Chemo Round 37

Chemo Round 37 was not like the others, and not in a good way. 

Let me start over. I can’t blame chemo for all of it. Really, I can’t blame treatment for most of what I’ve been through over the past ten days.

It started on the Saturday before last. I woke up feeling fine, humming away on the computer and on a project that Dr. Lenz and I have been working feverishly on (unveiling of that project coming soon). At around noon, I hopped in my car and headed to the gym…and that’s when I felt it. A wave of exhaustion.

For someone who never gets tired, this was strange. I totally could have pulled over to the side of the road, reclined my seat, and taken a nap right then and there on the 101 Freeway. I kept driving to the gym, figuring that it would pass as I worked out. But it didn’t. Even on the basketball court, playing the game I love so much, I wanted to stop. So I did. I took a nap at the gym, drove home, and took a two hour nap at home. When I woke up, nausea hit me. I puked. Then had a bout of diarrhea. Then slept more. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I picked up a stomach bug and that the weekend was pretty much shot.

And it was. I spent the weekend in bed, barely eating, sleeping a lot, and dealing with diarrhea. By Monday morning, I felt about 50% better and figured I’d just push through with chemo.

Bad decision.

Chemo infusion went fine. The steroids they gave me had me feeling good, eating fine, and relaxing. By Monday night, though, the fuzziness and nausea was more than I could take. I puked again. It was gross, but I felt much better afterwards and slept soundly. But I knew that a trip to my parents’ house -- and some good, old-fashioned help from all three of my “three nurses” -- was in order.

By Tuesday afternoon, I was at my parents’ house. By Tuesday night, I had a sick headache and was back in the world of vomit and diarrhea. Wednesday was even worse, as I started to get dehydrated on top of everything. And by Thursday, I went into Norris to do blood work and get fluids. Everything looked great with my blood except my liver enzymes, which were sky high: a pretty solid indication that I indeed had a virus that was attacking my GI system. Fluids helped, as did the anti-nausea meds, but I was kneeling in front of the toilet by Friday afternoon.

While chemo side effects lifted by Friday, I still battled the virus and spent the weekend in bed, barred from exercise or travel – specifically, traveling to LIVESTRONG’s 15^th Anniversary Gala. To say that I was disappointed is an understatement. I was so upset I could barf – and I did again on Saturday. By Monday, I was back at Norris for blood work and fluids. This time, my liver enzymes looked much, much better and the fluids made me feel far closer to my old self. I spent the next couple of days in bed, eating more, pooping less, and keeping food down...slowly gaining strength and getting back to my old form.

And now, here we are: Wednesday night, and I feel totally recovered. I’m planning on taking it easy for the next couple of days, I’m planning on pushing chemo a week to give my body more time to recover, and I’m planning on never giving my body a 1-2 punch like that ever again.  To be clear, this sickness had nothing to do with my cancer (only in that chemo made it harder for me to fight the virus), so don’t go freaking out thinking that cancer got me down for a week and a half.

There is some good news amidst all of the vomit and loose stool: I lost about 8 pounds so I’m looking pretty smokin’ and my CEA is down. And Chemo Round 37 will go down in the books as an incredibly valuable one: a round that taught me a lot about my body, what I can handle, and what I can’t handle. WunderGlo, after all, is still just flesh and blood. 

Chemo Round 36 (and SHARKS!)

At this point, given my woeful absence from updating you here on the WunderGlo blog, you've probably guessed that I'm either 1) not feeling great and/or not doing well, or 2) feeling great and running all over the place.

 

If you guessed number 1, give yourself a little slap on the hand. You know that's not my way. Have I taught you nothing after all these years?! Jeez.

 

If you guessed number 2, which I trust most if not all of you have, then you'd be correct. After my East Coast trip, I flew up to Stanford to do some recruiting for O'Melveny, DJed one of my best friend's 30th birthday parties, and settled down just in time to give cancer another right hook with Chemo Round 36.

 

Chemo went extremely well, and side effects this week were largely nonexistent. The only thing I did to account for the FOLFIRI and Avastin coursing through my body was to take a series of naps on Wednesday. I knew I needed to rest up because, by Wednesday night, I was on a flight to San Francisco.

