6 Month (and some) Landmark!

It's been awhile.

Well, this blog is not nearly getting as much devotion as it once did.

In reality, this blog has actually become pretty triggering for me. I might have to start a new one.

Sometimes if I come on here I end up scrolling all the way back to February and rereading my initial testing posts. Which is nearly as bad as when I end up looking at pictures of my hair on Facebook. So let's try to not do those things.

I think a post was needed in order to recognize one important thing: it has been six months since chemotherapy ended.

And physically I'm feeling pretty good! The neuropathy has improved greatly. The fatigue is improving but some days it is still pretty intense. Mornings seem to be the hardest time of day for me on that ball game. Still in chemo induced menopause which sucks. Hair still short but growing rapidly.

It's long enough now I can put hairspray on it. So here's the hair picture at 6 months and 3 weeks (ish) since chemotherapy.

Wow! I have official hair! It's growing back super thick which is awesome. It's exactly the same texture and color as it was before I lost it. So no, my hair is not coming back curly. It's funny how that's told to you when you're bald as shit like it's some consolation prize. Oh hey, but it might come back curly! I really didn't give a rats ass what texture it was at that point- any texture would be better than nothing because it would have meant having HAIR. Any hair at all will do. 

It's growing super fast. So let's hope it keeps growing at this rate. I try not to think of how long it will take before it's as long as it was before. But at least I have hair. 

One thing that I've found that has been helping me immensely is something I never thought I would endorse.

Exercise.

Yes, I have been exercising. I'm just as shocked as you are. And not just the usual twice a week physical therapy stuff but actual exercise. I've been noticing that it's helping immensely with the P.T.S.D. issues. Which is fabulous. Considering that shit comes out of nowhere. I was digging around in my closet earlier and found all my chemo scarves. I felt like a sledgehammer punched me in the chest and I had to just stare at them for a few minutes. It just sneaks up on you. Or how I can't listen to the Taylor Swift 1989 album without being reminded of driving to chemo and listening to it. Or how I had to hide all the lotion (the expensive stuff too which sucks!) that I used during chemo because it sends me 'hospital' vibes when I smell it. Exercise is helping me combat all those random twitches. This morning Taylor Swift totally blindsided me with bad memories by association so I did some cardio and I felt great. So really, go cardio.

As I get closer to some triggering dates, it seems like a good course of action to try to plan for how I will deal. 

January 23rd- the day I got a phone call in the middle of Target saying, "Oh hey, you have a giant mass of cells the size of a fist sitting next to your heart." 

February 3rd- the day I got my biopsy results, "Oh hey, have some cancer! That mass of cells is a big ole lymphoma tumor." 

Well, that's not how they told me but that's how I heard it. 

Breathe. 

I wonder how other people deal with their cancer anniversaries. Do you wallow in triggers and cry? Deal with those emotions? Repress them? Say screw emotions and go have a wicked fun day? 

I'm opting for wicked fun. Why wallow in shitty stuff that's happened already?

Moral of the story: don't wallow in shitty stuff and exercise instead.

On a side note, I know many of my lovely nurses still read my blog. So this is directed right at you: I will be back in Manitowoc for a few days later this month starting December 30th! I would love to come to the clinic and the hospital and say hi! Just a heads up that I might appear out of nowhere to hug you all! 

First CT scan post-remission!

Well, that snuck up on me didn't it? Six months have already gone by since my last scan that determined that I was the big r. 

Remission.
                                     Remission!                                Remission!!!

               Remission!

Right. So I like that word. It's a great word. It's probably the best word I've ever had someone speak to me. Remission=alive. We like being alive, right? General human agreement there.

So anyways. This CT scan was a bitch. I'm just laying it out there. Because it sure was.

There's a few reasons. The first reasons is due to our lovely friend: scanxiety.

I throw that word out a lot on here but here's a nice little info graphic that helps break it down even better.

I like this so much I want to print it up on index cards and pass it out to people. It's a great and condensed way to explain to people what the hell it is we're experiencing during scan time.

It's a PTSD issue- it truly is. I know we only think of PTSD in terms of veterans but let's do a little scenario building here.

If you sent a solider with PTSD back to the place where they almost lost their life, played the exact same nosies, smells, and other sensory devices at that place- do you think it would trigger them?

We know that answer to that right? 

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Of course it would. 

Now let's swap out solider with cancer survivor. 

Let's put the cancer survivor back in the machine that found the cancer. That makes all the same noises (woosh woosh woosh goes the scanner.) All the same smells are there (alcohol, sterile blanket smell, there's more than you might imagine.)

Do we understand now? I hope so. It is the same concept, it really is. I know my first scan saved my life, I get that. We caught it early and thus prevented the tumor (which was already the size of a friggen fist) from eating my flesh like the greedy zombie it was. (Technical terms, right?)

BUT my brain goes "HEY THESE SOUNDS REMIND ME OF CANCER AND OH MY GAWD IT SMELLS LIKE TUMOR IN HERE! HEY REMEMBER WHEN YOU HAD CANCER? THAT SUCKED DIDN'T IT? WHAT IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN? LET'S THINK OF ALL THE IMPLICATIONS A RE-DIAGNOSIS WOULD BRING TO YOUR LIFE! WOOHOO!"

Catch my drift? 

So that's how that works.

The scan itself didn't start off too great. The first order of business is I had to guzzle down these disgusting things in the morning.

Delicious. I'm going to let you in on a little insider info: they don't taste like vanilla smoothies.

SHOCKER. 

And one happy little side effect I wasn't warned about: they will make you feel sick. So that was great. Some warning is usually nice when we have shitty side effects but I missed the memo on that one. So at this point I'm super sick, stressed, hungry, and anxious and it's not even scan time yet!

Hence this face.

That's the pre-imaging department face. You can tell I'm thinking 'hmmmm, do we really need to go here today?' I'd much rather be at Target!

But I went because I'm good like that.

Next order of difficulties was getting the IV in my arm. Either I had a nurse that has never seen a vein before or my veins like to squirt blood. Either way I am heartbroken that I did not get a picture of this moment. To be honest, I was more concerned about my white sweater and Ugg boot than I was the blog. Sorry guys. 

When she put the IV in and took the needle out, my arm decided to go WOOOOSHHHHH. Yeah, blood everywhere. I mean literally, gushing out of my arm. On the floor, on her, all over the table. I mean tons and tons of blood. So that was great. 

