All Clear!!

What a feeling! 800 ccs of fluid removed from my body last Tuesday, a week of waiting, and finally, the results: no sign of any cancer in any bit of that jug o' juice. Such a rush of happiness and relief. It's hard to put into words. But I'll try.

I woke up this morning with so much certainty that all would be well. I could just feel it. When I got to Norris, those normal feelings of results-related nervousness didn't creep in at all. Even when Taline and Dr. Lenz walked into the examination room, I remained cool as a cucumber. I greeted them with a big smile, reclined on the examination bed with my arms folded behind my head -- as if I was on some tropical island instead of at a cancer hospital. I felt just as serene. I didn't even need to hear the words "no cancer was detected" but I loved hearing the words all the same. The news filled me with a noticeable shot of energy stronger than any cup of coffee I'd ever had. 

All was well. My body was working with me. And, for now, there would be no need for more chemo.

This cancer business is never an open and shut thing. It's never really "over" once you're diagnosed with this insidious, tricky, jackass of a disease. But you take your good news and your bad news in stride, believing in yourself, your doctors, your Creator, and the fact that your will to live is stronger than any disease. I held fast to those beliefs and had an awesome time last week, even with impending results looming in the distance. This week is going to be even better.

And for the radiologist who wrote up my PET/CT scan report, and cavalierly used the language "highly worrisome for malignant etiology" and "progression of disease" and "consistent with pleural metastic disease," YOU WERE F*#KING WRONG! Now please learn how to be cautious and careful and thorough without using such incendiary language. I know you're trying to save your butt from lawyers like me, but there are ways to do your job without overdoing it. And, I'm sorry -- you overdid it this time in a major way. You are lucky -- VERY LUCKY -- that Dr. Lenz talked me off the ledge, because I was coming for you, pal. Coming for you to confront you...physically, if need be. You are probably scaring other patients and that is not cool. Like we need another thing to deal with, right? Seriously, watch yourself. 

Ok, now that I've gotten that off my chest (that was all that was left on my chest after that fluid went bye bye), it's time to celebrate!! Thank you for your love and support, as always. I am truly, truly blessed.

Not Worried

Well, folks, tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow I find out if that pesky fluid that was drained from near my left lung on Tuesday is a side effect from my surgery, an infection of some sort, or "the cancer" making a repeat appearance.

I know you probably don't believe me (come on, when have I ever lied to you?!), but I'm not worried. Not at all.

Obviously, I'd like less chemo in my life. Clearly, I'd love to get this port out of my chest so I can really mix it up at my basketball tournament next month.

But, really, I'm not worried about "the cancer" at all. 

It seems to me that the worst thing cancer does to people is defeat their spirits. It makes them feel like they can't achieve what they want, like they can't live the life they've always dreamed of, like they can't move forward with their plans. I simply refuse to let cancer do this to me.

No matter what, I'm staying at O'Melveny. No matter what, I'm going to write my book and work on my Foundation and play in my basketball tournament. No matter what, I'm going to continue to love life and all of its beautiful elements. Nothing will stop me from celebrating my days, from chugging my green juice, from swimming lap after lap, from bench pressing 120 pounds, and from loving the people and the things that I love. Nothing will stop me from singing in the car at the top of my lungs, from taking DJ lessons, from laughing my butt off with friends, and from cherishing time with family. No matter what, Dr. Lenz is still the best oncologist ever and we will have a plan of attack to get my health back to 100%. No matter what, I will continue to fight and thrive.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow like any other day. And I’m loving today, as usual.

The Beauty and The Tragedy

When I think about what life was like before my diagnosis, I just smile and shake my head. I definitely understood the whole "live life to the fullest" thing, but didn't quite have it mastered. I knew that working hard and really applying myself in school and in my career made for a meaningful life. I knew that forging strong relationships with people I loved and respected made life worthwhile. And I knew that travel and art and music made life beautiful.

But I really didn't get it. How could I? We don't really understand how to live life until we realize that our days are numbered -- and I don't mean realize it in the conceptual sense. I'm talking about the day we face the reality, in a sobering and inescapably real way, that YES, I, [insert your name here], WILL DIE ONE DAY.

You stop pining away for things. You stop plugging away for some end goal way off in the distance that may or may never materialize. You take the moment you're given and clutch it close because it's the only one you're guaranteed. You go after your life instead of just letting it happen. You make each moment precisely what you want it to be. You live deliberately.

The beauty of this is that once you face your death -- whether fast approaching via a terminal illness hell-bent on taking your life quickly, or one moving slow and steady like many cancers, you start to truly appreciate life and live it the way it should be lived. It's a beautiful way to live. Your moments, even the most mundane, are filled with vibrant, pulsating, electric overtones. You look at your friends and family as if you're seeing them for the last time even though you're not -- the love and memories and fondness for them is almost overwhelming. You approach life and all of its challenges with a wisdom to which not many people can relate. Whatever the issue or stress of the day is, it's not really that big of a deal. The only thing that's life or death is life or death. 

The tragedy about this way of being is that it is lost on so many. Countless cancer patients, or people battling other illnesses, are filled with anger, regret, and/or fear. They are afraid of the pain, or the people they might leave behind, or the uncertainty of future life that they face. They totally miss the golden opportunity they've been given to really examine their lives and celebrate the people and things that make their lives great. They are too caught up in worry about the future to celebrate the present moment they're given. Time is marching on whether we want it to or not. We are inching closer to death whether we want to admit it or not. What we do with our time, how we honor our time, and how we revel in every last second of our time -- this is the stuff that truly matters.

