Bringing awareness.

Let me tell you a story.

Actually, my story (like many stories) begins with someone else's story. I won't go too much into detail, since it's really not my story to tell, but I feel like it needs to be included as a prologue of sorts.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a woman who was good and moral and kind. Some of you may know to whom I'm referring. She was a lot like me, in many respects (except, you know, I'm not quite as good and moral and kind). She was young, married, a mother, and basically did everything right. But, one day, she was unfortunately diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. Here is where our stories diverge, because while I was lucky enough to "beat" this disease, her story sadly ends with her tragic, untimely passing.

I mention this woman because, again, it wouldn't be possible for my story to begin without her. Before, I thought breast cancer was this invisible disease that only afflicted women of a certain age. I didn't know anyone who was currently or previously had been diagnosed with it. I certainly didn't know anyone who died from it. But then it happened to someone I knew, who was very young like me, a mother like me, someone who was least deserving of such a horrible fate. And while I could only mourn for her and her family's loss from afar, I also realized:

If it could happen to her, it could also happen to me.

It was the wake-up call I didn't know I needed. I started checking for lumps religiously after that, every time I showered in the morning, as I changed into pajamas at night, sometimes randomly during the day. I felt a little silly sometimes, because I felt so young worrying about something like breast cancer (I mean, a woman my age is still not legally allowed to get a mammogram), especially since I don't have a history of that particular cancer in my family. But I still did it anyway, feeling like I've "done my part" every time, even though I never found anything.

Then, four days before my 30th birthday to be exact, I found something. Something big. I immediately feared it was cancer. And even though I tried to rationalize otherwise, I knew in my heart that I was probably screwed. And my first thought (after "Oh !@#$") was to thank this aforementioned woman, who had passed away only a few years before. Because, whether she had intended to or not, she had just saved my life. If I hadn't known about her experience with breast cancer, I never would have bothered to check myself and would have been totally oblivious to that despicable tumor growing inside of me. I hate to say it, but it's true: I'd probably be dead right now if it weren't for her.

And here we are, in October, ten months after my initial diagnosis.

October is "Breast Cancer Awareness" month. I used to think this was stupid, like, who isn't "aware" of breast cancer? But now I see that Breast Cancer Awareness isn't about being "aware" of the disease - it's more about being "aware" that the disease could strike you or someone you love. Also, it's about celebrating all of the brave women (and men - looking to you, MM) who fought this particular disease and made it through with battle scars, as well as honoring those who were taken away from us. Kind of like Veteran's Day, but for breast cancer. And we must remember that those who are gone didn't "lose" the battle (I hate this win/lose nonsense); they fought just as hard and had just as much hope of survival, and even one woman getting a mammogram/ultrasound when they normally wouldn't means that their sacrifice wasn't in vain.

And now, for my requisite plug: Breast Cancer Awareness month is also about bringing awareness to the fact that although breast cancer research has come so far from where it was, say, ten or fifteen years ago, there is always something new on the horizon that could save even more people. My current immunotherapy treatment is a combination of one drug that has been around for fifteen or so years and another drug that only became available since September 2014 (so, it's fairly new). That drug was made possible by the trials, which was made possible by the research, which made possible by - you've guessed it - money.

More specifically, donations. But, while I'm sure the American Cancer Society and Susan G. Komen are both organizations that could benefit from your contributions, my humble suggestion is if you would like to donate to breast cancer research, please consider giving directly to your local hospital that researches and/or treats breast cancer (like Memorial Sloan-Kettering in NYC, or The Hospital at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, or the University Medical Center at Princeton-Plainsboro - just to name a few examples in my area). Sometimes it's easier to give to something with more concrete results, where there's tangible proof of your charity. I know I wouldn't be here today had it not been for so many other factors: my wonderful oncologist and amazing hospital, a particular combination of drugs, other people with breast cancer, the support of my family and all of you.

And though only time will tell whether I live "happily ever after" or not, at least, for now, I'm living.

Resurrection.

You know what "they" say: the years are short and the days are long.

Has it already been ten months? It feels like time has been passing at the speed of forever, and yet, in the grand scheme of life, ten months is just a blip in time. But so much can happen in ten months. In that time, a human fetus forms, grows in utero, and is born as an adorable, life-breathing bundle of helplessness. In that time, couples plan weddings; families prepare funerals; people complete their final year of education. In ten months, a person could be single, married, divorced, childless, a parent, employed, unemployed, healthy, sick, living, dead... and the worst part is, sometimes you never knows what's going to happen to you and when it's going to happen until it's already here, and by then it might be too late.

