Chemo Round 19

Chemo Round 19. Allow me to take a moment and reflect. Wow.  I've powered through 19 rounds of chemo over the last 13 months. 19 rounds of chemo before turning 30. I certainly never could have predicted the way my life has changed, but I'm so grateful for my life and even more proud of this tough, resilient body of mine.

Chemo this time around was the best round ever. My time at Norris was fun, as usual -- how could hanging out with Dr. Lenz and killing cancer not be fun?! I even managed to do some work while infusing, which must earn me extra multitasking and attorney points (seriously, who works on a brief while receiving chemotherapy drugs?). On Monday night my belly got that über-mediciney acidy feeling which contributed to a sick headache that wasn't fun but was manageable. When I woke up on Tuesday, all of that was gone. And neither it, nor any other GI problems or headache issues, came back.

Tuesday got even better. In the morning, I emailed Taline (Dr. Lenz's nurse practitioner and my buddy), asking about my CEA tumor marker (my new Tuesday tradition). In about an hour or so, I had my answer. My CEA is still dropping steadily, now at a 9.1. 9.1!! This is the first time my CEA has been in the single digits since May, my friends. Certainly worth celebrating, but when you're celebrating all the time, it's a little difficult to distinguish when you're celebrating something or when you're just living. Not a bad problem to have, right?

Wednesday was actually much better than all the other Chemo Wednesdays. I was tired, yes, but I didn't need to nap at all and I was pretty active on email. I ate fine, felt fine, and pooped fine, too. Could you really ask for anything more?

Thursday was even better than Wednesday, and today -- Friday -- I just completed a (really) full day of work, working out, and planning for tomorrow's poker tournament.

Despite what people may think when they learn about my diagnosis, I have absolutely no complaints about my life. Going through treatment for cancer is worse than not going through treatment for cancer (at the very least, it's inconvenient), but I have to say, it's not that bad as far as I'm concerned. It's a challenge on every level, but getting through the challenge with optimism and strength feels better than not being challenged at all. I wonder if that makes any sense to people who aren't going through treatment -- or to people who are. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like fighting cancer because it infuses my life with a higher purpose, a renewed sense of gratitude, and an awesome feeling of accomplishment after every round of chemo, after every scan result, after every CEA reading.

Life would be easier and less complicated without treatment, but it wouldn't -- it couldn't -- be any better.

It seems that 19 rounds of chemo has turned me into a bit of a philosopher. I don't think that's what they mean by "chemo brain," but I won't be complaining about this side effect. :)

So Incredibly Thankful

It's hard to ignore my surroundings and the last couple of incredible days I've had leading up to this Thanksgiving holiday. I'm in my hotel room with Will and my mom in stunningly beautiful Maui, overlooking our resort's gorgeous pool and the Pacific Ocean. The sun is shining, the waves are crashing, and my Duke Blue Devils are basking in the glory of a Maui Invitational Title. 

Over the last three days, I've watched some incredible Duke basketball, culminating in last night's thrilling victory over Kansas for the Championship. Duke has never lost in the Maui Invitational -- our record is 15-0 and this was our fifth title -- but securing that win last night was not easy. The only guarantee of victory came with 20 seconds left in the game, when one of my favorite guys, Tyler Thornton, hit an improbable three right at the end of our shot clock. The scene was unbelievable: a high school-sized gym erupting with a massive roar of cheering and applause, the entire Duke bench jumping up and down, and yours truly soaking all of it in with arms outstretched, hands clenched in fists, head raised in triumph to the heavens where the basketball gods live, and a big smile. There are few other things as satisfying as Duke basketball glory, and I know that my fellow Cameron Crazies would wholeheartedly agree with me.

It wasn't just the basketball that made these days spectacular. We've had fun by the pool, on the water slide, at the tennis court, on the golf course, and in the gym. It's Maui -- it's pretty hard not to have an incredible time.

It's easy to be thankful for days like these. It's easy to be thankful for friends and family like mine. It's easy to be thankful for the happiness that infuses my days. Really, really easy.

But I'm also thankful for the tougher stuff.

The two weeks I spent in Washington Hospital Center were the toughest of my life, but I am more thankful for those two weeks than any others of my life. The love and support I felt from my family and friends was so incredibly palpable. The way that my mom, dad, and Will took care of me -- staying up all night with me, helping me out of my hospital bed, walking along those hospital halls with me, massaging my arms and hands and feet and head, giving me kisses and hugs -- is unforgettable to me, and some of the most precious moments I've ever had with them. I'm almost disappointed that we don't get to do it again this year, but not that disappointed. ;)

I'm also thankful for my chemo days, when Dr. Lenz and  I charge, guns blazing, into this fight with cancer. Again, my crew makes its presence felt in a big way -- I get emails all day long from friends and family wishing me well and pumping me up even more for treatment. In the days that follow, as I recover and recharge, it's my "three nurses" to the rescue again --  making or retrieving any meal I ask for no matter how inconvenient the request may be, watching whatever scary movie or Unsolved Mysteries episode I want to see (even if I've watched it a million times), and lovingly ensuring that I'm as comfortable as humanly possible. 