This is the best I can do for blood pics but still not as great as the actual moment would have been. 

Oh well, there's always next time!

So yeah, for the CT scan they had me drink contrast and injected my veins with it. The point of that being because they were doing a scan of ALL my lymphnodes. My doctor wants to keep an eye of all of them so there's a lot to check so that equals a bunch of contrast.

And you may remember from my previous posts, the IV contrast gives you the hot flash that feels like it's going to end your life along with a nice pissing your pants sensation.

Contrast is nasty.

So they FINALLY got me in the tube and we did that usual deal for awhile. Tried to stare at the weird balloons on the ceiling (why pictures of balloons? who decides these things?) and stay calm.

Shocking insider info: the balloons did not comfort me and I freaked out anyways.

So my brain went into panic mode and that's fine. I expected it to so I just rode the wave of 'what if' scenarios in my head. 

When the scan was over I booked it and ate some pizza. Feeling better now. 

On a side note: I have to do this every 3-6 months for 5 years? BOO.

Live by Living Family Retreat

Okay, I did not fall off a mountain.

Our cabin!

My every spare waking moment has been dedicated to lesson planning, teaching, grading, and reading theory so there hasn't been a lot of time for blog writing. And all the other time has been volunteering at kiddo's school, spending time with him, working with him on his reading, and so on.

My life is pretty jam packed. But I love it.

That being said, the Live by Living family retreat was amazing.

The cabins we stayed at were beautiful. The sleeping cabin was buried in the trees next to thee beautiful aspen trees. We were only there a short while and spotted a deer right next to the porch. We weren't too far out in the mountains but far enough in to feel like we were buried in wilderness.

The first day we met the other families (three other groups besides us) and went on a hike. That was fun and Adrian loved it. He's a little mountain boy- he thrives up there. All the kids were fairly close in age which was great. They totally pampered us. Served us amazing food, helped with the kids, and just let us relax in the afternoon. I got to have some nice reflection that day as I stared into the mountains.

The view from the porch

I felt engulfed in the mountain and it was beautiful.

And exactly what I needed.

That night we had a great dinner, the kids played games, and we had a campfire. Adrian was just nonstop having a blast the entire time bonding with the other kids. And it was so nice for me to meet other survivors. There is nothing like that shared understanding. Someone who knows exactly what you've been through and what that feels like. There
are not nearly enough words for how relieving that felt to me.

My entire treatment was so isolating. The first three hospital stays I didn't interact with anyone besides hospital staff and my friends/family. No other survivors. My last three rounds were outpatient so while I spent a ton of time sitting in that chemo chair my age isolated me there as well. I never fully realized until this retreat how desperate I was to have that shared understanding with someone else. To relate to people that get it. Totally friggen get it. And that was beautiful.

I can't say enough good things about the Live by Living organization. If you're a survivor and you're reading this, I encourage you to go on one of their retreats. Dan Miller (founder) is wonderful and the work he is doing to empower people impacted by cancer is great.

The following day we went on a giant mother of killer hikes. The hike to end all hikes. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. But that is probably the hardest I have pushed myself physically so far. It was intense, exhausting, and liberating. When I asked I think he said a little under 5 miles round trip. That is my longest hike yet. I know my body is not back to normal. The neuropathy was on fire, my feet were going numb, my breath was coming in bursts, and my legs were burning. But it was great. My body reminded me that it still works. It's still alive. It still endures. And the view at the top was worth all the pain to get there. Being in the mountains is so healing for me on so many levels. I can feel the earth alive around me and when we looked up into the sky that night it reminded me of how small we really are. In the grand scheme of things, my cancer is just an ant scattering across the surface. It's a blip on the radar.

Day One Hike

Of course, that's not how it is for me. But I want it to be that distant. I want it to be that small. And maybe one day it will be. But for now, I can find peace and embrace in the mountains. And that's the next best thing.

There is healing power in nature. In physical endurance. In breathtaking views. In the accomplishments your body makes.

It's a wonderful thing. The volunteers were great at helping us along for the hike. Adrian stuffed a backpack full of rocks (literally- FULL) that now is still sitting in our laundry room. He bonded with other kids that have been impacted by cancer too and on so many levels that was amazing to see. It was a healing trip for both of us.

One of the best things that came out of it was the lasting connections I made with some of the people there and even though we all live very far away we can connect with each other online if need be.

It was a great trip and we had a wonderful time. Next year I want to go on another one. There really is something about nature that heals.

"The mountains are calling and I must go." -John Muir 

More information on Live by Living can be found here. 

Hearts and Mountains

It's been awhile since we've had a 'test' blog post.

So I was ordered to have an EKG done by my doctor. One of the chemo drugs I got (doxorubicin) is a bastard when it comes to your heart. So I'm at higher risk for heart issues and blah blah blah.

Well, the intense neuropathy set off warning bells for her so she ordered an EKG. At first I was like, eh whatever.

But then the more I started thinking about it I got all freaked out.

"What if they find a tumor in there?! What if my heart is broken? What if my heart is black like my soul?" 

Okay that last question doesn't make sense. Or does it? Don't answer that.

And plus it was extra sad to realize that I didn't have Risa along with me for this test like she was for my first EKG. <3

So how do I deal with stress? By taking selfies with things in the procedure rooms that I probably shouldn't be touching.

Nothing too exciting to see here. Just looks like a 90's video game. Hey doc, does this thing have Pac Man?

So just when I was thinking there wasn't much opportunity for a funny blog posts: I saw this.

Bahahahha. That looks so gross. I mean I've had a baby, I've seen ultrasound gel before but I never got to look at it. 

Then I smelled it (I don't know why I do these things I do) an it just smelled funky. Does ultrasound gel expire? Or does it age well over time like a fine wine?

Hahaha well whatever, the test was long and anxiety inducing. The tech was super aware of all the triggers it was giving me and kept quizzing me about CSU and teaching so that helped keep my mind off of it.

I got my results back already (online and fast!) and it came back normal. 

Phew!!!!

So now we're off this weekend to finally go on a trip with the Live by Living organization. Adrian and I are spending two days and one night buried in the mountains.

'The mountains are calling and I must go.'

We spend today hiking, eating, and then ending with a campfire. Tomorrow we go on another hike and eat before we depart. 

This is the cabin we will be staying at:

Sigh. So pretty!! The aspens are at peak colors too so it will be beautiful. And how wonderful for us to meet other survivors and their families! To be surrounded by people that get it.

Mountains, here we come!