But, I'm here to tell anyone who will listen that it is never too late.

Nothing is ever perfect or truly easy, and mistakes will be made regardless of how much you try to avoid them. But what makes life so amazing is that there are so many opportunities for second chances. (Even this blog is being resurrected for the sake of an update, so my point extends beyond human life.) And think of all the people rooting for you - even total strangers whom you've never met, who provide a source of comfort and support when you most need it. Kind of like a neighbor lending you sugar. I don't think it's really possible to "start fresh," per se, because so much has happened and it's hard to forget the trauma of it all. But, just because you shouldn't forget doesn't mean you should also give up.

Cancer is interesting because it's the only thing in this world that has a mutual hatred. A man might inexcusably still live by the teachings of Mein Kampf, for example, but cancer can take his mother, his son, his best friend, his own life away from him. A woman might have an irrational animosity toward someone else, but the moment the latter is diagnosed with cancer all of that "sworn enemy" hatred goes out the window. Because we might disagree about immigration or gun control, but everyone can acknowledge that cancer in its every form is the absolute worst. The very word is enough to cause fear, anger, hate, suffering (which, of course, leads to the dark side).

But in a world that seems bleak with school shootings and terrorist beheadings, my experience with cancer has continued to show me the resilience of the human spirit and the benevolence of humankind. It is what keeps me going when I find myself on the dark side, a beacon of light in a storm, and I thank you all for this amazing gift.

Those lemons may be sour as hell but they sure can make sweet lemonade. All you need is a little sugar, borrowed from your neighbor.

(Please forgive the slew of cliched metaphors - I'm in that kind of mood...)

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.

So, it turns out that the woman doing my ultrasound scan today is the same woman who did my first ultrasound scan back in December. I don't remember her and she doesn't remember me, but her initials are on that first scan. Before she starts today's ultrasound, she scrolls through the past scans on a computer screen to get an idea of what to look for now. 

I avert my eyes, as I am a coward and afraid of what I will see, even if it's good news.

She starts working the ultrasound machine, but pauses a moment and then stops. She goes back to the computer and pulls up the original scans from December once more. From my vantage point, I see her scrolling through scan after scan until she stops on one and leaves it there on the computer screen. This time, I look - I can't help it, I'm curious. 

The long, black terror of a tumor stares back at me like a glowering menace. It's like looking into the eye of Sauron.

She returns to the ultrasound machine, this time with a ruler. She gets the exact measurement on my breast of where to look and tries again. The plastic stick kneading my flesh. The warm, gooey gel spreading across my skin. I can't bear having anything on my skin, including lotion, so this process makes me squirm a little. I try to focus on the ceiling to calm my nerves. 

"Oh, my God. I don't believe it." She shakes her head.

I jerk in response. "What? Do you see anything?"

There's a long pause. A deep breath. And then:

"No. There's nothing there."

I peer over my shoulder at the ultrasound screen. 

"Well, what's that?"

"That's the clip from your biopsy. But that's it. Just the clip."

When I had the biopsy of the primary tumor in my breast, they inserted a little clip in afterward as a marker to keep track of where they took the sample tissue. Before my first cycle of chemo in January, my oncologist had said that the goal would be to shrink the tumor so small that it disappears completely and only the clip would be left when viewing scans of my final ultrasound. Though, he added, the likelihood of that would be very slim, about 5%. Improbable, but a good goal nonetheless.

"So, that right there. That is just the clip? There's nothing else?"

"I mean... No."

"Oh. Wow."

It looks so clean, so new, so healthy. I'm stunned.

"Have you... have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"I have never seen anything like this before in my life. It's a miracle."

She leaves the room to go get the radiologist on call. Alone in the room, I am shaking. There are tears in my eyes but I don't even register that I'm crying, more like my eyes are in shock and are trying to make sense of things. My whole body thrums with dull energy as I keep staring at the stilled images on the screen.

It's a miracle. It's a miracle. It's a miracle.

She returns with the radiologist, who scrolls through the images and is explaining the scan to me. There is no indication that a tumor was ever there. No residual tissue, no scar tissue, nothing. Only the biopsy clip. I hear him but it's so hard to listen when my blood is rapidly pounding in my ears. 

As he leaves, we shake hands and he says, "Congratulations." In that one word I see my life, my future, unfurling out of the sky like little shooting stars (or meteors if you want to get technical) and coming back to me. I welcome it all. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles.

I believe in you my soul.

One thousand cranes.

