more ribbons. Didn't matter. To set things right she insisted on driving to the house and presenting Brynn her ribbon. You should have seen the magical transformation in Brynn's expression when I announced that her ribbon was on its way.

                           Can you believe this child was crying not 5 minutes before this?

So for me, a -7 last place finish was a huge personal victory. (Let's not talk about my time. When I told a runner friend how long it took me to finish she stopped and asked me again if it was a 5K). Brynn had a real victory, with a first place finish in her age group, but it didn't feel like it until someone recognized her achievement. "It isn't always about winning" is a good lesson, but I'm glad she was able to revel in her success this time around.

Baby's First F-bomb

Until recently I was under the mistaken assumption that the "tweens" started around 11 or 12. My illusion was quickly corrected when, at nine years of age, Brynn needed a bra. Her attitude has been steadily declining ever since.

Usually, her hormonal rages are directed at me, for one imagined offense or another. I am forever indicted for things like: enforcing her bed time, telling her to do her chores, or giving her a long explanation when I'm helping with her homework, rather than just providing the answer. Seriously, she's even talked to her therapist about how annoying I am when I'm being helpful.

Occasionally, though not often, Brynn cannot find a way to blame me for something, try as she might. Just after she returned from her week at camp she realized that she'd forgotten to bring home her brand-new goggles. You might think I'd be the one upset about this (or any of the other $20 worth of stuff she'd left behind), but no, Brynn was beside herself. After tearing through all of her bags, checking the car and even the laundry, and interrogating me at some length, she finally came to the conclusion that the goggles were at camp and no one was to blame but her. At this point she crumpled into a heap on the stairs and sobbed and heaved for at least 10 minutes. Real tears. Nothing would calm her down, not even the assurance that we'd buy a new pair when we made it out to the store again. My point: tween hormones are miserable, uncontrollable and definitely infiltrating the body at 10, if not 9.

I suppose that should make me more forgiving about yesterday's incident, when my baby dropped her first f-bomb.

               I guess I still prefer "f*ck" to her using "ménage à trois" in an appropriate context.


We'd stopped in the Christmas Tree Shoppes for a quick look at back-to-school supplies. Brynn was triumphantly carrying around a clipboard, a plastic filing folder, and a zippered case (all covered with pink zebra print and peace signs) when she decided she was ready to leave the store. As has happened many times before, Brynn's strategy for getting her way when I want to continue shopping is to badger me senseless, a plan she promptly put into action. When I'd had enough I made her put down her items and we left the store. "Not happy" doesn't even begin to describe Brynn's feelings about this. After arguing a bit in the car, she did it, she dropped her very first f-bomb.

"WELL YOU'RE THE ONE WHO WANTED TO LEAVE THE F*CKING STORE!!!"

My knee jerk reaction was to shout her full name back at her, but then I was lost. What does one say when one's child just busted out THE curse word for the first time? Silence. Even she knew that she'd just landed in a metric ton of trouble. I suggested she call her dad and tell him. Not a chance, she wouldn't even take the phone. Finally, in a state of parental bewilderment, I went with the old standby: WWMMD (what would my mother do?).

The answer, for those of you wondering, was to wash Brynn's mouth out with soap. Dove has never caused so much shame, on both my and Brynn's parts. It was only a couple of seconds of soap on tongue, but it was awful, just like when my mom had washed my mouth out. On the other hand, she only had to do that once. I don't think I cursed in front of my mother again until well after I'd gotten my bachelor's degree. It's doubtful that Brynn's mouth cleansing will last as long. And so, as I look into the future and see years of tween and then teen hormones raging, I can't help but think, "This is going to f-ing suck."  ;)

As an Adult I do not Squeal at Snakes or Cockroaches: A Total Lie

What started out as a simple walk to the post office in 90 degree weather, turned into a frightened squealing scene when, approximately ten steps outside my front door, I almost stepped on a snake.

                                           He was going to eat me!...or perhaps a small mouse.


When I was little I had a similar panicked, screechy reaction to snakes that weren't in tanks, but it was the kind of thing that I'd hoped had passed as I'd become an adult. I am, after all, responsible for protecting Brynn from dangers of the wild like this harmless garden snake. Brynn wasn't with me though, so I did what any other 30 year old who just regressed to kindergarten would do...I called my dad.

As a 5 year old, calling my dad would've involved screaming at the top of my lungs, then through tears, until someone came to rescue me. Thankfully for the neighbors and my pride I had my cell phone handy. Plus my dad lives several miles away now. He remained cool and calm while I squealed (twice) that "THERE'S A SNAKE IN THE FRONT YARD!!!" Ultimately I just walked around the slithering menace and on to the (closed) post office. When I returned home, he was gone.