And when you realize that -- like I have -- being alive is an astoundingly beautiful thing.

Trapped Between Two Lungs

No, not the pleural effusion -- though that wouldn't be the worst description of what that extra fluid was doing near my left lung. I’m talking about a brand new song to add to my cancer-killing playlist, and, ironically, a song that was stuck in my head during the entirety of my thoracentesis procedure this morning. Before I get to the song, though, I’ll explain today’s festivities.

I arrived at Norris at 10am, pumped up and excited for my procedure. I had almost forgotten the way chemo days and surgery days and procedure days make me feel. Strangely (or normally, in my world), I feel more alive, vibrant, and healthy on these days than on days when I don’t have to deal with any medical procedures. I guess it’s the competitor in me, but “game days” like these put me in an awesome mood, supercharged with positivity and adrenaline. When they called my name and as I walked to the radiology room, I had only one thing on my mind: victory. It was time to rock the hell out of this test and get the entirety of my lung capacity back while I was at it.  

I met up with one of my favorite Norris people ever, a ultrasound technician in charge of checking my legs for potential blood clots who I met way back when in December of 2010. She's about my age, is really cool, and always says the most positive, reassuring things. She saw me and exclaimed, jumping to her feet to give me a big hug. I love getting that kind of greeting!  

With her ultrasound instruments, she located the fluid near my lung and remarked that it really wasn’t that much (love her) and noted that she sees people get this from surgery all the time (love her even more). She marked a little space between two of my ribs to indicate where the radiologist should make her incision and snake the catheter through to the pocket of fluid. Minutes later, a most professional and wonderful radiologist entered, shook my hand, had me sign a consent form, and went to town. She prepped me before numbing the area, apologizing for the sting.

But there wasn’t one. Throughout the whole procedure, I really never felt a thing. Maybe the tiniest of pin pricks, but on a scale of 0-10, the pain level was about a 0.2. She rocked.

About 10 minutes later, the fluid was drained. It was actually quite a bit of fluid -- 800 mLs -- and it was warm to the touch (of course I picked up the bottle of fluid to take a picture with it). My lung felt a little strange after the catheter was removed, but I was told that it was because my lung was re-expanding. Evidently, this fluid had collapsed a part of my lung. Seriously, fluid? Why be a jerk like that? I find it particularly awesome that I have been lifting weights, swimming, and playing basketball with a partially collapsed lung. I am not to be messed with, people. I am a physical specimen!

No matter what the results, ladies and gents, I am going to be fine. We know this. So don’t worry between now and Monday, ya hear? I’m not. And I’m being 100% serious. Ok, back to the song.

“Trapped Between Two Lungs” is a song by Florence + the Machine (of my cancer-killing soundtrack “Dog Days Are Over” fame) and was absolutely perfect for today’s adventures. My favorite lyrics? Easy.

Gone are all the days of begging
The days of theft
No more gasping for a breath
The air has filled me head to toe
And I can see the ground far below
I have this breath and I hold it tight
And I keep it in my chest with all my might
I pray to God this breath will last
As it pushes past my lips as I...
Dance

A Bump in the Road

Not actually a bump -- or a tumor -- but some fluid. 

I got my scan results back today (yes, I didn't tell you that I had scans last week OR that I was getting results today - why worry the readers?), and they were a little mixed. There is some activity in the belly, but that's sort of par for the course since my cytoreductive+HIPEC festivities (you know, "pick it out, pour it in") -- definitely not a guarantee that "the cancer" has made a repeat performance in my gut. The weird thing about the scan results -- and the thing we'll be investigating starting tomorrow -- is an excess  of fluid near (not in) my left lung, also known as a pleural effusion. As I've started to read, pleural effusions are decently common after cytoreductive+HIPEC. Mine could be from that, or maybe from those lovely chest tubes in my body for about a week following my surgery. I could have an infection.

Or.

It could be cancer.

At first, I was pretty frustrated. I've worked really hard to lick "the cancer" and I feel like I should be done proving myself to this idiotic disease. It needs to just give up already. And you know, it's possible that it already has. But it's also possible that "the cancer" is still hanging around with its sights set on destroying my body. At first, I also felt a little sorry for myself. I've been put under, cut open, and treated to a baker's dozen of chemo treatments. You'd think I could have a vacation from hospitals and drugs. At first, I felt pretty self-critical. I've been working out a lot, but maybe not enough. I've been eating well, but maybe not well enough. And it is humanly possible to cut every scrap of sugar out of my diet, and I haven't done that. Maybe I failed myself, I was thinking.

But after sitting with my thoughts for a while, I started to feel better. Much better. Not upset, not frustrated, and definitely not scared. I know I'm up for the challenge, whatever it is. I've never felt stronger. I've never felt more energized. I've never been more inspired. And if there are some cancer cells hanging around in some fluid, they clearly haven't gotten the memo from their dead cancer cell friends that I mean business. Dr. Lenz and I are a lethal team, and we're not going to quit until "the cancer" is officially and totally gone.

Tomorrow, I go under the needle. At 10am at USC, I'll be going through a procedure called a thoracentesis, whereby at least some of the fluid near my lung will be drained. The wizards in the lab will sop it around and dip things in it and figure out what the heck the deal is. Next Monday, I meet with Dr. Lenz to go over the results.

No matter what, your pal WunderGlo will fight on.