Legend has it that if a person makes one thousand paper cranes, he or she is granted a wish (more info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thousand_origami_cranes).  Like many people my age, I first heard about this legend through the story of Sadako Sasaki - the young Japanese girl diagnosed with leukemia (she was exposed to radiation when the Hiroshima atomic bomb exploded) who attempted to fold a thousand cranes to fulfill her wish of recovery. Though she did not succeed in finishing that goal before her untimely death, the tradition of folding cranes for cancer patients has remained something of a pop culture phenomenon.

Which is why I decided to embark on such a task, once diagnosed with cancer myself. The superstitious part of me was convinced that if I could fold a thousand origami cranes, then my wish for a cure would surely come true. It was that simple! I started folding right away. People offered to help, but I refused, rationalizing that my wish would be stronger, more potent, if I did all of the work myself. I figured I could fold a certain number of cranes a day and have it done in two weeks, a month tops.

(I think you can see where I'm going with this...)

Yet, four months and five chemo sessions later, I found myself staring at the box of unfolded paper. The small percentage of finished cranes just stared back at me with silent judgement. I considered all of the times when I could have folded cranes and didn't. How quickly projects are so easily tossed aside in favor of excuses and reasons why not. This is typical behavior for me. I go through phases - I like to start a ton of personal side projects all at once, which eventually tend to fizzle out as I grow increasingly bored with each of them. Honestly, I'm surprised this blog has lasted as long as it has.

At first, I folded large cranes (6x6 paper) but then I realized the final product would be too large of a scale, so I dropped that and started folding smaller cranes (3x3 paper). I took random paper and folded cranes haphazardly, but then I realized I wanted there to be some kind of pattern with the colors and design of paper. So, I scrapped those cranes and started all over again, this time first counting out the different kinds of paper and organizing them by color, pattern, etc. It took forever, but I finally had a system in place. I split the thousand sheets of paper into ten groups of one hundred each and got to work. But then I was too exhausted to do the actual folding!

By this point, there was a slight hiccup in my treatment, which resulted in my having to do several mid-treatment scans. I won't go into details, because there's no point in causing unnecessary worry, but suffice it to say that this new, unexpected wrinkle was not what I had expected. It was more than just extreme fatigue and stiff joints and low white blood cell counts. There was a huge disparity between the results of my first cycle and my fourth - where my doctor was hugely impressed and optimistic before, now he was flummoxed and a little unsure. And if a decision wasn't made soon, then, well...

Let's just say it might not bode well for my future.

And so, due to my aforementioned superstitious nature, I looked to the cranes again for help. Only this time, I wasn't going to give up on them or myself so easily. On a selfish level, I needed this cancer wish to be granted, but as we all know wishes aren't free. Nothing is free, everything has a cost. But a thousand folded paper cranes in exchange for life doesn't really seem like a bad deal, when you think about it. It seems almost silly to put my hope in that, but people have put hope in all sorts of things to help them get through difficult times. Rather there be a little hope then no hope at all.

In that week I folded seven hundred paper cranes, with only three hundred (about a third) left to go. My fingers were stiff and raw and calloused and covered in tiny paper cuts. I was exhausted, but I still planned to finish the rest. And, the thing is, it wasn't about folding the cranes themselves - that part is arbitrary. It's about setting a goal and achieving it no matter the obstacles and whatever the outcome. I mean, has there ever been a sense of accomplishment in an unmet goal?

As my scheduled treatment draws to a close, I still need to have a PET scan, the results of which would determine whether or not I could stop the chemotherapy. My insurance company had denied the PET scan five times already, but I was determined to have it approved this time around. I started by folding two hundred paper cranes. My husband and I also contacted my oncologist's office to send my past scans and reports to the insurance company; the human resources dept at my job contacted the insurance company on my behalf; and my supervisors even contacted high-level administrators at my job to get some kind of result.

In the meantime, I had CT and full-body bone scans scheduled just in case the PET scan was denied again - I needed SOME kind of scan result if I was going to try to avoid yet another cycle of chemo on Monday (6/15). The CT/bone scans were scheduled for Friday, yesterday, and that morning before heading to the hospital, I sat and finished the final one hundred cranes. I had just folded my last crane, number one thousand, when I received a phone call from the HR representative at my job: after six months of waiting and multiple denials, my PET scan had finally been approved.

This was the moment for which I had been waiting, and even my superstitious nature couldn't believe that it all happened the moment I finished my goal of folding one thousand paper cranes!