Post Treatment Updates

So the last blog post was a bit philosophical and all over the place.

I've been reading Foucault and my mind went BOOM. That happens sometimes.

But there's lots of people that want some updates with a little less emphasis on the philosophy I'm sure. So here it goes. 

I've been doing everything I can to try and get my body back to normal. The cancer clinic suggested physical therapy in the wellness clinic twice a week. I just finished the end of week two. 

I'm trying to get my exercise face on- what do you think? 

Okay with the short hairdo this picture makes me look down right scary. Grrrrrr, exercise makes me angry.

No, not really. It's actually helping quite a bit. I'm starting to look forward to it. It's not helping the fatigue at all yet (probably too soon for that) but it is helping the neuropathy. The swelling hasn't gone down but the pain is a bit better day by day. And that is amazing. Seriously, that makes me so happy.


The clinic has a pretty nice exercise room. They crafted an exact exercise regimen for me that takes into account the neuropathy and the areas it is the worst- in my feet and legs.

I do exercises to improve circulation and help my balance. My balance is all messed up because of the neuropathy- I constantly trip and stumble over my own feet. Which makes me feel like I'm having junior high school flashbacks. Like I don't have enough to worry about! Ha.

 I'm also doing some exercises to try and firm up my stomach just for pure vanity. The physical therapist thought that was amusing but hey, if I'm working out I might as well do that too!

Yeah, big ole exercise balls. The exercises with those are weird. I have to put all my weight on them and lean against the wall and do these weird squat things. Which I have to be careful with because the nerve pain is now in my knees (yippee) so it really yanks on my knees when I do it.

But the lady that runs things in there is hopeful that the more I do the better they might feel. I've been busting my butt and this week they already upped my exercise 'toughness' so we will see what next week brings. Basically I have a chart to follow and I have to tally my exhaustion after each exercise. As my endurance improves, the exercises get tougher. They also monitor my blood pressure and oxygen at the beginning and the end to make sure my body is reacting well. Which it has been. So horrah!

So that has been dandy. The one thing that hasn't been is the constant fatigue. And I don't mean, oh hey I'm tired today. I mean fatigue. 

And it is AMAZING how much people don't understand it. Seriously, no one gets it. (No one doesn't include my awesome support network) Someone at work said something to me like, "Oh, a lot of people find they're tired their first year of graduate school." 

Are you kidding me? I have fatigue because my body is trying to repair all the cells that were DAMAGED AND DESTROYED from the SIX rounds of FIVE chemotherapy drugs that I had pumped into me for FIVE days straight.

Am I a little grumpy about this cancer survivor ignorance? Totally. I feel like I need to hand out brochures. 

Fatigue from chemotherapy is not just being tired. It's this bone deep exhaustion that completely takes over your body. Imagine your energy level going from normal to BAM. Hit by a truck going 100mph. Sometimes with no warning in the middle of the day. Your eyes want to close, you can't stop yawning, and your whole body feels like a weak, lifeless noodle. It is not the same thing. At all. 

It's worse in the mornings but luckily coffee helps pull me through. I noticed even if I do sleep in on the weekends when I don't have to work it's just as bad as when I get up early so I think it's just something about waking up, no matter how much sleep I get, that exhausts my body.

So here's a little tip for the readers out there regarding awareness: when a cancer survivor tells you they're battling fatigue: don't minimize their suffering by equating it to your estimation of being tired.

It is not the same thing. Ever. So if the world could stop misunderstanding it, that would be great. 

Phew. Get those vents out there. 

In other news, it's time for some hair news!

WOAH! Look at that poof ball on my head! So here is the official hair growth at 19 weeks post-chemotherapy. So we're at a little less than 5 months. 

Wow, almost five months. It does not feel that way. It feels like it was just yesterday that I lived my life in a sterile non-absorbent tan recliner, hooked up to needles going into my chest, listening to the swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of an IV dumping liquids and chemicals into my body. 

I wonder if as time goes on that it will finally start feeling like a part of the past. Something that I could possibly forget. That the memories would fade. That it wouldn't feel so crisp and paper cut new in my mind. 

But on the bright side, if everyone says the first year post-chemo is the hardest then I am almost half way through it. The big date that will be the worst will be the date of my diagnosis. It's burned so red hot into my brain. (February 3rd- in case you were wondering)

Perhaps I should take off to Vegas that day. We are only an hour flight or so away right here in CO after all. 

Keep reading loves and I'll keep posting. 

Health and Sickness is an Invention

We're getting into some heavy stuff today. 

As I'm sure you gathered from the title. 

This concept of sickness as an invention is not new for many cancer patients but perhaps they did not know how to put it in words. I sure didn't until now. But when I heard it my entire mind went AHA.

Let's back track. I'm reading the works of the philosopher Foucault for my literary theory course. 

WAIT! Come back! Keep reading- I swear I won't be boring.

Foucault examines the way power and knowledge coexist in our culture. He argues that forms of knowledge (discourse) become power (practice.) There's some basic framework. In addition to that, he writes extensively on health and sickness. 

Acccording to Foucault, health and sickness is an invention. How is that an invention?

Because it is unconciously spoken of as a moralism. It's good vs. evil all over again. 

Which he argues, is arbiturary. There is no good and evil. These are categories that we (us silly humans) have set up for ourselves. But they do not exist.

So what is evil and what is good here? It should be obvious. Health is depicted as the universal good, right? That makes sense. There's this constant discourse all day, every day, of what is healthy. To be healthy is to be good. It is to succeed physically. 

Health is seen as a capacity. Cardiovascular power, Foucault's words, is the goal. How long can we live? How much can we physically endure?

And that is just another form of discourse. Of writing, of thinking, of believing. This discourse (fancy talk for writing/vocalizing) isolates the body into a moralistic idea. 

How is that a problem? 

Think about it.

If my body has cancer, as it had just a few months ago, am I sick?

Physically, we think 'sure.' But is my being sick? 

When it's asked in that framework, don't you want to say no? (I hope you do.)

Of course not. My mind is not broken. I am not a sick person. One part of my BODY just happens to have cancer. My cells have chosen to divide in the worst way but does that make the rest of my body sick? My cancer originated in my chest, in the lymphnodes of my thymus (little organ thing by my heart,) but the rest of my body was physically strong. 

So was I sick? Not technically, right? Just one aspect of my body. Not the entire body as a whole. Not my mind which I would argue is more essential than my body itself. 

