Back In the Mix and Loving It

Much of Labor Day weekend was spent in the office. I was there until 10pm on Friday night (don't worry, Will kept me company), almost all day on Saturday, and spent a good part of the morning and early afternoon there on Sunday and Monday. Needless to say, the case I'm on is really, really busy at the moment, but I'm loving it. After all, this is what I've wanted to do my entire life, and this is what was cruelly ripped away from me about a year ago when "the cancer" tried to railroad my life by...you know...ending it. I'm working hard, learning new things every day, and enjoying every moment of it.

One of the best parts of being back at O'Melveny -- especially when things are really busy -- is that I forget all about this cancer business for a while.

It's not like I'm constantly thinking about cancer. I'm certainly not anxious or freaking out about the cancer that may or may not be living in my body. But the thought of "cancer" is floating around in my mind during the majority of most days. I usually think about it conceptually, rather than as a part of my personal situation -- as part of the work I'm doing with The WunderGlo Foundation or when I'm emailing with a patient. Sometimes I think about it as it pertains to my own body -- like when I'm having blood work done or taking my daily vitamins. But no matter the context, it's always there. Thoughts about cancer in one form or another are always there.

But when work gets cranking -- when I'm focused on a big project or meeting with a client or in the middle of a legal proceeding -- something magical happens. I get so engrossed in what I'm doing -- the facts and the law, advocating on behalf of my client, the intellectual challenge of it all -- that I TOTALLY forget about cancer. I forget how it is and will always be a part of my life. I forget about the things it took from me. I forget about all the things it taught me. In those moments, I am just a normal lawyer, wearing a suit, doing the things lawyers do. And while I don't want to escape the life, challenges, and responsibilities that cancer has had a part in shaping -- in fact, I embrace and cherish that life -- I still love those moments of pure, unadulterated, utterly conventional normalcy. A total victory over this idiotic disease.

I'll be finding out my scan results very, very soon. But there's no time to fret about that. I've got work to do! 

The Waiting Game

As I mentioned a while back, I planned to do follow-up scans this week to figure out if my elevated CEA was due to a recurrence of "the cancer." Despite my ridiculously busy (in a good way) schedule, I managed to make some quality time with the PET/CT machine and had my scans on Friday morning.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I wait.

Waiting for scan results is possibly the most difficult part of being a cancer warrior. Yes, chemo is tough, and getting sliced open in the OR is no walk in the park, but at least the truth is out there and we warriors are looking our nemesis straight in the eye. There is a definitive nature about battling cancer. There is nothing but speculation while you wait for scan results.

When you don't know whether "the cancer" has taken up residence in your bag o' bones, the challenge is unique. It's not a physical challenge (that would be no problem for me, to be quite honest) but a mental one. You try not to speculate about how your body feels ("Is this really what having a little cancer in my gut feels like?") yet you can't help but become uber-sensitive about everything you're body is doing ("Was that gas I just passed a bad sign or a good sign?"). You try not to think about your upcoming appointment where you'll learn your scan results but those thoughts pop in your head anyway. It's a challenge to live in the moment when you're worried about the future.

I've countered the "scanxiety" with a few affirmations, thoughts I repeat to myself every time my mind starts to mull over my scan results and their implications. I reassure myself that no matter what the radiologist's report says, I feel great. I tell myself that even if I have to restart chemo, I am awesome at it and will handle it even better this time around. And, above all, I remind myself that cancer will not stop me from doing the things I want to do in life. These thoughts calm me down and rejuvenate me, making me all the more formidable of a cancer-killing machine. This disease sticks around sometimes, but the trick is vowing to stick around even longer. 

I may get results on Monday, but it's looking like I'll probably get them on Thursday. Either way, it's all good. Either way, I'm not scared. And either way, I will stick around far, far longer than cancer ever could.

Embracing the Adventure

During my cancer-killing adventures, I've learned an incredible amount, from diet to disease progression, from alternative treatment to alkalinity levels. I learned the basics of boxing, became a swimmer, and know my body better than I ever thought I could. I've started new careers, too -- as a writer and as the president of a non-profit organization. 

But the biggest lesson I've learned -- the most valuable thing I've picked up during this life-altering experience -- is one simple thing: perspective.

The stress of work obligations and deadlines no longer upset me, and I'm not saying that because work has been slow. It's been busy, and I've been balancing it with a seriously full schedule of planning my basketball tournament, launching my non-profit, and writing my book. It sounds daunting, but it really isn't. I have a pacing to my days at the office, a calm and steady approach to work, and confidence that'll I'll get the job done and I'll do it well. My former self would be scrambling, skipping trips to the gym, missing out on sleep, and worrying about my work product. But these days, I'm going with the flow, doing well, and feeling great. Nothing is worth totally freaking out about, problems can be solved, and -- guess what -- there are enough hours in a day. And if there aren't, then whatever I need to do gets pushed to the next day. I embrace the adventure of every day and wake up excited to see what'll happen next.

This week's adventure came in the form of a diverted flight. On Wednesday afternoon, I was on a flight to Michigan, where I was set to participate in O'Melveny's on-campus interviews in Ann Arbor. About 30 minutes before we were set to land, we were notified that there was a thunderstorm in Detroit and we wouldn't be landing just yet. Minutes later, we were informed that we didn't have enough gas to land in Detroit even if there wasn't a serious weather issue, and that we'd be landing in Milwaukee  instead. 

The scene at the Milwaukee airport was frenetic and confused. There were no agents available to speak with any of us, and nobody knew when we'd be taking off again. Meanwhile, Will had already landed in Detroit and had my nightly Lovenox shot with him. I was hundreds of miles away, nobody knew much of anything, and there didn't seem to be a game plan in place at all. I knew I needed my shot and that I needed rest, and that I wanted to get to Ann Arbor as soon as I could. 

