On A Mission

Recently, on this blog and on Facebook (and in real life, too), I’ve made mention of a big project I’m working on with Dr. Lenz. This project is, quite simply, the most ambitious and rewarding thing I have ever done in my life. Given my history of doing ambitious and rewarding things, that’s saying something. I am about to embark on something that, when successful, will change a lot of things. Maybe the world. Actually, yes. It will change the world.

In a spiritual sense, the work that Dr. Lenz and I are doing, which will bear fruit early next year when we launch our project, has made my life’s purpose crystal clear. And this work has shown me that my life and all of its circumstances all make sense: my education and career prior to my diagnosis…the severe and improbable diagnosis I received at the way-too-young-for-this age of 28…the incredible, miraculous way I’ve found a way to not only survive but thrive since that diagnosis. It all makes sense.

In many ways, I feel compelled to take on this work not only because of my current status as an in-treatment, not-in-remission, you’re-going-to-do-chemo-for-the-forseeable-future-with-no-end-in-sight-so-you’d-better-get-used-to-it cancer warrior, but for my friends. For all of my friends who battle this disease and aren’t in the physical shape that I’m in to take on a project of this magnitude. For my friends who struggle physically. For my friends who are afraid sometimes. For my cancer warrior friends who have more courage and grit in their pinky fingers than most people have in their entire bodies. And for my friends who have died, too. They inspire me on this mission.

And Dr. Lenz inspires me. He may be my doctor, one of my best friends, my partner in crime, and one of my favorite people in the world, but let’s make no bones about it: he is one of the foremost colon cancer experts in the world. His reputation precedes him worldwide. He is a brilliant clinician and oncologist. And within him, there is a fire much like mine. He is passionate, endlessly smart, and focused. I simply could not ask for a better teammate in this project, in the business of saving my life, and in the business of life in general. Dr. Lenz is special, and having him by my side has enriched my life more than I can say.

And so, the mission…the project itself. I can’t unveil the contours of what we’re doing just yet, but I can tell you that we’ll publicly launch our campaign in February of 2013. And I can tell you that if you send me your email address, either through comments to this blog post or by emailing me at glo@wunderglo.com, I can share some more details with you in the next month or so.

 One more thing. It’s an important “one more thing.”

The success of our project’s launch depends on a few things, and among them is building a bit of a nest egg for The WunderGlo Foundation. The Foundation will be sending out some end-of-year solicitation emails, I’ll be running a fun Facebook fundraising campaign starting tomorrow (December 1), and I’ll be doing everything I can to raise enough money to ensure that this project gets off to the start that it deserves. And I’m asking you, dear readers, to help in any way you can. You can make an online donation at www.wunderglofoundation.org/donate or you can mail a check (made out to The WunderGlo Foundation) to 3260 Bennett Dr., Los Angeles, CA 90068. You may not know exactly what the project is, but you know me, and I know you believe in me.

I’m on a mission, and I won’t stop until I’ve seen it through.

Chemo Round 39 and Giving Thanks

I knew Chemo Round 39 would be a bit of a challenge, but not for the reasons you'd guess. My time at Norris was great, as usual -- I popped in earlier this time around and was out by 2pm. I headed back home, hydrated and ate well, and rested. Resting was key, because Tuesday night and Wednesday morning were not going to be easy. It wouldn't have been easy for anyone, let alone a person with a needle in their chest, guzzling up chemotherapy drugs. But I was going to do it. On Tuesday night, my three nurses and I took a red-eye flight to New Jersey followed by an early morning flight to the Bahamas. Imagine walking around LAX (and the Newark airport) and taking two 4+ hour flights while feeling hungover (headachy, queasy), dehydrated, a little congested (chemo always gives me a slightly stuffy nose and -- this part is pretty gross -- thicker, more mucous-y saliva), and with a needle in your chest. It wasn't my favorite experience in the world, but it wasn't terrible either. And it was worth it. I was heading to the Bahamas for this Thanksgiving holiday to cheer on my Blue Devils. Duke was set to play in the Battle for Atlantis tournament at the Atlantis Resort in Nassau, and I wasn't going to miss it. After experiencing Duke's win at the Maui Invitational last Thanksgiving, I had my heart set on following the team (led by my constant supporter and hero, Coach K) to the Bahamas this year. For people who aren't sports fans, I'm sure it's not easy to comprehend my love for Duke Basketball, and how the team inspires me and fills my heart with joy. But they do. I love basketball and, in my opinion, there is no team that plays it better and the way the game is supposed to be played more than my Blue Devils. And it goes without saying that there is no coach who does it better than Coach K. And beyond that, the family that is Duke Basketball is a beautiful thing to see and -- since my diagnosis and friendship with Coach K -- a beautiful thing to be a part of. To love your team because they play great is one thing, but to love your team because they play great and, more importantly, are great people is quite another. So we made it to Atlantis on Wednesday. Since Monday, I had almost counted the seconds to when I'd be able to rest in my plush hotel bed and let the after-effects of chemo slowly ebb away. I paced myself, though, placing one foot in front of the other, getting through each task one by one until the bed was mine. I slept most of the day on Wednesday and woke up on Thursday still not at 100%. I was operating at about 80%, which was good enough for me. I hit the gym, then the pool, and made my way to the ballroom-turned-basketball arena for Duke's first game. We won that game (vs. Minnesota). And the next (vs. VCU). And the championship game (vs. Louisville) last night. And as we racked up wins and I racked up trips down the lazy river, I knew my body was fully bouncing back and that Round 39 of chemo was a distant memory. Instead, my memories consist of happily howling while I flew down steep water slides and happily howling while my Blue Devils soared to victory. In the world of WunderGlo, the Thanksgiving holiday doesn't get much better than that.