This has brought a disturbing trend to my attention though. When faced with the few irrational fears I have (wild snakes, giant wild spiders, and anything that looks even remotely like a cockroach) I do two things (1) freeze in an ill advised state of paralysis and (2) call a man. In the past I've called my dad from over 700 miles away so he could "help" me kill the huge banana spider that had re-located its massive web so as to entirely block access to my laundry room. Just a month or so ago I killed a two inch long flying roach-like bug that had snuck in my bedroom from the back patio door. I had to phone a friend so I could talk myself into picking up the carcass to throw it outside. Once, several years ago now, I encountered a couple dozen cockroaches at the bottom of an outdoor set of stairs and called my then-boyfriend in such hysterics that he couldn't understand me at all and was afraid I'd been in a terrible accident. I just can't help it. Some part of me is in utter terror at those moments. At any other moment of the day I'm a mature self-sufficient woman who doesn't need a man to do things for her. In those moments when I'm face to face (or better, face to beady little eyes) with one of these creatures though, all I can say is "AAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!" So Brynn, I promise to save you from the snakes and the roaches, but you'll have to forgive me for having a panic attack while I do it. What I'll never let you know is that my next move is to call ~a man~.

The Problem with Things I Swore I'd Let *My* Kid do Someday

Remember back when we were young and antagonistic? When every time our mom said "no" we were certain it was a grave injustice? Once (and probably much more than once), in seventh grade, I was still yammering away on the phone well past midnight. My mom threatened me repeatedly from the top of the stairs. I'd be grounded. She'd revoke my phone privileges. I think she even threatened to call my dad (ha ha, not while I was still on the phone!). Back then I swore when I had kids I was going to let them talk on the phone indefinitely whenever their heart desired, as long as they kept their grades up of course.

My imagined progeny were going to have cell phones from their earliest years. We'd eat Little Debbies every day with our lunch, and maybe even with our dinner. Then we'd have a bowl with three...or maybe four...scoops of ice cream. During the county fair we would go every day and win as many goldfish as money could buy. Their room would have funky furniture and a waterbed. Of course they might not be there much because I'd make their curfew 1am and let them have as many sleepovers as they could pack into a week.

When they were home my imagined kids would get to play with the great number of pets we'd adopted, because I'd never say no. Or perhaps they'd watch movies and play games, because there would be no limit to their tv time. Clothes choices would be their decision and they would never be subjected to second-hand garb. And of course I would always readily provide transportation to and from wherever my child wanted to go.

One learns a lot in the years between being a child and having one. Things like the number of calories in four scoops of ice cream and the value of a good night's sleep. A little perspective allows us to see that a great many of the decisions we would have made on our parents' behalf would've been bad ones. And yet I have a hard time reconciling a few of those old attitudes with my responsibility as a mom. Some things are easier than others. Like fair fish. What a rip off. I can say no to a fair fish faster than Brynn can ask to play. Two dollars to try to maybe win a $0.29 fish? No, no, and no. (Disclaimer: If you see me carrying a fish around at the fair in a couple weeks disregard my resolve in this paragraph),

Other issues really make me examine whether I'm saying "no" because it's the best thing for Brynn or if I'm saying it because it seems like the "good mom" thing to do. Take this evening's events for example. Tonight I dyed Brynn's hair blue. Not all of it mind you, just streaks, but it's "electric blue" and it's not going anywhere for the next 3-6 weeks. Some of you might remember back in 2007 when I put pink highlights in my hair for the summer. Brynn certainly remembers. Every summer now she asks me to dye her hair some funky color. The "good mom" in me says that I'm not supposed to allow Brynn to color her hair at all, and certainly not blue. What will all the other parents think? What will my parents think? And, *gulp* what will her dad's parents think?

                                        The "good mom" in me says I blue it.

Ultimately though, I couldn't come up with very good reasons why a 10 year old shouldn't have blue streaks in her hair during the summer. After all, I'd done the same thing with pink as an adult. I bought the dye without harsh chemicals, so it wasn't a health issue. It'll be mostly washed out when school starts, and even if it's not there's no rule against hair color at her school. Part of being a "good mom" needs to be finding ways to allow your child to be happy (and healthy), and Brynn is absolutely thrilled. To be honest, I'm pleased with the whole thing too. It turns out it's no fun being the mom who has to say "no" all the time to a child's sincere but ridiculous requests. So, yes. Dye your hair blue. Just please, please quit asking for me to abolish your bed time.