Instead of fretting like almost everyone else on the plane, I walked out of the airport, got in a cab, and headed to Chicago. Will drove to Chicago from Detroit, and by 2am, we were reunited, I was given my shot, and we slept like babies. The next morning, we hightailed it to Michigan, and even though I missed a bunch of interviews (my interviewing partner was fine with flying solo), I made it for four of them. What could've been an exhausting, stressful time turned into a mini-adventure. I became best buddies with my cab driver, caught a quick but beautiful glimpse of Chicago, took care of my body, and even met some aspiring OMMers. 

I've found that life is simply too short to get upset about things, to get rattled, and to feel miserable. Our lives can end in a second -- this second, even -- so why ruin even a moment of it with anxiety or regret? Yes, life is hard sometimes. People hurt us. We get sick. Money issues and work issues persist. Relationships fall apart.

But how we adapt, how we persevere, and how we embrace it all -- enjoying the adventures of our lives and doing our best to help others enjoy theirs -- is what really matters. 

Another Bump In the Road

Seriously, could we do without the damn bumps in the road? How nice would that be? Alright, here's the story.

I feel fantastic. I've managed to balance a seriously busy work schedule with Foundation stuff, book stuff, tournament stuff, daily trips to the gym, green juicing, vegan living, 7-8 hours of sleep every night, Sparks games, Dodger games, concerts, and cuddle time with Winston. I have an insane amount of energy -- I have to force myself to remain sleeping sometimes because the minute I open my eyes, I'm charged, rejuvenated, and ready to rock. My bowel movements are utter masterpieces. My lungs breathe deeply and steadily. I am doing parallel squats with 160 pounds on my shoulders and benching 120 pounds. Things are good, people. Life is beautiful.

Except for one thing.

My CEA is elevated, and that's not a good thing.

CEA, or carcinoembryonic antigen, is found in the blood, urine, or other tissues, and is generally used as a tumor marker for colon cancer (and some others). An elevated CEA count is sometimes indicative of a recurrence of "the cancer." Your pal WunderGlo has an elevated CEA count.

Does this mean that I definitely have a recurrence? No, it doesn't. Does it mean that I need to follow up with some more scans? Yep, it does. Next week I'll be getting another crack at this PET/CT scan business, and I hope to ace this one. An elevated CEA can mean many things besides cancer, and I'm rooting for "many things besides" rather than "cancer." If the scans are good, I'm good. And if they aren't all that we'd hoped for, I'll get back into the ring and come out swinging right away.

I'd like to take a moment to send a little message to "the cancer" that may or may not be back in residence: Please save yourself the trouble and give up already. I'm stronger, fitter, more confident, and more ready to beat the hell out of you than ever before. You had your shot when you were all over my insides and I had no idea you were there. Remember that? You sort of had the upper hand for a minute back then, didn't you? But that changed quickly and you're the underdog now. Whatever you've got cooking inside my belly -- if anything -- is a joke and a half. You're already toast, you stupid idiot.

Ok, enough trash talking for now. The bottom line is that I will NOT be lacing up my sneakers for more chemo until we are convinced that I need it or -- in other words -- that "the cancer" is insanely ridiculous enough to want another go at me. Either way, I'm not worried. I'm too busy, too productive, too happy, and feeling too great to be worried. And you shouldn't be worried either. Another round with cancer would be frustrating and annoying, but no matter what, it isn't going to threaten the life of this cancer warrior.

In Sickness and In Health

Four years ago today, Will and I sealed the deal and got married at Stanford Memorial Church. We had just graduated from Stanford (I snagged my J.D. and Will collected a Masters in Computer Science), had sweet jobs and a lovely apartment in L.A. lined up, and were eagerly awaiting our future together. We were 25 years old and sure that we had nothing but decades of good times ahead. We said our vows, kissed in front of our family and friends, and partied the night away. 

Four years later, we are a distinctly different couple.

There are some things that have remained the same, of course. We still share tons of great memories from our college and grad school days. We still scream at the TV when we watch Duke Basketball games. I still snap at Will when I can tell he's stopped listening to me mid-conversation. Will still tries to change the channel when I leave The Golden Girls on for too long.

But the way we interact, the respect and love with which we treat each other, is far more palpable and constant than ever before. Our marriage is stronger than ever. And I owe all of that to Will.

I don't think Will could ever imagine that his wife would battle Stage IV colon cancer just a few years after vowing "in sickness and in health." I don't think he could've known that he'd be sitting bedside while his wife received chemotherapy treatment. I don't think he anticipated waiting 11 grueling hours while his wife got sliced and diced -- losing her ability to bear children along with her belly button. I don't think he ever considered the fact that he'd be seeing her after those 11 hours, swollen from surgery and attached to a breathing tube in the ICU. I don't think he could have guessed that his strong, confident wife would be given 50/50 odds for living another 10 years.

No young husband is prepared to deal with what Will dealt over this last year of marriage. And I don't think many young husbands would have responded with the same strength, support, optimism and tenderness. Will truly believes in me -- in my ability to fight, to thrive, and to be well. Will believes in our future together -- our house with a garden, our adopted children, and maybe another dog brother for Winston. Will knows that these cancer-killing adventures have only enhanced our lives and filled them with far more meaning. He is confident, strong, and endlessly supportive. 

I may be Will's inspiration, but he's mine, too.

Happy Anniversary, Will. Thank you for being who you are. And here's to decades and decades of living life in super-HD together.