The Hardest Part

You all know how I live by now. Chemo every two weeks, during which I lay low from Monday to Wednesday and pop out of bed like a new woman by Thursday. After that, I feel as if I've never had even one round of chemo treatment. I go about my days just as any person without cancer would: at work and the gym, out with friends, driving in traffic, shopping at Whole Foods, going nuts while watching Duke Basketball games, etc. Except I don't go about my days just as any person without cancer would: I run The WunderGlo Foundation, email my oncologist about everything under the sun, and interact with other cancer warriors over email and Facebook (sometimes spending hours in a given week talking on the phone with newly diagnosed patients or their spouses/children). There's no getting cancer out of my life, and I wouldn't want to. I embrace the challenges of fighting the cancer within my own body, and I more than embrace my community of cancer warriors -- I love my community of cancer warriors. But with the bonds of friendship comes the vulnerability we all feel when we care about someone. We feel pain when we lose them, whether through strained relationships or time and distance. But nothing, nothing feels worse than when we actually lose them. When they die. I'm only 30 years old, but because of cancer, I have watched many of my friends die. And I have no illusions when it comes to the cold, hard truth that more of my friends will succumb to this disease. This is, by far, the hardest part of being a cancer warrior. The physical pain that I've endured is nothing. The fact that I can't have my own biological children is nothing. The fact that my own long-term survival is still something that nobody can ensure is nothing. These things are nothing compared to the sadness, frustration, and anger I feel when I lose a friend to cancer. But that's not all I feel. I feel compelled to make things different. I feel like its my duty, as a patient who is thriving while in treatment, to help anyone who needs it. To offer an encouraging word, to share my thoughts on treatment or diet or fitness. To try to empower fellow patients to take control of their treatment paths and feel as confident and strong as I do. And finally, to dedicate myself to being a part of the force that finds the cure. The CURE. For everyone. I am actively working on that last part, but I'm not quite ready to share all the details with you, my dear readers. But I will share the details with you. And soon. Cancer, I hope you can hear me coming for you. Because I am coming for you. And I'm not going to stop. Rest in Peace to my friends. My fellow cancer warriors. I will never forget you.