"Mommy, You Sweated a Smiley Face"

Exercising does not come easy for me, it never has. It seems like I get motivated at the least convenient times, like after I've eaten my weight in cheese or when I'm lying in bed trying to fall asleep. There are other times that I convince myself aren't ideal, like just after I've showered or when I'm wearing mascara. Really I can turn just about anything into an excuse. Ever since my stem cell transplant I've been especially discouraged because my physical stamina is even lower than it was when I was weighing in at close to 200 lbs. I'm trying to get back into it, but since I usually enjoy exercising as much as tortuous medical procedures it's been a tough sell.

Not tonight though. Tonight I was going to go walk. Brynn changed (into a fancy tank top and booty shorts) then she changed again into something exercise appropriate. She put crocs on and then switched those out for gym shoes. She hydrated and peed. Then she clipped the dog on a leash and we were (finally) ready to go.

At the park there are nicely paved trails sprinkled with exercise stations (to perk up other muscle groups) as well as dirt trails for cross country enthusiasts and mountain bikers. Brynn actually ran a 5K at this park last fall and was vaguely familiar with the dirt trails. At the first trail head she took off into the woods while I trotted along to the next exercise station. Three exercise stations later I waited and waited for her at the end of the trail. Or at least I thought it was the end of the trail. Turns out I was waiting at the end of another trail, and the sun was setting! When several shouts didn't return a response I headed for the top of the highest hill in the park. From there I was able to hear Brynn shouting for me from the other side of the park. Before I made it over to her she targeted a gentleman with a cell phone and called me.

"Hi mom"

"Where are you?!?"

"Where are you?!?"

We were reunited shortly thereafter (despite the fact that she took off in the opposite direction that I directed her to). On the way back to the car, as I lamented a walk cut short and a stressful situation, Brynn observed "Mommy, you sweated a smiley face." Huh? A smiley face? She seemed awfully sure though. In order to convince me, she snapped this photo.

                                                               Yep. That's a smiley face.


Sure enough, my backside was smiling at everyone on the trail behind me. I guess I enjoy exercising more than I thought, even my sweat is happy.

The Teaching Shoes, or How Being Frugal Causes Bad Fashion Decisions

Do you have an accessory that makes you feel more confident? Maybe a power suit, a scarf, or a watch? Something that makes you feel a little more secure when you're wearing it, a little more able to take on the world.

I found mine yesterday at TJ Maxx. I don't stop in often because I have enough clothes and accessories...and because (even at discount prices) many of their items are a little expensive for me. Yesterday's trip was mentally justified by my need for a new purse. Technically it's more of a want, as I could go without a purse, but the one I'm currently carrying is tearing irreparably at the straps and my pockets aren't big enough to carry around all the stuff in there. I spent at least 20 minutes carefully perusing all the bags, but came away empty handed. Since my mother is one of the slowest shoppers I know and was probably going to be in the store for at least another hour, I meandered over to the shoes section. I tried on a pair that looked like a sophisticated version of Dorothy's ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. I laughed at a pair with a 7 inch heel that I'm certain I couldn't have stood up in. And then I saw them...the perfect teaching shoes.

Up until yesterday the only black shoes I owned were unadorned flip flops and "going-out" black sandals with a heel. Every time I taught and needed black shoes this left me with the choice of looking like I was kicking back near a pool or like I was trying to pick up an under grad. I'll admit to changing outfits a couple of times so I could wear a pair of pretty magenta flats, thus avoiding the black shoe dilemma altogether. That was not a sustainable solution though.

So when I tried on these shiny black kitten-heeled shoes I knew I'd found my perfect teaching accessory. They're comfortable, dressy, and smart without being sexy. I knew I would wear them all the time, with a variety of outfits, perhaps even for an interview or two.

                                                           Not too casual, not too sexy.

"That's great," you say. And it would've been great, except the shoes were $40. Now most of you might think that's a deal for the perfect pair of shoes. A year ago I was shopping with one of my best friends who purchased three pairs of the same shoe at $115 a pair (in different colors, of course). So from one perspective $40 sounds like a steal. That is not my perspective however. I'm frugal, and that's being nice about it. All I could think about were all the other things I really do "need" to spend $40 on, like bills and Brynn's horse camp and a graduation present for my niece. I put the shoes back on the shelf and went to browse through dresses.

Then I tried them on again in a different size. I put them back on the shelf and went to look at exercise capris.

Then I tried the first ones on again, just to admire them in the long mirror at the end of the aisle. This is when my mom caught me looking longingly at them. She did her best to talk me into buying them, but I was not to be swayed. Forty dollars was just too much. I did carry them around for awhile to appease her, but I knew that in the long run they were headed back to the shelf.