 

The next morning, I was up at 5am, but not for any reason a normal Stage IV colon cancer patient is up at 5am. I was awake, throwing layers over my swimsuit, and making sure my crew (Will and two of my best friends, Rhett and Nick) were moving as quickly as I was. This was Christmas Day for a shark lover, and I've been a shark lover for over two decades now. We were on our way to the Emeryville Marina and then aboard a vessel set for the Farallon Islands, home to the some of the most Great White Shark-infested waters in the world.

 

I've been talking about cage diving with Great White Sharks for years now, and a few months back, I pulled the trigger. Everytime I'd think about the trip over the last couple of months, I'd feel a mix of excitement and dread (with dread pretty much dominating given the fact that I fear Great Whites just as much as I love them) and I'd just think to myself, "It's in several months. Don't worry about it!" But now the day was upon me, and I felt no fear at all. Granted, I felt a butterfly or two in my belly when I first saw the cage and the shark-bitten seal decoys we'd be using for the day. But I was in the zone. Much like my mental preparation before surgery, I reminded myself that big and seemingly overwhelming experiences are just an amalgamation of smaller, ordinary tasks.

 

Take surgery, for instance. It serves me no good to think "Oh my God, I'm about to get drugs that completely knock me out and then my belly is about to get cut wide open and my surgeon is going to pull all of my organs out and cut out the diseased portions and then put all the organs back in and sew me up and give me pain meds and I'm going to wake up in the ICU and oh God what if it's painful and jeez I'm going to have this huge incision wound and...." You get the picture. It can be overwhelming if you think like that. So this is a snippet of my internal dialogue on the days I've had surgery:

 

"Okay, sign the release forms. Put out your wrist and get the hospital bracelet secured. Go pee. Put on the robe. Sit in the bed. Put out your arm so the nice nurse can start an IV. Hug your family members. Pose for pictures. Flex your guns one last time. Shake hands with your anesthesiologist. Lay down. Turn on your iPod. Wave as you get wheeled away. Take a deep breath. Listen to the music."

 

By the time I'm done with that, I'm out and on my way. This is the same approach I took with the sharks. I didn't think about the fact that I don't swim in the ocean, let alone get in a cage submerged in the middle of the Pacific and surrounded by 16 foot Great White Sharks. I put on my scuba gear, walked to the edge of the boat, let the guides put weights on my ankles and around my chest, got my mask adjusted, put the breathing apparatus in my mouth, took some practice breaths, and slid into the cage. Easy.

 

The water was cold, the visibilty wasn't good, but it was a sensory overload unlike anything I've ever experienced. While we didn't see any sharks from the cage (we did see two magnificent shark attacks from the bow of the boat), it was a surreal and incredible experience to be in the water, in a cage, in shark infested waters. I started off breathing a bit erratically, mainly because of the shock of the cold water and I'd never breathed on a regulator before, but I calmed down in about a minute. My eyes played many tricks on me, thinking that I saw outlines of huge sharks, and hey -- it could have been true -- but the best part of the excursion was that I did it. I'd always dreamed of it but secretly thought I'd never have the guts to do it. I was too paralyzed by fear to really entertain the possibility of achieving this lifelong goal. Now, I'm fully geared up for another shark excursion and I'm actively planning a trip to South Africa next year to meet some new Great Whites.

 

Now that I'm a cancer warrior (and have been for the past 2+ years), fear doesn't really figure into my life anymore. I'm not afraid of cancer, of chemo or surgery, of pain...even of death (although I'm not dying anytime soon so relax). I'm just not afraid of these things. And it turns out that I'm not afraid of sharks anymore either.