Is the cardiovascular power to live longer, to physically endure as long as possible more essential than the mind? 

That could be a matter of opinion. We could argue that the mind can't exist without the body and vice versa.

So it would stand to reason that the body cannot be sick if the mind is whole, right? So if I have cancer, am I sick? 

No. That's a moralism. That's a category of discourse. 

What do we associate with sick? Think of what comes to mind. Frail. Weak. Not well. The lesser of what is good.

Hello, moralism! Get your moralisms off my body! 

This helps set up that boundary that often surrounds cancer patients and survivors. This wall of sickness comes up around us to separate our weaker moralism from the greater good of health. 

And this doesn't diappear when you're in remission. I am still surrounded by a wall of moralisms that separate me from the collective good. My body was sick, therefore the rest of my being was categorized as sick and my being now is in recovery from the sickness.

But what if it was never sick to begin with?

My mind remained entact. The rest of my physical being was strong. Hell, it was the medicine that made me weak, not the origin of the 'sickness.' Does that make the truth of medicine manufactured? 

Acorrding to Foucault, yes. Medicine is just a tool to fix the biological issue. But we perceive medicine as this moralistic good. Which gets even more complicated when we think of the COST of medicine, but let's save that for another time. 

Let's not just think of medicine here but also isolation. What do we do with the sick? We hospitalize them, right? We isolate them in clinics, hospitals, doctor's offices. We place the sick into a matrix (Foucault's words) of health. (And I know, that's what we need to do)

I love this quote from Foucault on this idea of isolation and the sick, "Different power apparatuses are called upon to take charge of "bodies," not simply so as to exact blood service from them or levy dues, but to help, and if necessary, constrain them to ensure their own good health. The imperative of health: at once the duty of each and the objective of all." -Foucault, "Practice and Knowledge"

The duty of each and the objective of all. Right? Isn't that the way we see health? How do we get to health? By isolating the body (placing it in the matrix of health- doctors office,etc.) and then using medicine to bring health. To eliminate the sick and to get rid of the bad. To make strong and to eliminate the weakness. 

I doubt I'm making sense but let's roll with it. 

So if medicine is perceived as good, isn't the expectation that we should always take it if it's said to be needed? This gets more complex when you think of cancer though. Is chemotherapy good? Would you put it in that moralistic category?

I want to say yes but all the long standing nerve damage and pain in my hands, legs, and feet wants me to say no. 

My lack of fertility (which we don't know yet, if it's permanent) wants me to say no. 

My increased risk for heart problems and secondary blood cancers wants me to say no.

But my cancer free cells want to scream YES. 

Chemotherapy is essentially a poison. But we accept (using this term loosely) it as medicine because it poisons the sickness thus destroying the bad. 

Am I healthy now that I am cancer free? Despite all the long standing impacts chemotherapy has wreaked on my body? Is my body good?

That's a complicated question. Physically I am now weaker than I was before due to the medicine I received despite the absence of cancer. 

What if we just throw all those moralisms out the window?

I'm not saying cancer isn't bad, it is. It sucks, I hate everything about it. But it's not some moralistic evil. It's a circumstance, an unlucky and horrible one, that just happens. It's not evil, it's cell mutation. we perceive it as a sickness because it has the potiential to destroy the length of our lives which is the ultimate goal of health. 

I am not healthy nor sick. I just am. 

I am not separated by walls of discourse and categories that isolate me. I am not perceived as lesser due to my assocation with the weakness that was cancer. 

It's an interesting thought, isn't it?

And how relevant at explaining why I feel the subconcious need to hide the fact I survived cancer from new friends, students, and colleagues. I associate, by ways of moralistic categories, my cancer history as making me lesser. As bad, as frail, as weak. This subconcious reaction to feel shame for sickness originates in the perceived narrative of sickness as bad. Why else do we feel shame for sickness? Why do we feel lesser? Why do so many people run from the reality of sickness when confronted with it? It is because it is seen as BAD. And yes, it is bad in the context of how we see it and experience it. But the sickness itself, the origins of cancer, is just a simple biological cell mutation. That's all it is. But it's distorted into this narrative of evil that by assocation the person with the sickness cannot escape from. How can the cancer be evil and yet the person stay intact from that negative assocation? We can't. Our discourse won't allow it. 

Who wants those associations? Not me. 

Or any cancer patient or survivor, for that matter. We are not sick. We are not lesser, physically or otherwise.

We just are. 

Survivorship Clinic

Hey lovely readers.

WOW this is the longest I've gone without posting since I first made this blog.

Things have been busy. I've been wanting to write a post the past few weeks but I just never have the time.

So this is going to be a doozy.

I participated in a survivorship clinic day through my local cancer clinic. It was a day of resources, doctors appointments, and general information for survivors. I found it helpful but horribly depressing.

This is how the day went:

They threw me in the physical therapy center first where I talked mainly about my neuropathy issues and fatigue. They recommended an exercise program to help the fatigue but the neuropathy doesn't seem to have an easy fix. Which I knew and it just sucks more and more everyday.

She recommended compression stockings to help with the swelling caused by the neuropathy. Oh joy. That is JUST what I want to wear. This just keeps getting better and better! Pffffffff.

Other than that, the visit was pretty helpful and I opted to join a twice a week exercise group for cancer survivors to help the nerve issues and fatigue.

After that they led me down to see the doctor. I didn't realize this was going to be as depressing as it was.

HOLY JEEBUS. Talk about the talk of doom. It basically went like this:

"HI THERE. You beat cancer! Now let me tell you about all the wonderful things the chemotherapy did to fuck up your body and put you at risk for secondary blood cancers, heart problems, and nerve damage! Oh yeah, and no drinking alcohol for you and eat those veggies!

Hey, how about a cookie to go with that news?"

Oh wait, no one gave me a god damn cookie. Seriously doctors, hand out some cookies with your doom and gloom news.

So after that lovely hour of "Hey you're alive but not for long!" they sent me off to talk to the oncology counselor for some wrap up questions.

(I'm really only at an increased risk of like 5ish percent for other cancers so its not as dire as it sounds- I'm just being a sarcastic butthead.)

I love the way they packaged that. It was like a shit sandwich. They lead you in with some general advice, follow it up with a great massage of lavender and bliss and then send you packing through the gateway to hell and once you crawl out of that, miserable and shaking- it's off to the shrink!

Great tactics.