Chemo Round 38

Chemo Round 38. What can I say? After a rocky Round 37, I'm happy to report that all is well and I'm back to bouncing back quickly. I definitely didn't take this round lightly. I made sure I drank a bunch of herbal iced tea (my new favorite chemo week drink) and took lots of time on Tuesday and Wednesday for rest and long naps. My GI system functioned perfectly, my appetite held up pretty well, and I even walked to my polling place to cast my vote like a good American. By Thursday morning, I was off to the races again and that draggy, gross, hangover-like chemo side effects feeling was a distant memory. And by Thursday night, I had gotten my first tattoo. Yup, you read that right. I'd been contemplating a tattoo for several months. Before my diagnosis, I never would have considered it. But throughout my cancer-killing adventures, as I've acquired scar after scar, I started to think about my body differently. I don't know when the transformation happened (probably when I lost my belly button), but my body became a symbol of what I'd endured. Each scar is a badge of courage, but it also tells a different story: a story of physical pain, of uncertainty, of worry from my friends and family (you know me -- I've never been worried), and of the ravages of cancer. I'm not gonna lie (and you know this is true because you've seen it yourself): I've got some serious battle scars. So I decided it was time to flip the script and get something scar-like (in its permanence on my body) that stands for nothing but good things: for strength, courage, triumph, and a big fat middle finger to The Big C. Wunder. The word means "miracle" in German, it's half of my name (WunderGlo), and it perfectly crystalizes how I feel about my life. To be where I am, to feel as good as I do, and to have the upper hand on this disease over two years after a devastating diagnosis and truly grim prognosis is nothing short of a miracle. I know that I've been blessed, in health and in the love of family and friends and colleagues and all of you, dear readers. I know that I've experienced incredible things and that even more breathtaking moments of beauty and excitement lay before me. I know that I'm living a life marked by triumph, not defeat. All of this is a miracle. So that's what I got tattooed on my body, on my upper left ribcage, under my chest tube scar and above my JP drain scar. Wunder. Miracle. And in the font that Duke uses in much of their materials, of course. You know I have to represent my alma mater, too!! I followed up my tattoo Thursday with a great Friday and an even better Saturday: spending the day at the USC football game with Dr. Lenz and some of my favorite Keck buddies (and my best friend Nick) and spending the night at the Hollywood Bowl with one of my favorite bands, Mumford & Sons (and Will, my best friend Erin, and her boyfriend Sean). Chemo Round 38 was good to me. I weathered the storm like a champ, came out tougher than ever, and gained a visible, permanent reminder about what a stone cold cancer-killer I really am. Cancer, as you might have guessed, is less than enthused. And that's the way we like it.

On Loose Stool and Gratitude

The weirdest thing about dealing with that 1-2 punch of a stomach virus and chemo was that my body was clearly not well. I needed fluids at Norris, I was vomiting and having diarrhea, and I was fatigued. Not well. Like, sick. I clearly remember being sort of dumbfounded by the whole thing even as I was going through it, wishing and waiting patiently for the day that the virus would let up (it lasted longer than the chemo side effects) and I'd get my strength back up to be my normal self again. I recall thinking of how wonderful it is that I'm able to drive to work and hit the gym every day (besides the few days I'm actually infusing), and that I fill my days with a ton of action and fun. I longed for the good old days of being the active, strong, and healthy person that I have known myself to be ever since that first surgery in September of 2010. This last little episode was the first time since my diagnosis that I was actually sick. I know that seems strange to say. I have cancer, after all, right? I had the gigantic Sugarbaker surgery, right? Wasn't I sick then, too? And how about this last surgery? And all the other 36 rounds of chemo preceding this one? Honestly, I never actually felt sick during those times. Sure, after the Sugarbaker surgery I was in pain -- mainly from my back and ribs that were pushed and prodded every which way during those 11 hours. And yeah, sometimes I feel a little draggy and gross after chemo. And of course, dealing with a huge incision scar after my last two surgeries wasn't 100% pleasant. But I always felt like I was in control of myself and that brighter days were certainly ahead. This time around, I couldn't really see the light at the end of the tunnel. I knew it would be there and that this virus would pass, but being back in the world of diarrhea and vomit reminded me too much of the days right before my first surgery. When I was the really ill WunderGlo who didn't even knew how sick she was (or what or who WunderGlo was). It was strange for me to experience my body doing the exact things I didn't want it to do. This realization about how I couldn't always put mind over matter was unnerving at the time, but now it's an important reminder to me about how fragile the human body is...how fragile my human body is. Here I was, running around town thinking I was the toughest, most disease-proof kid on earth (with the exception of cancer, of course), and boom: I got picked off by a stupid stomach virus. More than anything, the experience taught me that nothing -- not one moment of good health -- should be taken for granted. I can expect myself to be well, of course, and do everything in my power to make myself as strong and resilient as possible, but I should always be mindful of the extremely good fortune that is my overall health even in the midst of battling this disease. And I am. Over the last week and a half, I've been back on track and up to my old ways: drinking green juice, hitting the gym, working hard at O'Melveny and for The WunderGlo Foundation, and generally loving life. Along with some of my best buddies, I threw a massive Halloween party that we actually had to break up ourselves at 2:30 in the morning. I'm feeling better than ever. Truly, I am. The only difference is this: as I drive to work each day, belting out the lyrics to my favorite rap songs, I take a moment and give extra thanks for my life. As I do another hamstring curl or shoot another 3-pointer at the gym, I recognize what a blessing that moment and my ability to be a part of it really is. When I wake up each morning and pop out of bed like I'd been sleeping for days, I recognize that boundless energy and marvel at my good fortune. I know that my energy, strength, and overall health is a precious gift. A miracle. And now I'm even more aware of that fact and even more thankful for it. Who would have thought that a stomach virus could serve as a powerful reminder about gratitude? It just goes to show: not all puke is created equal.