Just to be on the safe side, I poured all of the tiny cranes onto the floor and counted them out, one by one. By the time I had finished counting them all - all one thousand cranes - the CT/bone scans were canceled for that day and PET scan was scheduled for 6/22, so that means I will have to undergo one last cycle of chemo on Monday. But even though I am not looking forward to more chemo, I am willing to do that if it means I might never have to do it again.

The moral of today's story: You can do anything you put your mind to, as long as you buckle down and just do it. Also, I am superstitious. Also also, miracles won't happen if you sit around and wait for them to appear - true miracles come from persistence, dedication, hard work. And maybe a little luck, too.

Lucky number seven.

Some observations of my body after my seventh (and last scheduled) chemo treatment before my upcoming PET scan:

- My bones and joints are still a bit sore and ache-y, but nowhere near the level of neulasta-induced torture. Muscles are very weak, and exhaustion is also pretty high and harder to shake nowadays. But I'm still working and parenting and running errands and doing chores. Because life goes on, with or without me, whether I want it to or not.

- My hair is growing back, a mixture of black and dark blonde, a scalp that is fuzzy and soft. In my former life, pre-cancer, my hair was dark brown. This should be interesting. Sometimes I wonder if it will be straight or curly, but honestly I'm just happy that I can see hair. As far as I'm concerned, hair equals the light at the end of the tunnel. A return to normalcy.

- I continue to have a pretty healthy appetite. In total, I have gained about 20 pounds since December, the heaviest I have ever been in my entire life (excluding pregnancy). There are now multiple chins and bloated cheeks and a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly. But, you know? Who really cares. Because, at the end of the day, healthy is healthy - certainly better than the alternative.

- The lymphedema on my right hand and arm is still there, still swollen, but physical therapy helps. Between the exercise and the massages and the workouts, I feel pretty strong and energetic and I can see major improvements. I've been fitted for a compression glove and sleeve, which is kind of depressing to wear but I deal with it. My husband says I look like the Bionic Woman when I put it on. Eh, I'll take whatever compliments I can get.

- The rash on my face and scalp and sometimes neck, chest, and back is flaring up again. Which is to be expected, since the chemo is so harsh and my skin is so sensitive. So, I take preemptive measures via an antibiotic once a day (for a month) and a thick, pasty medicated face wash twice a day and a pink, gooey anti-fungal shampoo twice a week. My routine grows with each new development that arises, it would seem.

- I still get really nauseous, even with the chemo reduction. Luckily, as with the chemo rash, I can take preemptive measures to combat this in the form of anti-nausea medication, but it's uncomfortable nonetheless. Yet another reminder that my body is being poisoned, and there's not much I can do about it except take pills upon more pills to fight it off.

- I have "chemo brain," which means I am constantly forgetting everything. I have to remember to set reminders. Which, of course, I forget! I forget to do basic things and sometimes forget where I am or what I'm doing. I start a sentence and then trail off because I've lost my train of thought. I've forgotten what I was going to say as I am in the process of speaking. Not to mention that I lose memories. This part of the chemo brain can be a pretty tragic experience. What is life without memory?

- My ovaries have shut down. I am now experiencing menopausal-like symptoms. Including hot flashes. It is probably the worst part about the chemo now that I no longer need the neulasta shots and don't have to worry so much about low white blood counts anymore. I try not to complain about this, since there are pros to menopause (such as the obvious), but hot flashes in this heat can be unbearable. Thank goodness for ice water and air conditioning and layered clothing.

- The sores in my mouth, under my tongue, down my throat, burn as I swallow. My teeth are sensitive, making it hard to chew. I could do without the persistent ashy taste in my mouth. The constant bloody nose is a nuisance. My nails are starting to ripple, the nail beds bruising. I'm told my finger nails will eventually fall off if I continue with more chemo treatments.

- I am currently craving sushi. And salad. And medium rare steak. And cold pasta salad. And over-easy eggs. And soft-serve frozen yogurt. And smoked salmon. And sriracha sauce. And an Italian hoagie. And bananas. And raw cilantro. And goat cheese. And tap water, of all things. And, oh yeah, more sushi. Basically, everything that I have not been "allowed" to eat these last five months because of the chemo. 

Sigh. I am so ready for this chemo to be over. Hopefully seventh time's the charm.

Mothers and daughters.

Mother's Day is coming up. As it approaches, I am always reminded of my daughter, Freya, whose birthday is on May 18. I spend Mother's Day planning her birthday party, which is usually scheduled for the following weekend. (I am also reminded of how I almost died bringing her into this world, but that is a story for another day.)