I'm thankful for my busy schedule, which is a challenge for even this multi-tasker. Balancing my work at O'Melveny with The WunderGlo Foundation requires a lot of gear-shifting, but the team I have at the firm and at the Foundation give me all the support I need to do my jobs well. I am so grateful for my O'Melveny family and for everything the firm has done for me. I am also so grateful to my fellow Directors of The WunderGlo Foundation (Aymee and Timmy) for making sure that our organization is off to a truly impressive start...and for keeping me sane throughout all of it.

It's true that most people haven't had to face down as many challenges as I have. Some people feel sorry for what I've had to go through in these cancer-killing adventures, and what I'm still going through even while I forge ahead with my legal and non-profit careers. But nobody should. I doubt that many people are lucky enough to feel an outpouring of love, support, and friendship as completely and beautifully as I have. I savor each morsel of my life and I live each moment -- even the challenging ones -- deeply steeped in gratitude. I could not be more grateful for every single thing in my life...including my cancer diagnosis, and all the ways my cancer-killing adventures have enhanced my existence and made me a better person.

It's time for this cancer warrior to hit the gym and embrace one last day in Maui. To you, dear readers, I wish you a wonderful, beautiful, super-HD Thanksgiving holiday.

A Sugar(Baker)-Sweet Update

In my last post, I hinted at a health-related update, and here it is.

Last week, as promised, Dr. Sugarbaker read my PET/CT report and looked at my scan. I expected his wife and office manager, Ilse, to call me a day or so later with his reaction. I expected her to tell me that Dr. Sugarbaker thought the scans were good and that he would agree to operate on me in January. This had been the tentative plan for a while, and I was fully ready to move forward with it. To be honest with you, I was actually looking forward to it. A month or so on the East Coast, a good opportunity to detail each aspect of my surgery and recovery for other cancer warriors, and another chance to dance down the halls of Washington Hospital Center.

But it was not to be.

Dr. Sugarbaker emailed me his thoughts. He started by noting that I had a "small defect" that looked cancerous within my incision scar tissue. He said that this was common for folks in my boat -- people who have had surgery for colon cancer with peritoneal mets. He said that it's pretty clear that the tumor cells are shrinking and that I should find a local surgeon to remove the stuff in the scar tissue. He concluded by saying he wouldn't recommend a second look surgery with him since there is no evidence of disease in my abdominal cavity.

Translation.

I don't need another gigantic surgery with Sugarbaker because I don't have peritoneal disease. YES.

Instead, I have some weirdo straggler cells trapped in my incision scar tissue. UM, I CAN HANDLE THAT.

So I need a far easier, less invasive surgery to reach cancer-free status. AGAIN, YES.

Dr. Lenz and I haven't quite figured out all the details of our new plan, but it'll entail finding a surgeon here in California -- probably at Norris -- to do the procedure. I think surgery will still be in January, but I'll be back on my feet so quickly that we'll all forget that I even had surgery. If surgery is in January, then that means I'll have 6 more rounds of FOLFIRI and Avastin and I'll be home free. Actually home free. As in, see you never again, cancer. This is pretty outstanding news, ladies and gents.

Back when I had my first "pick it out/pour it in" surgery with Dr. Sugarbaker, he was almost positive that I'd need another big surgery with him about a year later. My pathology wasn't perfectly clear, which meant that there were still some invisible cancer cells in my gut that could have grown into full-blown, disruptive, visible peritoneal disease. Thus, we would need to go through the same massive incision wound, multiple hour long surgery, heated chemo song and dance sooner than later. But, against the odds, those cells didn't grow into peritoneal disease. As Dr. Sugarbaker said, there is NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE in my abdominal cavity. Do you know how sweet those words are? No. Evidence. Of. Disease. I've got a stupid tumor in my incision scar tissue and that's friggin' IT.

The man who knows peritoneal disease better than any living person in the world has said I don't need another big surgery with him, and that there's no disease in my gut. The verdict is in:

• Dr. Sugarbaker rocked the surgery.
• Dr. Lenz rocked the chemo.
• I rocked the vegan diet, the exercise, the acupuncture, the meditation, the sleep, and the stress levels.

And we all are rocking the hell out of cancer.

Chemo Round 18: A Retrospective

I headed over to USC Norris Cancer Center on Monday morning for my bi-weekly ritual, which consists of the following:

1) Show up to Norris a little late.

2) Get multiple vials of blood drawn at blood draw (where else?).

3) Take a picture of myself to document this round of chemo.

4) Wait to be called in to the exam room.

5) Get weighed, have blood pressure taken, have temperature taken.

6) Hang out with Taline, Dr. Lenz's nurse practitioner. Get and give a hug.