My Anniversary Week

My cancer anniversary was smack dab in the middle of the week following Chemo Round 35. Because my anniversary was so important to me, such a symbol of how far I've come and how much I've endured to survive, I knew I was going to make that week extra special. It was all that and more. I spent my anniversary in Washington D.C., a fitting location since Dr. Sugarbaker's "pick it out, pour it in" surgery -- which took place in D.C.'s Washington Hospital Center -- played a major role in my survival. But I wasn't there for surgery. I was there for scans...but not my own. I was invited to DC by my friend Erika, the founder of a non-profit organization/online community known as ColonTown, to partake in a little bit of advocacy work relating to medical imaging (like CT and PET scans). ColonTown partnered up with the Access to Medical Imaging Coalition to present an opportunity for cancer warriors like me to come to D.C., get briefed on issues relating to medical imaging, and advocate on Capitol Hill about the importance of scans and why funding for them (through reimbursements within the Medicare program) shouldn't be cut. The program lasted for two days -- one day of training and one day of advocacy -- and I'd have to say that my favorite part of the whole experience was meeting my fellow warriors, people who have fought the beast known as cancer and have dedicated themselves to helping others in big and small ways. Telling my cancer story to Senator Boxer and Feinstein's staff and enjoying the gorgeous sights and sounds of DC were amazing, but nothing could compare to connecting with courageous and inspiring cancer warriors. I can now call these dozens of wonderful people friends, and I'm incredibly grateful for that. The party didn't stop after the advocacy work ended, though. In some ways, it was just beginning. The WunderGlo Foundation hosted an event on Friday night at O'Melveny's beautiful DC office. The event was a success, with friends from college, law school, O'Melveny, and ColonTown in attendance. The most special part of the evening for me was our location within O'Melveny's office -- in a room named after O'Melveny partner Gary Tell, a fellow cancer warrior that I had become friends with shortly after both of us were diagnosed (he had esophageal cancer). He was a true inspiration to me, a person who fought the disease with an upbeat attitude and who embraced healthy living as a part of his cancer-killing regime. Heartbreakingly, Gary passed away last November after suffering a recurrence. Of course, I was crushed. I think of him all the time, a brother in O'Melveny and in cancer. So when I walked up to the room where my event would be taking place and saw his face on a plaque at its entrance, I knew it would be a special night. And it was. Following the DC event, my traveling WunderGlo Foundation crew (my mom, Will, and my friend/partner in crime Tracy) loaded our stuff in our rental car and hightailed it to New York City. After all, The WunderGlo Foundation had another event in New York on Saturday night. We hit the road around midnight (so, technically, on the day of the event) and knew we were in for a long night, but good conversation and even better music powered our ride and we rolled into my mother-in-law's home by 3:30am. We crashed and slept in, then feasted on a bountiful brunch. My mom and I got a quick workout in, and then we were off to NYC without a minute to spare. The second WunderGlo Foundation event in as many nights went incredibly well. The event took place at O'Melveny's jaw-droppingly beautiful office in Times Square, and the party was great from the outset. My buddy from Duke, C.K. Swett, was the master of ceremonies and also happens to be an incredible auctioneer, a superstar at some of the fanciest auction houses in New York City. He led our live auction and killed it, helping us raise a bunch of money for colon cancer research and advocacy. Friends from all over were in attendance, but none as big as my Duke contingency (Go Blue Devils!). In two days, The WunderGlo Foundation raised over $6,000. Not bad, right? It was humbling to see so many people believe in what I'm doing with The Foundation. Humbling and motivating. After the event, my traveling WunderGlo Foundation crew and I went to see/experience "Sleep No More," the most unique and interactive work of theater that I've ever seen. Yes, after the event. We got to bed around 3am. For those of you who worry about me, rest assured that I got my eight hours of sleep. After a lovely brunch and stroll around the city with my sister-in-law Marie and my good friend (and fellow Blue Devil) Eric, we were on our way to JFK. We made our flight with about 5 minutes to spare. As I settled in my window seat, I exhaled a sigh...not of relief, but of satisfaction. Yes, this was exactly how I wanted to spend my anniversary week. My week was action-packed, fun-filled, and full of love, friendship, and hard work. It was the definition of living out loud and loving life. And above all, it was confirmation of something that I know just as well as I know anything in this world: cancer's got nothing on me.