This year, however, my husband and I decided that it would just be too much to organize and host a party for her, considering the circumstances. I was nervous bringing it up with Freya, because for the last few months she kept mentioning her birthday party wish-list: where she wanted to have it, who she wanted to invite, what kind of theme she wanted, etc. She likes birthday parties because she gets to spend quality time with ALL of her friends from her various groups, plus who doesn't like to get presents? I like birthday parties because they are fun to plan, and, quite honestly, I really enjoy watching all of these kids celebrating my daughter and making her feel special.

After all that she has been through - first when she was born and now with my cancer - if anyone deserves a party, it's Freya.

But now that it's May, and Mother's Day is fast approaching, people have been coming up to me, worried that they had lost the invitation to her supposedly upcoming 6th birthday party. And then there's the awkwardness of, "Oh, we're not having a party this year..." and these parents look at me with a mixture of pity and understanding. It's okay, I feel bad for me, too, on a selfish and superficial level.

So, yesterday I told Freya that we wouldn't be hosting a party for her. Before I could explain, she immediately said, "It's okay, Mommy. I don't want a party. You would be too tired to plan anything, plus you might not even be able to come if you're too sick." And I could see her lip quivering and she's wiping tears, because I know in her heart she's thinking of a missed opportunity to spend time with all of her friends and all of the presents she won't be getting. She can't help it, she's a little kid. Although, really, she's not missing out: we will spend her birthday weekend with family and close friends, so she'll be getting plenty of presents.

No one needs to feel sorry for my little girl.

But that night, after Freya was fast asleep, I thought about what she said and I couldn't stop myself from crying. It felt kind of silly, weeping in the middle of the night like that. The thing is, not being able to organize a party for Freya was just another reminder of how much this cancer has taken yet one more thing away from me. I know, I know, boohoo, I can't throw a lavish party for my daughter. First world problems.

It was more than that, though. The way Freya responded so immediately made me realize that not only had she been expecting me to tell her that she wouldn't be having a party, but she also had a little speech prepared for when I brought it up with her. She wasn't worried about missing out on some stupid party; she was worried about ME. She put her own desires aside for my sake.

People ask me all the time how Freya is handling this whole cancer ordeal. Well, here's the answer. Her level of maturity and selflessness continues to astound and amaze me. Sometimes I can't believe how easy she has made it for me to cope. I don't know how I got so lucky. I am so proud to be her mother, and even more proud that, as my first born, Freya is the reason I am a mother to begin with.

And I can't think of a more appropriate Mother's Day present this year.

Minor setback.

Sometimes, I can't help but feel that life is really not fair.

I am in the emergency room right now. My right hand and arm are so swollen that the ring started to cut off circulation on my right ring finger. My hand, which is usually thin and bony, is thick and dimpled. Like it belongs to my toddler, not me. I spoke with the oncologist on call, who suspected that it might be a blood clot and was basically like, "Get thee to the ER." And so, here I am.

I am not happy that I am in the ER. I don't want to be here. I have managed to avoid this place even after five rounds of chemo, with the sixth round just around the corner. The risk of me getting a severe illness is enhanced here. And then I threw up while in triage. It was utterly humiliating. Right now, I'm waiting for the results of the ultrasound to determine whether or not the blood clot is legit. My port was accessed through an IV, blood was drawn, nausea medication was administered. It's late, and I'm tired and impatient.

My poor, poor husband is sitting here next to me: eyes bloodshot, fingers tugging at beard hairs, leg shaking. To pass the time, he reads to me. "The Little Engine That Could." I couldn't help rolling my eyes. Seriously, a children's book? And yet. As he reads, I think about this little blue engine. Her desire to help others in need and her perseverance to overcome even the most difficult obstacles. I am becoming one of those people who chant self-help mantras to boost morale. I think I can, I think I can.

When I start to feel even a little sorry for myself I am reminded of Nepal and Baltimore and ISIS, and what is real suffering compared to that? Yes, I have cancer, but my privilege allows me access to top-quality medical care. I may be in the ER, but at least there's a hospital close to my home to which I can go for emergencies. I have a full-time job, which provides both an income and insurance. I have family and good friends who are watching my children while I am here.

So I may be sick and life may be unfair, but this is nothing compared to the big picture. Just a minor setback. I am grateful to be alive. Holding on to the hope of recovery.

I think I can, I think I can.

Nothing to fear, but fear itself.

My first memory is of when I had the chicken pox.