Sarcasm aside, it really was helpful. And meeting with the counselor was actually great because she had a sense of humor and gave me a cool bag to keep. Yeah, cool bags.

She validated my feelings on the whole 'your cancer is gone so half your support crew heads for the hills!' and told me that's totally normal for survivors.

Which sucks to hear but it's always nice to know the abandonment you feel is the same feeling felt by all the other cancer survivors too.

Yay abandonment!

(Disclaimer: if you're thinking 'HEY I didn't abandon you blondie!' then I'm probably not talking about you.)

Overall, that was a rough eight hour day. Tons of helpful information but it was ruined by the hour long talk on how to spot cancer recurrence, what the health risks now are for me, and describing the next five years of blood work and tests.

But enough of that garbage, check out this HAIR!

Not the most flattering picture but I'm past the point of giving a damn.

It's growing like crazy! It's super thick and blonde. It's not coming in curly but that's okay. It's HAIR!

So this is the official timeline of these pictures: four months out from my last chemotherapy treatment. It's at least two inches long.

I can put gel in it and spike it up. That's sorta
fun. I'm not sure what to do with gel so I just kinda smear it in there and hope it looks okay.

So at least in the midst of all this after chemotherapy pains, aches, and miseries... the hair is coming back and it's going strong!

I'll keep updating on the hair as it comes. I'm sure by Christmas I'll have a decent hairdo going on and that makes me so happy.

So in short, survivorship clinic managed to be a nice combination of helpful and a pile of poo. So there's that.

But I'm grateful that I even had a survivorship clinic to go to. It seems like my cancer clinic is on the ball when it comes to aftercare. So that's good.

All the perks of big city hospital care aside, I'm really missing my care team back in Wisconsin. It's hard to connect to these people at the clinic here. They're nice and that's great. But they're not the ones that saved me. No one could ever replace that level of gratitude and connection I have for the nurses back in WI.

It's a toss up. Seeing my old clinic might aggravate my post-chemo trauma feelings but it would be nice to be going through this after care treatment with the care team that saw every step of my battle.

Potato, potato.

Is that how that saying goes?

I'll leave you to ponder that.

The time has come: NO more WIGS!

It's been a week and a half since my last post so I figured it was time for an update.

First things first, WOW my hair is growing so fast.

Check this out: 

It's coming in super thick and super blonde! I'm so excited. I went to a big ole FoCo festival with the kiddo this weekend and I went wig-less. I actually haven't been wearing a wig at all this weekend. It's so freeing to not have it on. And talk about way more comfortable. Maybe it's time to say goodbye to the wigs!

It's a struggle because I can't deny that I feel different without my long hair. It's been more of a hardship since I hit remission. I'm not sure why that is. Maybe because my life is slowly going back to normal and this lack of hair is a constant reminder of what I suffered through this spring? 

It's hard to say but I'm sure that's part of it. Now that I feel normal, I want to LOOK normal too. No wigs. No facades at work. It's been a pain in the ass trying to remember what wig I wore to teach in or to my classes. Most of my fellow instructors know so at least that barrier is down but I've kept it to myself otherwise. I think I'll just show up and tell my students I had a bad hair day and got rid of all my hair. Or I rolled around in gum. Or just don't say anything at all. We make a lot of jokes in the classroom so maybe I'll just make a joke of it and that's that. "You'd never guess how crazy my Labor Day weekend was!" Or something. Either way, no more wigs starting officially tomorrow!

It's not like when I was sick that I was happy about being an albino hairless woman (my own analogy for how I felt) but it didn't bother me to the extent it did once I was better. I've found myself, not even joking, staring longingly at old pictures of my hair.

Oh, my hair. How I loved thee. So long and wonderful. It was like a shampoo commercial. 

Talk about identity problems. Way back before I lost my hair, I made an uplifting post about taking back my power by making the initial cut myself. And I did. And it was great. I still mean every word of it.  

And let's get real. I had far more important things to worry about then. Fighting cancer. Suffering from chemo. Parenting with a tumor. (Sounds like a bad self help book) And so on.

Not that I don't have important things going on now. I do. And they're huge. Teaching for the first time (which is going great and I love it,) graduate courses, moving to a new state, unpacking, and everything else. It'd just be nice to have my hair along for the ride.

But it is back, just not what it was before. It's growing super fast. I have the beginnings of a cute pixie cute. Every day it's looking more normal. I look kinda hardcore actually which is so not me but hey, I'll roll with it. I mean check this out- this is the hair exactly 14 weeks post chemotherapy:

Notice that my eyebrows and my eyelashes are completely back to normal. My eyelashes are even more full than they were before which is neat. So starting tomorrow, I'm not wearing wigs anymore. I'm sick of dealing with them and it's time to finally feel back to normal. Even if my hair doesn't look the same it's still MY hair. I'll rock the pixie cut and be proud of it.

Other than hair, recovery is getting there one step at a time. The neuropathy sucks the most and gives me the most trouble. The mornings are the hardest with the neuropathy and the fatigue. I have an appointment with the Survivorship Clinic next Tuesday that they say will help. I'm not even sure what they're going to do- some physical therapy, seeing different doctors, etc. I still have tons of pain and tenderness in the scar where my port was- they might be able to help with that too. The scar is so big and ugly- I honestly wouldn't mind it though if it didn't ache and sting all the time. So strange. 

On a far less optimistic note, I think I'm suffering from cancer survivor P.T.S.D. I already had a feeling that this was the case since my final PET scan made me feel utterly panicked but my last doctor's appointment totally reinforced that. The nurse was just taking my blood pressure and it totally freaked.me.out. Like I wanted to rip my arm out of the cuff and jump out of the window. Kind of like a Looney Tune. All it reminded me of was that one night I spent in the hospital from neutropenic fever when my blood pressure kept dropping, dropping, dropping... And they almost put me on the side of the hospital, as I so eloquently put it, where they send people to die.

(That's seriously not really the case but you know my bad sense of humor has to work its way in. I really don't think they send people there to die.. haha)

That night they (my awesome nurse, Megan specifically) took my blood pressure every 30-60 minutes (something like that, it's a blur now) and pumped me full of fluids. I remember the next day my face was so puffy that I didn't even recognize myself. That was the lowest point of the entire stretch of chemotherapy. The lowest point- I don't think there was anything much worse than those few days in the hospital. That night was one of the most scariest moments for me. 

And all it took to bring me back to that place was just having my blood pressure taken?