Chemo Round 35

While I was waltzing down memory lane with my "Two Years Ago Today" series, life -- and chemo -- continued on in real time. It's time to catch you up on all of it. I'm pretty sure that this round of chemo and the week that followed was one of the wildest, busiest, and most fun ever. I kicked off the day just as I have over the last several rounds -- with a solid workout at the gym. I hit the showers, got myself all ready to rock, and donned a brand new (but already my favorite) t-shirt: a shirt signed by one of my favorite singers of all time, k.d. lang. My friend Maggie hooked up the shirt signage and I was -- and am -- super psyched for the surprise gift. The message on the shirt reads: "hey gloria, kick that c's ass! love, k.d. lang." Awesome. The actual chemo infusion was pretty low-key: hugs and laughs with Lenz, hanging out with some of my favorite nurses, and gobbling up my FOLFIRI + Avastin like a good little warrior. But life started moving fast after I left Norris. I got home and started packing, knowing that I was heading to Santa Barbara on Tuesday. This wasn't a last minute decision, although the trip had crept up on me. Months ago, my cousin (Angelica) and I agreed to go see Fiona Apple together when she came through town and, back then, I thought I'd be on my way to the East Coast when she was in L.A. Undaunted by my travel plans, we opted for the concert at the Santa Barbara Bowl, a gorgeous venue and only an hour and a half from home. I didn't realize that it would be a chemo week when I bought the tickets, but I figured I'd roll the dice and just go no matter what. So that's what I did. We took off on Tuesday night, rolling into town and our modest hotel room around midnight-ish. Ever vigilant about my rest (I know it's hard to believe with my schedule but I do get 7 to 8 hours of sleep every night), I slept on the drive up and fell asleep as soon as we got in our room. I woke up the next morning, knowing that Chemo Wednesdays could be rough and also knowing that I had a conference call at noon. Fortunately, though, as has been the case over the last several rounds, I felt pretty damn good. Maybe a little dehydrated but that was about it, and that was quickly remedied with some water, herbal tea, and coconut water. After my call, we headed over to the Sojourner Cafe for a delicious vegan lunch and, after that, I took a little afternoon nap. By the time night fell, I was under the stars and feeling incredible as I sang along with my girl Fiona. She put on a great show, so earnestly singing her heart out that it was impossible not to feel moved by the sheer emotion and beauty of it all. You know I tear up at concerts, and this one was no different. Sigh. Fiona Apple. So good. Thursday morning came quickly, and we were on the road quickly, too. I had a party to DJ, after all. O'Melveny recently launched a competition (although they try to assure me that it isn't a competition, I can read between the lines) to see what floor can throw the best party. Obviously, I was going to make sure that my floor -- the 13th floor -- makes the strongest showing of them all. We had been planning our "Can You Dig It? 70s Dance Party" for weeks, and I hightailed it home to make sure everything went as planned. It did. It was an epic party. As an aside, it was at this point, while DJing a party decked out in an afro wig, a giant brown fur coat, and huge sunglasses that I realized that all the elements of my life, taken together, are unique, hilarious, and slightly hard to believe. But this is the life I've created for myself, it's all real, and I love it. On Friday, I was back in the office dressed normally. And by Saturday, I was on a yacht in Newport Beach, celebrating The WunderGlo Foundation's 1 year anniversary (and celebrating my own 2 year cancer anniversary). Living large on a boat never felt so good. In sum, it was a busy, fun, and fantastic week. I hardly felt the effects of chemo this time around, and I bounced back to "normal" by Wednesday night -- a new record for me. I think it's safe to say that chemo no longer slows me down, a revelation that pleases me to no end. I am deeply grateful, humbled by my body's resilience, and ever-determined to continue living my life to the fullest and helping as many people as possible while doing it. And if you think my Round 35 chemo week sounds action-packed, just wait until you hear about what I was up to last week.