It's a fuzzy and watery vision (age does that, I suppose), but it's clear enough for me to get an idea of what is happening in this particular memory. I am staring at my reflection in a full-length mirror that hangs on the bathroom door of my grandmother's NYC apartment. In the reflection, I see an open window and an oscillating fan, and judging from my attire (diaper and nothing else) I can only assume it must be summer. My hair is a brown mushroom cap of a bob, with the top half pulled tightly into a little ponytail that sits atop my head. My sister is jumping up and down behind me, yelling, "Nari is going to die! Nari is going to die!" 

And I begin to believe her. My saucer eyes silently trail across the angry red welts on my skin. These foreign, frightful things simultaneously itch and hurt. I don't know what to make of it all. Later, I asked my mom when I had the chicken pox and she told me I was about one or two years old. So that must be my age here.

While in graduate school, I took a course on memoir writing (still by far my most meaningful and productive class) and at one point I took the opportunity to recollect on this memory. In retrospect, I realize why such an early memory stayed with me for so long. It was not the memory itself, that I had the chicken pox, which made such an impact, but the FEELING I had during the experience. I remember feeling something, but at the time, at such a young age, it was hard to articulate such abstract concepts.

But now, as an adult, I know that the feeling was fear. Unadulterated, paralyzing fear.

Fear is my worst enemy. I can think of so many unhappy occasions where fear was a catalyst. It takes over my body and I am blinded by it. I make irrational and impulsive decisions out of sheer panic. Even as I attempt to overcome it...sometimes, I just can't, and I hate when fear has that kind of control over me. If there is anything that I am afraid of most in the world, it is fear. 

I am about to leave to have a procedure done this morning. A CT scan of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis, as well as a full-body bone scan. The point of the scans is to determine how to proceed with my current treatment and to maybe see if there might be a complete response - meaning, no visible signs of cancer left in my body. If there is a complete response, then no more chemo treatments (though I will continue the immunotherapy treatments). After the ordeal I have endured with chemo these last four or five months, this is such an overwhelming concept. 

And I woke up this morning with a pit of fear beginning to form in my gut. I thought about all of the people who have hope that there will be a complete response. But the idea that I might disappoint them all gives me so much fear and dread.  I can't help it.  And I wish there was something uplifting I could say here. 

But, unfortunately, this is all I have for now.

Round 4: The infusion facility.

I am generally the first one there.

Sometimes, I arrive before the reception staff have had time to boot up their computers. The wait can be a bit long, since the nurses are still en route to work and the infusion facility is completely void of any human activity. So I sip on iced tea and rub my port with numbing cream while I wait. To my left, my husband works remotely on his laptop, while to my right, my older sister pages through expired magazines that one only finds in doctor's offices.

I am finally summoned to the infusion facility, and they draw blood from my port. The numbing cream luckily helps to reduce any painful side effects of being stabbed with a needle. But, I mean, a stabbing is still a stabbing. Even though I am given advanced warning, the action startles me every time. The necessary blood is extracted but the needle stays in the port, attached to a tube that is taped to my skin. I should be used to it all by now. But, I'm not. I don't think I will ever be used to this silicone port in my chest.

After moving my stuff - laptop, snacks, etc. - to my private room, I then wait some more, this time for the requisite meeting with my oncologist. Before I see him, I'm weighed and cuffed and there is mention that my heart rate is high. It always is. Then my oncologist reviews the results of the blood draws and, thanks to the steroids I remembered to take twice the day before and once again at breakfast that morning, it is revealed that my white count, like my heart rate, is also high. Though, unlike my heart rate, my high white blood count is considered a good thing.

We go over any questions and schedule follow-up visits, and then I am sent to my room within the infusion facility to begin my treatment. I sit in a cushioned, heated chair covered with blankets, wearing a colorful scarf atop my head, a face full of makeup, and fuzzy socks on my feet. As I am given my premeds (including some heavy-duty antinausea meds) and the immunotherapy drugs, I pass the time by binge-watching Friends on my laptop via Netflix - with each episode, I chuckle at the outdated humor and the absurdity of plot devices, but also at the memories of watching these very episodes first on "live" TV and then again through a DVD marathon.

My, these times they are a-changin.

When the afternoon approaches and the chemo is due to make its entrance, I drink electrolytes and snack on pretzels as I wait for my lunch (Chinese, of course) to arrive. All in all, the entire process from start to finish is between five to six hours. But, I don't mind so much anymore. I am flanked by two of the most important people in my life: my husband on my left and my older sister on my right. I am relaxed and comfortable and maybe a little drowsy.