7) Hang out with Dr. Lenz. Get and give a hug. Make Dr. Lenz laugh and/or scream with a story or joke.

8) Head over to the Meditation Room at Norris. Play on iPhone (yeah, I don't actually meditate in there. I should!). Wait for nurse to call my name.

9) Get my name called. Meet my nurse. Walk over to my bed (I roll VIP with a bed instead of a chair most of the time). Climb in.

10) Start the cancer-killing party.

Chemo Round 18 went pretty well this time around. Infusion day at Norris was a breeze, day 2 was fine, and day 3 -- as usual -- had me chilling in bed for most of the day. FOLFIRI has definitely brought the need for naptime on chemo week Wednesdays, but I embrace the extra rest. I'm generally taking great care of myself these days, but to be forced to do nothing but eat, nap, rest, watch TV, and breathe is something that only chemo could force me to do. My former self would've been driven crazy by the prospect, but the older (almost 30!) and wiser version of myself pretty much loves it. And I think my body is happy with it, too, since I usually bounce back quickly on Thursday and Friday.

This week was no different. I felt much better on Thursday, even managing to drop some sick beats at DJ Scratch Academy, my DJ school, in the evening. And today I'm back at the office, good as new. Actually, better than new. Stronger, tougher, and with less cancer in my body. 

As usual, off chemo weeks are off to the races for me. Last weekend, I was in Vegas, and tomorrow, I leave for Maui. Why Maui, you ask? Well, because my beloved Duke Blue Devils will be there for the Maui Invitational. And where Coach K and Duke basketball goes, WunderGlo follows.

Stay tuned for some rather big, exciting news on the Wundy health front. I won't spoil the surprise now, but I advise you all to get excited. Life is good for your resident cancer warrior.

Oh yeah, and I made my first video for The WunderGlo Foundation. It's an instructional video of sorts, called "The Chemo Experience: Accessing The Port." The main goal of this video and the subsequent videos that I'll be making is to make this whole treatment thing a lot less scary by showing people exactly what it entails. Check it out!

Love Generation

It's been a while, but it's time to add a song to my cancer-killing playlist. I've loved this song for a long time -- its energy and super-positive message is infectious -- but the other day, as I was singing it at the top of my lungs while driving with Will and Tim, I realized how important it is in my cancer-killing adventures.

The lyrics that stuck with me -- and made Bob Sinclar's "Love Generation" a cancer-killing playlist song -- are simple. But when they are said over and over again, and to the beat of the song, they are quite powerful.

Don't worry about a thing

It's gonna be alright

Don't worry about a thing

It's gonna be alright

Don't worry about a thing

It's gonna be alright

Gonna be, gonna, gonna, gonna be alright

Take it from me: a cancer warrior faces his or her fair share of anxiety. The cancer warrior knows full well that the questions I'm about to list has certainly popped into his or her head, some questions recurring more than others.

Is treatment going to work?

Is chemo going to make me sick?

Am I going to be in pain?

Am I going to die from this?

Cancer is not just a disease that impacts us physically. Cancer can be a powerfully debilitating thing from an emotional, psychological standpoint. The fear, the dread, the anxiety can set us back in the fight against the disease before we even begin. There are many questions but no real answers when we receive a cancer diagnosis. We trust our doctors, but we know that they can't guarantee anything. We believe in our treatment and we hope it will work, but we don't know for sure. We trust that we'll survive, but we won't know if it's true until much later.

More than anything, we want to know that yes, everything is going to be alright.

In my personal battle with cancer, the thing I'm most proud of is not the way I've changed my life with a fierce dedication to diet, fitness, acupuncture, meditation, and sleep. It's not how I've physically survived when the cancer in my belly was hell-bent on ensuring my certain death. It's not even how I danced in the halls of Washington Hospital Center just a week or so after being sliced open for an 11 hour surgery.

It's how I've won the battle over anxiety and fear. Without stretching the truth at all, I can honestly say that I never think of those questions I listed above anymore. It's not like I ever used to spend much time worrying, but I will admit that every now and then -- especially when I was first diagnosed -- one of those questions would find its way into my head for a minute or two. I'd quickly send the thought packing, but still. I would think the thought.

But now, never. I know treatment is going to work, I know chemo is not going to make me sick, I know that I'm not going to be in pain, and I know -- with every fiber in my being -- that I am not going to die from this. How did I achieve this mindset? I don't know. A mixture of optimism, belief in myself, and -- to be quite honest -- experience. I've sailed through 17 rounds of chemo and two surgeries, and I'm a better, stronger, healthier, and happier person because of it. That kind of experience, when added to my naturally positive attitude, can only lead to the genuine and unwavering confidence that I'm now enjoying. Stage IV colon cancer isn't going to stop or take my life. Instead, it made my life better. Much better.

Like the song says, I don't worry about a thing because it's gonna be alright. And that noticeable lack of anxiety has made this journey all the more fulfilling.