Two Years Ago Today (September 19, 2010)

Two years ago today, I hugged and kissed my family as I was wheeled into the operating room. I said a temporary goodbye to the people who had supported and cared for me throughout my entire life, people who were undoubtedly terrified at the prospect that their “little GB” was about to have her young body cut open and parts of it cut out because of cancer. Two years ago today, I focused on encouraging them in my remaining moments before surgery, high fiving them and making jokes and reminding them that everything would be okay. I felt only love as I turned the hallway out of their sight. It pulsed through my veins like the beat of my own heart. Love from my family and friends. Love from my colleagues. Love from Dr. Ramos. Love. No fear. Only love. Two years ago today, Dr. Ramos cut into my body just below my belly button, exposing a massive tumor living and thriving in my colon, big enough to cause a complete intestinal blockage. Dr. Ramos also saw a smaller tumor in my small intestine. He removed both. He also saw more cancer. Almost everywhere. That he couldn’t remove. I don’t know what was said in that operating room, but I know that it couldn’t have been good. I know that everyone who saw my insides were shocked. Perhaps resigned. Maybe even scared. Certainly feeling sorry for me. I was still under when Dr. Ramos approached my family with tears in his eyes, telling the sad tale of my initial prognosis. There would be no future for me. I would live a year, maybe two. Two probably seemed like the longest I’d live. I’d never work at O’Melveny again. I’d never play basketball or lift weights again. The vibrant life that I’d created for myself, filled with happiness and opportunity and success and friendship, would be ending far sooner than anyone had imagined. My mom remembered what I’d said the night before, and while everyone else was rightly shocked and devastated to the core, she soldiered on. She called my cousins, a nurse and a doctor living in Maryland, and explained my diagnosis: Stage IV colon cancer with mets to the peritoneum, or abdominal cavity lining. Peritoneal disease. She implored them to call who they could to figure out a plan. She knew that there must be a plan. She wouldn’t accept anything else because she knew that I wouldn’t accept anything less. She was my hero once again, after being my hero on every single day since the moment I was born. She never hesitated to be my hero and always was. There was my mom, the one who loved me – her only child – more than anything in the world, refusing to surrender. She heard what I’d said the night before, and she believed me. She believed in me. My mom didn’t give up. Not even for a second. When I was back in my hospital room, she was the one to deliver the news to me. She told me that it was Stage IV colon cancer, and calmly added the necessary, cold truth about my prognosis: “They say the cancer is very aggressive.” I smiled, just as I had when I learned that I had The Big C two days earlier. “Well, I’m an aggressive girl. What’s the game plan?” Two years ago today, I learned the truth. I was in the jaws of death, a deeply ill person, but I didn’t pay that any mind. The surgery had revitalized me, clearing my bowels of its vicious visitor and stopping all the vomit and the cramping and the bloating and the pain. By nightfall, I’d stop taking my pain medication because I knew that the quicker I stopped the pain meds, the quicker my bowels would wake up, and the quicker I could get out of the hospital and back into fighting shape. I pictured Rocky Balboa and knew that I’d have to work to become the champ. And I was deeply excited and more than ready to get to work. Two years ago today, I had no time to waste because I had no time guaranteed. But even on that day, a day when I could’ve cried or screamed or asked “Why me?”, I did none of those things. I laughed, I smiled, I plotted and planned, and I kissed and hugged. I was filled with hope, with strength, with courage, and with love. Above all, with love. Love for my family and friends, love for the life that I had built for myself, and love for the life that I had yet to live. It was that love that made my heart feel ten times bigger than ever before, strong enough to conquer anything and happy enough to have a ball while doing it. And it was love, I knew, that would carry me through each and every second of my cancer-killing adventures. It was love that would see me through and help me beat the odds. It was love that would transform a potentially devastating life experience into something entirely different: an experience filled with joy and gratitude and grit and glory. It was love that would keep me calm, collected, and focused on destroying cancer utterly. It was love that would carry me over every peak and valley, over every round of chemo and every surgery and everything else. It was love that would propel me jubilantly into my two-year cancer anniversary, a day I was not expected to live to see but a day that I knew I would see. Love. No fear. Never fear. Only love. Happy 2 year Anniversary to me. And thank all of you for the support, the friendship, the laughter, the loyalty, the generosity…and the love.