Until I have to go to the bathroom. Then, I am reminded that I am attached to IV tubes through a silicon port that was surgically placed in my body. And that these very tubes chain me to the long metal rod on wheels that hold the poisons and chemicals pumping greedily into my body. When I stand, I must depend on someone to help push the heavy contraption, which beeps incessantly, to the bathroom with me. This means I can never go to the bathroom alone. It is an unavoidable feeling of helplessness and degradation. But when nature calls, I guess one must answer it no matter how difficult the situation. So I put down my food and pause my laptop. Opening the door, I witness a stark contrast to the comfort of my room. Whereas inside there are loved ones and comedy TV and Chinese food, out here it is silent and still as a graveyard.

There are two private rooms on either end of the infusion facility: I occupy one, but the other seems like it is always empty. Instead, the room is crowded with patients who are much, much older than I could ever dream to be, each in the communal space separated only by a curtain. They sit in cushioned chairs like mine, but very few use any of the blankets. No one eats, even though it's lunch time. The women being treated are usually alone, wearing scarves or wigs on their heads, and the men are usually accompanied by a woman, whom I can only assume are their wives, knitting quietly beside them. Some of my fellow patients sleep, some read paperback books.

I acknowledge them all as I walk by them on my way to the bathroom. The ones who are asleep ignore me completely, and the ones who are awake stare at me but many do not reciprocate either. They just want to be left alone, it seems, which is fine and totally understandable. I must look so strange to them, this rosy-cheeked girl with a smile on her face and a skip in her step. But, like everyone else in the room, I too am playing a game of chess with Death. Some of us will win, and some of us won't be so fortunate.

Only time will tell.

I pass the nurses at their station, cheerfully greeting each by name, and they return my sentiment in kind. Always smiling, always offering me sweets and snacks, always inquiring after my health, always glad to see my sunshiney disposition. But I remember how it was when I first met them during my tour of the facility. The shock was palpable. Their smiles, which never reached their eyes, were strained and uneasy. They didn't know where to look. They asked me to repeat my date of birth because they couldn't process that one of their patients was born in December 1984. One nurse commented, "You are the youngest person I have ever seen walk through this door." And I believe her.

As in the infusion facility, the waiting room of the oncology office is also full of people much older than I am. Here, they regard me unabashedly, and I let them. Because it's not just blatant stares and looks of pity. No, I also see something else: fear. They look at my youth and suddenly think of younger sisters, nieces, daughters, granddaughters. Because, to them, I am living proof that cancer is merciless. But, hopefully - as a rosy-cheeked girl with a smile on my face and a skip in my step, as I successfully complete each round of chemo and eagerly await the end of this journey - I can also prove that cancer is fallible.

And it will rue the day it ever thought it could destroy me.

Finite disappointment, infinite hope.

Well. It had to happen at some point.

I became too comfortable with my current lifestyle and assumed that my situation would stay the same throughout the rest of my treatments. And we all know what they say about people who "assume."

The reality, of course, is that in life nothing is certain, nothing is permanent, nothing is fixed. But this is what makes life so wonderful, in theory: how each day can be seen as new and fresh and different, with no mistakes in it (yet), and there are hidden surprises around every corner just waiting to be discovered. Then again, I'm not really a big fan of surprises. Case in point.

My surprise came on Monday morning in the form of my doctor telling me that my white blood count was the lowest it has ever been. I believe the exact words he used were "dangerously low." And then I had to get another one of those immune boost shots (not the same shot as the one I'd had after my first chemo session, but similar). And then I was told that I shouldn't go back to the office until my white blood count was back to a normal, healthy level. If that's even possible.

I was, in a word, disappointed. Here is where I realized my error in judgement.

The thing is, I look forward to going back to work. Working helps me to create a sense of normalcy in my otherwise pretty depressing life. I know I am extremely lucky to have a job at which I not only  excel but also enjoy. I work hard and feel productive and valued. I see and talk to people whom I genuinely appreciate. I behave like someone who hasn't just gone through a round of chemo.

And, like a fool, I thought my schedule would always be the same every time going into the next chemo treatment. One week of chemo/recovery followed by two weeks at the office. It had worked so well up until now. Luckily, I have the type of job where I can work from home, but it's not the same. It's like I'm completely helpless. My bed is becoming more and more like a cage. I want to be out in the world, experiencing life. The taste of freedom is bittersweet.