As our shopping excursion wound to a close and we prepared to check out (she'd found a pair of Jessica Simpson wedges that she was certain she could not live without) my mom plucked the teaching shoes out of my hands and told me she was buying them as an early Christmas present. I protested, but then realized that she generally buys my Christmas presents off of the home shopping network. I'm all stocked up on electronic bibles and $100 skillets, so the shoes were a no-brainer. Merry Christmas to me!

Now if I could just find a cute purse...

The Unambiguous News

I don't like waiting in anticipation for PET scan results. Assuming you don't either, I'll just go ahead and tell you the doctor was very pleased with my scan. It looks exactly like the last scan (which was ambiguous) but that means there was no new growth, which means no cancer. (Woo hoo!!!)

                          Here's a cancer-free me sliding into the tube for my PET/CT scan.


Now that that's out of the way I have an admission to make. I was so impatient about getting my results that I called the hospital yesterday and asked if I could pick up a copy of my scan results. After the scan a radiologist looks through the images from my scan, compares them to the images from the prior scan, and types up his or her "impression" of the scan. What I'm able to pick up is that "impression." Generally doctors frown on you getting results before they have a chance to look over them and interpret them for you, but I just couldn't resist. So I knew yesterday that this scan was basically a carbon copy of the last scan, which I also knew was good news. I may or may not have squealed in the hospital parking lot. The way I look at it, I exerted significant self-control in making it to the parking lot before I had an outburst.

To my surprise the doctor had even better news for me. He says a very aggressive cancer (and mine was a bully) is most likely to come back within two years, if it's going to come back at all. This upcoming December is the two year anniversary of my transplant, so he is increasingly confident that I'm almost in the clear. Of course any cancer can relapse, but statistically speaking I'm in a good place. We'll do another scan in three months and if we get good results then we will push the scans back to every six months! I love the confidence associated with less frequent scans. I also love the $1,200 or so I'll save a year by spacing them out.

So today = success. The outlook seems good. I think old sir Hodgkin's has hit the road. That's good news because I have a back log of things that I plan to do. It's nice to know that I have plenty of time now.

(Sc)anticipation

Almost every time I've gone in for a scan it was supposed to be a defining moment in this battle against Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Either it was expected to confirm the cancer was gone or that more treatment was needed. Tormentingly, it's rarely turned out to be so clear cut. Once it looked like the cancer was definitely back, but the biopsy only showed scar tissue. Then we thought we had it beat but the following scan looked more ambiguous. So tomorrow's scan is supposed to define the ambiguity. I hope it does. I'm not sure my nerves can handle three more months of non-committal cancer. (To be clear, I'm hoping the commitment is to the cancer being gone, not starting another long term relationship with dear old Hodgkin's).

I generally try to play it cool when people ask about the cancer. Things genuinely have been going pretty well. I feel great, my hair is getting longer, chemo is just a memory. And yet these scans never fail to get me worked up. Every twinge in my chest or ache in my back puts me on high alert. I twist around, I stretch, I try to identify exactly where the pain is originating and then I compare it to a chart of where my lymph nodes are. I also rub my neck and arm pits at least every other day to see if I notice any swollen nodes. And the neurotic checking and worrying only intensifies as the scans get closer.

For about a month after a scan, I'm still focused on the most recent results. Surely not much has changed, right? By the second month I start thinking about little pains and what they might mean. I start reading too much into back pain that's probably caused by sitting in an arm chair for hours working on a powerpoint. When month three rolls around I put my life into a full fledged holding pattern. I don't apply for jobs, I don't go on dates, and I (apparently) cannot bring myself to make important plans for the upcoming semester. I don't do any of these things (and quite a few others) because all I can think about is "WHAT IF the cancer is back?" I've heard about paralyzing fear that causes someone to physically freeze up, but this fear paralyzes my personal and professional life. It's like WWJD for cancer patients/survivors. Every decision, big or small, is made in the shadow of the looming concern of What if the Cancer's Back? In this past month alone I've skipped applying for a job in the fall that was perfect for me and would provide much needed income, I've avoided putting my fall syllabus together, and well...let's not even talk about dating.

So tomorrow I will go to the hospital where they'll inject me with radioactive sugar and run me through a high-tech tube that will take thousands of images of my innards and determine my physical and psychological well being for the next three months. For those of you interested, a friend told me the radioactive sugar is actually "anti-matter," just in case me being radioactive wasn't nerdy enough.