Wooooah, buddy. Good thing I don't have to go to the doctor often. Nice lady I talked to at the clinic told me the first year is the hardest. I'm seeing that is the case. I hope over time little things like having my blood pressure taken won't give me the shivers like it does now.

Time, time, time.

Like any traumatic event you just have to make peace with it. To distract yourself, talk about it, meet others with the same worries, whatever it takes. I'm not sure what I need to do yet to heal. Do I need to talk about it? Do I need to just try to forget about it?

Each day I want something different. I think for now, writing about it is the best medicine for me.

My goal for winter break is to start turning this blog into a book. I can't think of a better way to take this traumatic life event and make it into something positive. 

Nerves, nerves, nerves.

Nerves! Who needs 'em right?

Those things aren't important... are they?

Well, apparently they friggen are. Super important. Especially the ones in your feet and legs.

And guess what? Having six rounds of five days of straight chemotherapy drugs (five drugs to be exact) being pumped into your jugular vein is going fuck up your nerves.

Yeah, it got rid of the cancer. And that's peachy. It really is. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful to be in remission.

But it sucks to know that I'm going to be living with all these long term issues because of it.

Doctors have a lovely little term for this nerve pain/damage/numbness. Let's get technical here.

The nerves that are the farthest away from your brain are called peripheral nerves. Chemo hates those nerves. Like really hates it. It walks up and punches them in the throat.

The fancy term for this nerve damage is chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy.

And let me tell you, it's pure hell. It's worse in the morning and at night. I wake up in the morning and it feels like my feet- especially in my ankles- are in a vice grip. The ache is so deep it feels like my bones are going to shatter. I can barely walk and I have to hobble my way around the house until it finally lessens up. That's just the morning.

Now the rest of the day it's not too bad until evening unless I have to do some serious walking. That's when the pain begins in earnest. It travels up from my feet into my lower calves and my knees. It's so hard to describe nerve pain. It's different than muscle pain. It's deeper and much more shattering.

So that being said, this whole thing has me pretty grumpy. I'm going to be seeing the doctor again for this ASAP because it appears to be getting worse instead of better. There's no known medicine that really works (from what I've been told) for it but I find that a lame answer. There's gotta be something.

Survivorship is a bittersweet thing isn't it? We're so lucky to be alive. But we're left with this shaken up life that we did not have before. How do you go back to how you were before when you find yourself experiencing all these physical disabilities that you have no idea how to cope with? How do you communicate this to others? Especially in the work place?

Invisible disabilities are the worst.

The only plus side is I get a three year handicap tag for my pain and suffering. This wasn't a big deal in Wisconsin but in a place like Fort Collins this is HUGE. Parking here is a nightmare. Hence why everyone rides bikes. So thankfully, we get the hookup everywhere we go. If we decide to go for lunch in Old Town we can literally park on the same block as where we're going. Which is just down right rare in this area. It definitely comes in handy on campus too- it's an absolute lifesaver. So there's one perk!

In other, less grumpy news, I have a hair update for you!. It's coming in fast. At this point I'm pretty much done with wigs. They're ten times more uncomfortable than they were without any growing hair and I frankly don't give a damn anymore. I really don't. I've navigated the hard task of deciding whether to inform my new work and confided in a few of my colleagues and supervisors. Everyone has been real neat about it so far. No big surprise really- us English folks are empathetic folks. Most of the time. I don't plan on telling my students- I just don't think that conversation needs to happen in the classroom. Especially when I'm overwhelming them with information in their freshman year. I might just show up without a wig one day and say, "Woah! I got a haircut!" and that's that.

All the little things you never thought you'd have to deal with. It's stressful.

But viola! Check out my hairs! At the point of this picture we're officially 12.5 weeks out from my last chemotherapy treatment.

We're getting there!!

New Oncologist, Survivor Musings, and More Hair Growth.... This is a lengthy one folks.

One part of our awesome and exciting move to Colorado is less than exciting and awesome... at least because I don't want to deal with it.

Setting up with a new oncologist and cancer clinic here in Fort Collins.

That's not anything personal. At this point I would love to never see a cancer center again. I'm sure that's a normal response.

BUT

I love my new oncologist. She's funny, compassionate, and smart as hell. I decided to go though the giant umbrella of the University of Colorado Health. One big advantage of living in a big town: big time resources, baby. The biggest upside to that? Having an oncologist that ONLY works with patients with your cancer. Specialists for us special folks. My doctor only works with the blood cancer people.

POP QUIZ. Why is lymphoma considered a blood cancer?

I'm sure you're dying to know so I'll tell you. The lymph nodes are part of the lymphatic system which is a network of dudes that are a crucial part of the immune system because they carry fluid (such a gross term) that contains your white BLOOD cells. 

Ahhhhh. Makes sense now doesn't it? So basically, in my case, my thymus (strange little organ that no one has ever heard of that's part of that lymphatic system) decided it wanted to grow a big ole tumor. Since it sprung from my lymph nodes which are essential to white blood cell traveling (is that a real science term?) my cancer was a blood cancer. And because the type of tumor cells were b-cell and the thymus is in the chest its fancy name is Primary Mediastinal (fancy word for chest) Large (because that bastard tumor was huge) B-Cell Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

Anyways.

And the clinic itself was gigantic. My nurse navigator is great. She was on the ball and called me before my appointment to go over some of my records. She sat through the appointment with me and took notes and made helpful suggestions. The resources there are kick ass. They have a Survivorship Clinic that will be calling me next week to set up a day of physical therapy, exercise, and a general 'get well' plan to recover myself from that nasty ball busting chemo I had.There's an exercise program to help fatigue which is nice. Tons of classes, support groups, and meditation learning as well. I might hit up one of the support groups but I'm not sure yet if I feel like 'connecting' with anyone or if I'll go with my traditional route of repressing my emotions and then oversharing on my blog later on.

So here is my plan going forward: I'm going to meet with my oncologist every three months for blood work. In my blood they're going to be checking my overall health, blood cell counts, and looking for cancer markers. Basically your blood can do freaky things if your cancer comes back so they'll be watching for that. Every six months I'll have a CAT scan of my entire lymphatic system. So not just the chest area but all those stinking lymph nodes. Seems like a good plan and I'm just thrilled that I only need a scan every six months as opposed to three. I hate scans. PTSD anyone? Scanxiety is a thing. 

