Chemo Round 25

It’s almost been a week since I settled in my bed at the USC Norris Cancer Center’s Day Hospital for my 25^th round of chemo, and my memories of it continue to grow fonder.

Unlike some folks, I don’t dread chemo, I don’t hate it, and I don’t call it “poison” or any other overly-negative moniker. Poison kills you. Chemo extends your life and kills cancer. I like to be careful with my language because it really is a reflection of attitude and perception. For all my cancer warriors out there that are guilty of using the “poison” term, do yourself a little favor and stop talking trash about the stuff that’s trying to save your life. Just do it, alright?

Anyway, back to chemo round 25. As always, it went smoothly. I was tended to by extremely capable and caring nurses and was comfortable during the duration of my infusion. During the tail end of infusion time, while I was soaking up the last drops of Irinotecan and waiting for my Leucovorin push and subsequent attachment to the 5-FU “bag o’ chemo,” I got an email from Taline, Dr. Lenz’s nurse practitioner. Taline and I have this normal Tuesday routine when I email her with the subject line “CEA?” and she tells me what my number is. Usually, I respond with a “helllll yeahhh” then I forward the email to Dr. Lenz and say “hey, did you see this?! Sweet!” But today, I was getting an email from her on Monday, while I was still guzzling up my chemo.

It was good news. My CEA tumor marker had dropped from a 12 to a 10.7. Proof that cancer is disappearing in my body. Support for the fact that my medical treatment, attitude, diet, fitness regimen, and overall approach to life is working. I am – we are – slowly but surely snuffing out this deadly, aggressive disease.

Bouyed by that news, I had a great week. I was even more active this week, seeing the light of day and getting out of bed for extended periods of time on every day of the week.  Don’t quote me on this, but I think that eventually, I may actually be able to hold a normal, toned down schedule on chemo weeks. No pressure, of course, but it’s something to quietly aspire to.  After all, I’ve got a minimum of seven more rounds of FOLFOX + Avastin – I’ve got time to get even better at rocking out treatment weeks.

Meanwhile, cancer doesn’t have much time left at all.