                            An example of the machine that I'll be run through

My anticipation is high and won't abate until Wednesday when my results come back. Until then I'll be pretending that I'm not neurotic, but I suppose that's all relative anyway, right?

A Week to Make Things Stronger

This week is the official kick off week of my summer. Class is finished, grades are submitted, and Brynn is at sleep away camp for seven whole days. This calls for a char grilled burger and some smores, stat.

Camp always seems to be a time of mixed emotions for both Brynn and I. She was only 8 years old the first year she went, and she clung onto me for dear life when I tried to leave her in the cabin with the other 8 and 9 year old campers. We were both nervous about what that week might hold in store (and I only let her go because a friend was one of the adult leaders). That year she came home and couldn't stop talking about her new friends and the adventures they'd had. There was planning to be done for next year's talent show, and what dress was she going to wear to the dance the next summer?! Camp was a success.

                     (Brynn at camp her first year, helping to demonstrate natural selection)

This year when I walked Brynn back to the same cabin with some of the same girls she gave me a kiss, then a reluctant hug, then she looked around the cabin at the other campers whose parents had already left. She jumped back out of the hug, spun me around, and shoved me out the door! No more clinging onto my waist and begging me not to go. I know she'll miss me a little, she did want me to write her letters while she's at camp, but she was also ready to spread her wings and enjoy the autonomy of a week away from parental authority.

Now here's my big admission...I was so very ready for her to spend this week away too. Sure, I miss her like crazy and we'll spend her first few days back catching up and sharing stories, but sometimes you just need a little space. I think this is especially true for single parent households, where all the discipline and "bossing around" comes from a single person. I'm always the one who says "scoop the litter," "do your homework," "pick up your room," and "no." Don't get me wrong, I know I'm extremely lucky to also be the person who always gets to say "sweet dreams" and "I love you," but that comes with its costs. Costs that I'm more than willing to pay, but that take a toll on our relationship.

Sleep away camp gives both of us time to remember that we miss each other. Once when I was younger I saw a beer coozie that said "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" Kitschy, yes; but with an air of truth. Weekends at a grandparent's house, short trips with friends, even a single night sleepover, all give us time to recharge and focus on the really great things we sometimes take for granted about each other. Still, I'm glad it's only a week.

Why I Swore I'd Never Blog

When I was little (as early as fourth grade) I kept a journal sporadically. In sixth grade I began putting details like my age, my grade, the day of the week, etc. because someday I wanted to be able to go back and remember what it was like to be that age. I also wanted any potential female progeny to know that I was, in fact, once that age. That was, however, my only intended audience: future me and future little me's.

Blogging, on the other hand, always struck me as a cry for attention. If I wanted to express a feeling or tell a story I would simply call a friend and tell them. I didn't want to post personal details online where any random stranger could read my musings. I also didn't want to inundate my friends with the quotidian details of my mundane problems or successes. As far as I was concerned, blogging was for folks who felt entitled to have the whole world's ear (or their sympathy) and that just wasn't my style.

So as I sit down to start my own blog, I feel a profound sense of hypocrisy (as well as a need to apologize to my friends who blog--sorry!). When I was re-diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma I decided the best way to disseminate information to my friends and family was through a caringbridge.com site. It is essentially a blogging site (though I refused to fully admit it at the time) where people with serious illnesses can post updates for the many friends and family who are concerned about them. That experience, coupled with my own scouring of the internet for blogs about others who'd fought Hodgkin's, led me to realize that sometimes people read blogs for the experience of knowing there is someone else out there struggling with similar issues. In that realization I made a baby step towards becoming a blogger.

Then I began reading my friend Julie's blog (check it out at http://julieandmartinsblog.blogspot.com/ ) and realized that blogs could be inspiring. Julie is a working mother, a wonderful photographer, a devoted wife, a military woman, and she's just plain hilarious to boot. She shares her imperfections and somehow that makes mine less glaring to me. I love keeping up with her and her family, and hearing about the crazy (and the lovely) adventures they have. So I decided that blogging could not only connect people in suffering, but in joy. Another baby step.

Then a week or so ago I read a blog from a high school friend I haven't talked to in at least 10 years...and I identified with every bit of it (check that post out at: http://intertwiningemotions.blogspot.com/2011/06/why-doesnt-anyone-else-look-like-me-so.html?spref=fb ). I wanted to shout YES! and give her a hug and a high five. Here's a girl who I'd not been in touch with for a decade recounting experience after experience that I'd had. So it turns out blogging is a place for finding yourself in others, and others in yourself. For sharing experiences we've all already had some experience with. It's like a digital version of Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Oversoul."

So I think I'll blog.