We covered my after chemo issues and she confirmed my suspicions that all the extreme ankle, foot, and leg pain I get on a daily basis (usually worse at morning and night) is caused by neuropathy. Basically, my nerves are all screwed up from the chemo. It's a form of nerve damage that often shows up in your hands and feet the most. Solution? Not one thing except that annoying 'it will get better with time' answer. 

Seriously, I wish doctors would just give me a cookie right before they say that to me. It would soften the blow and by now I'd have enough cookies to fill the void of grumpyness.

But it's better than her saying it's permanent. Because my extensive Googling has shown me a lot of websites that say that can be the case. Please, please, please Taco Overlord.... I pray that it won't be.

She followed up that lovely bit of advice (I do like her, I swear- it's just a common thing all doctors say that drive me bananas) with the information that.... Hey, it's going to take at least a year before your body returns to normal.

What was that now? A year? I got shit to do.

I must remind myself that being alive is nice. I'd like to keep doing it. And I'm thankful I am, achy legs, fatigue, hot flashes, and all. 

Oh well, the aches and pains are the worst. The menopause I can deal with. The hot flashes are miserable, the hormones suck, and the weight gain that won't go away is lame. But that's included in her 'one year' guess so we'll see. 

Menopause at age 28. No wonder my blog is based on a grumpy cat because that makes me pretty damn grumpy.

And hungry for more cookies. Seriously doctors, invest in a cookie jar.

So she ordered some blood work that day. My red blood cells are lingering right on the borderline of the lowest 'standard' range. My white blood cells still haven't crawled back to normal so I betcha that's causing some of my fatigue.

And she did an x-ray. Shoot, didn't even have grumpy cat with me. It did give me an opportunity to take a selfie for the blog without anyone giving me strange looks. 

My clinic and hospital back home were well acquainted with my picture taking and selfies. Nothing says 'blogger' than me shrieking 'WAIT! Bring me that bag of blood so I can get a picture of it!'.... For the blog... seriously, it's not weird. These folks will get used to it. 

So overall, I'm very impressed with the whole place. The nurses, the doctors, the lab techs, everything. Even their gowns are awesome! Because they're not gowns! They gave you scrubs to wear! 

I mean, seriously, check that out! Stylish, comfy scrubs for all your hospital needs. 

That's something all hospitals need to implement. I would get down right aggressive if anyone at the hospitals back home tried to force me into a gown.

(Right Aurora nurses? Hope you're still reading, miss you all!)

But I consented to these because they were pretty sweet. 

Plus they don't need to know how big of a pain in the ass I can be yet. This is all just gonna be in and out procedures anyways!

So my x-ray came back good. So now I am free until November until my next round of blood work and then CAT scan. Wooo..... not. But that's a ways off. At least it's not too close to Christmas.

That all being said, I seriously miss all the nurses back at Aurora. They were the best support system during that horrific battle. Especially with that last hospital stay and the last round of chemo- I was ready to give up (but you guys know I never would, not really) and they held me up when I felt I couldn't much longer. No matter how fancy pants this new place is, it's not the clinic that supported me every step of the way. Miss you ladies.

Honestly, one of the toughest things about being a survivor is realizing once they say REMISSION you have the glee, the happiness, the emotional uphill roller coaster and once all that ends.... you still have to deal with this crap. Recovering from chemo. Knowing that you may now face permanent changes such as a higher risk for heart issues, other cancers, long term neuropathy, infertility, and the shadow sword of cancer recurrence hanging over you for five years.

But during all of that, your support system is ripped out from under your feet. You no longer go to the clinic to get covered in warm blankets and fed soup. You no longer have a daily nurse (whether in the clinic or in the hospital) you see that knows in an instant what you're going through. Maybe not because she (or he) has gone through it but because they've seen it time and time and time again.

Your support system lessens and lessens. And that's okay. Because some days you want to pretend it never happened. Never talk about it again. Never think about it. I feel good those days so who needs a support system when there's nothing medical to support? Repress, repress, repress.

But then on days when my legs and feet hurt, I'm tired, my face is melting from the latest hot flash, and I feel like crying over my lost shoe... I feel more alone than I did when I had cancer. And that sucks. 

But wait, I don't want anyone to talk about it, right? Maybe I'm sending mixed signals.

I'll write a blog on all that later because that's a SUPER common trend I've heard from other survivors. That how when their support system vanishes (you're in remission, right? you don't need one anymore!) they emotionally sink.

Because really.. you're not back to normal yet. And on the days you can tell you're not back to normal- you're plain pissed off. Or sad. Or mopey. Or hungry. (Cookies?) And you still wish you had the same support you had during cancer to help with that.

Hmmmm, things to think about here.

But on a happier note:

Two weeks since my last image of my egg, I present you with a picture of what my head looks like 11 weeks after chemo.................

Drumroll......

HAIR HAIR HAIR HAIR HAIR HAIR!!!

Lions, mountains, moose, oh my!

I bet you all thought I went and fell off a mountain didn't you? Or was eaten by a mountain lion? Perhaps fell in the river?

Nah, we're all good.

Sadly, my cancer survivor trip has been postponed until later this year. That was super disappointing BUT I still went up to the mountains for a nice family weekend instead. We did some hiking and we went up to the top of Rocky Mountain National Park.

So since the kids were in tow it wasn't exactly the meditative experience the retreat was supposed to be but it was still a blast.

I successfully completed my first Colorado mountain hike. Uphill baby! Physically I felt pretty winded at first. One thing my oncologist warned me about in the mountains was my low red blood cell count which as you may know helps the oxygen flow in your blood stream. Less red blood cells means less oxygen. Normally not a big deal until you're up in the mountains in high altitude with thinner oxygen. Luckily, didn't have any issues with that on the hike. Going uphill I was a bit wheezy but once it leveled out my lungs adjusted and I powered through.

Honestly, I probably handled it better than I would have when I was a smoker before any of this cancer crap happened. So there's that to consider. We didn't go super far in since we had the kids and there were recent mountain lion sightings in the area.

Yeah baby, mountain lions.

Fighting a mountain lion is one experience I hope to never have. Yes, fighting one. Because the advice is to fight back if you're attacked. Well cool. I'll get right on that. I did see a moose though! Like literally, right next to us in the dark. Moose are freaky creatures. You'd think they'd be all cute but I didn't like the way it was looking at us.

I love hiking now. That was seriously such an awesome experience. It was just wonderful to feel physically strong again. The doctors have told me exercise is key to bouncing back and I'm jumping on that bandwagon as soon as I can. I want to get my body back into shape and make it powerful. I want to be able to handle a five mile hike without being winded. I want to be strong enough to handle rafting d\own the Poudre river. I have a list of physical goals to complete now. The further you hike, the prettier the views are. What could be better motivation than that?

We also took a stroll up Trail Ridge road (give it a Google, WI folks) which has an elevation of up in the 12,000 range. We wandered around the top of Forest Canyon and that was awesome. We were so high up that trees don't even grow because there's so little oxygen. And that's when I started to feel the altitude a little bit. Felt pretty dizzy when we got back in the car. But who knows if that's just a normal response to altitude for someone who's not used to it or if it's because of the chemo.

Top of the World: Forest Canyon Overlook

That's the tricky thing these days. Not knowing what to blame on the chemo or what is a natural ache or issue.

So I didn't fight a mountain lion. But I did survive the mountain! My aching after-chemo legs carried my happy butt up that mountain and the more I hiked the better I felt. It was liberating to feel strength in my body again after months of feeling as weak as a kitten.

So if you all remember back in February I made the declaration that I would conquer the snowbank of cancer and win....

Which I illustrated very nicely by climbing a snowbank.

We never have a shortage of snowbanks during WI wintertime.

And I certainly conquered the cancer. But at the time I think I was drastically underestimating the battle I was about to face.

Looking back on things I think my positive attitude was astounding but I think so much of that was partly because I had no real clue the hell I was going to face. I don't say that now to dismiss my positive outlook but to further illustrate the way a cancer fight knocks you off your feet

Even if you manage to hang on by your toes.

So really the more I think about it, I didn't really conquer the snowbank of cancer. It was much more than a snowbank. The hospital stays, the pain, the fear, and the toll it took on my family was much more immense than one snowbank.

In reality I conquered a mountain.

Bushy eyelashes, fuzzy head, post-chemo wig humor, and other five star updates.

I promised that I would keep updating on the progress of my hair. Three weeks after my last chemotherapy treatment (always counting from the last day) I had a few pieces of stubble. You couldn't see them but I could feel those little buggars pushing through my scalp. Here is a close up of my big ole egg. Can you see it?!

That's right folks. I have official hair growing. It's super bright blonde and it's fuzzy. I have fuzz! I'd say it's about 1/2 inch long. So we have a ways to go.

Tomorrow will mark nine weeks since my last chemotherapy treatment. It's starting to feel like another lifetime that I went through this. Remember all that repressing I like to do? My mind is working hard to try to shove all these cancer memories down into a little box and put them away in storage. But it's not so easy to do when you're bald. You're reminded every morning when you decide what color hair you'd like to have that day. You're reminded when you want to take your son to the pool and you have the agonizing back and forth in the car to go wigless (and be stared at) or risk getting your $300 wig wet. You're reminded at the end of the day when the first thing you do is rip that wig right off your head.

I don't think I'll ever be able to forget this experience but I sure can't wait to not have to be reminded of it every time I stare in the mirror.

That is one big reason why my regrowth is such an obsession for me right now. I cannot wait to feel completely like myself again. I miss my hair every day, every second, every moment. It's like a constant ache. I feel like I'm dealing with it worse now than I did when I first lost it. I was too wrapped up in battling cancer, suffering from chemo, and being a horribly appropriate combination of brave and terrified. Now I feel healthy, I'm living my dream, everything is happy, successful, and wonderful. But I'm friggen bald. That big ole bald head reminds me that life wasn't always sunshine.

It'd be nice to have just natural hair. No awkward pauses when someone compliments my awesome hair or asks me what salon did my dye job. I want to have my own hair. No more dealing with the pain of hat headache for hours at a stretch. Plus not having a melting wig on your head in 100 degree Colorado sun would be great too. Sure would make dating less daunting when I decide to entertain the idea. And it would avoid the possibilities of...

Insert PG-13 make out session. Smooch, smooch. Passionate 90's TV show hair grab. "Oh my gawd! Your hair just fell off!! I ripped your hair off!" Screaming for the hills.

Err, right?

Yeah, that sounds awkward. Is the fact you're wearing a wig first date table talk or do you just surprise them when they least expect it?

Now that could just be a fun game.

"Well hey there, Bob. What a nice day today, I feel like a nice breeze on my follicles." Rip off wig. Wait for reaction.

I don't like to date anyways. I don't like dealing with man needs. Pizza doesn't ask me to cuddle. Even though I'd probably like to cuddle with pizza.

Did I get off topic?

My eyelashes are BACK. I have official eyelashes. I use the term official because now they're long enough to put mascara on! And they're way thicker than they were before chemotherapy. So I guess I can forgive the chemo for being such a bastard and making them fall out after my last treatment. My eyebrows are back now and are already in need of a nice reshaping wax. Which I am terrified to do just yet. What if I piss them off and they all fall out? Better be nice to them for now.

It's too bad as a culture that we put so much emphasis on standardized female beauty. It's a pity that in order to feel beautiful, I feel that I need to put on a wig. Despite all the feminism coursing through my veins like Buffy (the vampire slayer) juice I still can't escape my own insecurities. Insecurities that have been force fed to me through years of television, advertisement, and popular culture brainwashing. But as I've discussed many, many times on here- hair is so central to our identity as human beings. Even more so for women. Are we wrong to put on wigs in order to feel like a normal and healthy woman? Does that make any of us less feminist for doing so? I don't think so.

I wish I could feel just as good without them. Because they sure are uncomfortable.

But day by day we're getting closer. The nurses told me the standard rate of hair growth is 1/2 inch per month. That sucks. But hey, maybe my hair will grow faster and surprise me.

I'll update on the hair progress as we go!

I have a big event coming up- at least as far as cancer survivor news goes. I signed up for a cancer mountain retreat/hike! It's all free and paid for by a wonderful group called Live by Living. They're going to take us up into the mountains where we will do yoga, meditation, and all sorts of healing techniques. This is going to be real outdoors kids. No electricity, just solar power. I'll take lots of pictures so I can share on the blog. I'm really excited. My sister Angela is going with me so it will be really fun. I think this will be really good for me. I need to connect with spirituality again. I need to refresh myself from my bitterness and just relax with nature. I need to have faith in my body again. It will be a great experience. I hope. As long as I don't fall off a mountain.

So keep an eye out for my next blog post! I will talk about my cancer survivor hike and I am sure that will be an enlightening post full of entertaining stories about my first time roughing it in the wilderness.