I have to keep in mind that nothing is certain, nothing is permanent, nothing is fixed. I have to learn to embrace life's many surprises, both the good and the bad. Otherwise, I will be perpetually disappointed. Then again, maybe it's okay to be disappointed once in a while, so long as one doesn't give up on hope. To borrow MLK, Jr. rhetoric: disappointment is finite, hope is infinite.

And so, while I do feel disappointment, I also continue to have hope. Hope that each day will be new and fresh and different, with no mistakes in it (yet). Hope that one day, I will have real, true freedom.

Freedom from cancer.

Scarce resources.

It used to be that time was my biggest scarcity. When I was first diagnosed, I focused so much on time, time, not enough time. Time to live, time to mother, time to work, time to experience. But I see that time comes and goes like waves on a shore, as it always has before and always will, and I'm still here. Time, it seems, has not forsaken me yet. And I am grateful.

There is a new scarce resource now. I woke up this morning feeling... nothing. My energy is gone. All the strength I had to move, speak, think. Gone. Even my reserves - my "generator," as I called it - is gone. A thief in the night, it crept up on me slowly. And suddenly. It's the worst kind of hangover, complete with memory loss and exhaustion and disorientation. 

And worst of all: regret. Regret that maybe I pushed myself too much the day before. Regret that perhaps I took it for granted for too long. And now it's time to pay the piper, but the price is too high.

The thing is, I know why my energy has become such a commodity. It's needed elsewhere, for more important reasons, and I understand that. I can even feel it, this intense war between mutinous cancer cells trying to kill me and poisonous chemo trying to kill the cancer. But, then, there's a second battle also raging, one where the cancer and chemo band together against my own body. And there's only so much a person can take.

They say that when people come upon conflict, they react in one of two ways: fight or flight. In this way, I have no other choice but to fight. My very survival depends on it, after all. And so persevering without energy for the next two months or so is not the end the of the world. Certainly not for me. It just means that my smile may not be as wide or my laugh may not be as loud or my wit may not be as sharp. The important thing to remember is that I'm still here. Just depleted a little.

I wake up each morning, thankful to be given yet another day to live, the gift of time. Every inhale and exhale is precious, a reminder of survival. 

The month of expectation.

Emily Dickinson writes that "March is the month of expectation." How fitting, considering the little expectation I have going into this new month.

Tomorrow will be my third round of chemo. Three out of six. The mid-way point. The colloquial "hump day," as it were.  My naiveté had hoped that these treatments, and the subsequent recovery process, would be very much like the month of March: in like a lion, out like a lamb. But then reality kicks in. You realize the lion probably ate the lamb, so March (as well as my chemo recovery in tandem) will probably be more "in like a lion, out like a lion." A well-fed lion.

Here I am again, unable to predict what the future holds for me. If my experience so far has taught me anything it's that every round of chemo is different. I basically have no idea what to expect going into this next infusion. My mind is flooded with all sorts of questions, like, How is it going to be this time: easier, harder? What if I have another reaction? Would I have to switch to a harsher chemo?

And I hate that, because I'm a neurotic control-freak perfectionist.

So I can't think about it, otherwise it drives me nuts. Instead, I putter around the house and drink lots of fluids and distract myself with movies and other forms of entertainment. Steroids give me a voracious appetite, and there are moments where I find myself longing to eat my weight in food. Which is a good thing, I guess.

Also helpful: The cards and gifts and well-wishes and advice and visits and prayers and food and monetary assistance and texts and e-mails and Facebook messages and phone calls and one-on-one card games. To know you are thinking of me and my family, even for a moment, helps me battle this awful cancer in more ways than the chemo ever could. Chemo is a poison, after all, and humanity is the antidote.

I had decided from the very beginning that I would beat this cancer, with the intention of doing it by myself, but it's comforting to know that I'm not alone. It makes the daunting task much less scary and more feasible. And with assistance, I will fight that lion into submission.

My one expectation for March: In like a lion, out like a lamb.

Round 2: A total disaster.

My second round of chemo started out as it did the previous time. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was given the two immunotherapies without any consequence, followed by the chemo.

And then I started sneezing. And then I started coughing. And then I started throwing up.

That is all I can remember from that day, besides little snippets. I remember chaos, but not much else. I remember there were two or three nurses there, squeezing clear syringes of liquid into my IV. I remember seeing my doctor there, which was odd to me at the time since he is never usually there. I remember someone telling me to stop coughing and to take deep breaths. But all I can think is:

help I can't stop help I can't breathe help help help

My husband tells me that at one point my heart rate shot to 150 (I felt like I was having a heart attack). I was throwing up for almost an hour. They stopped giving me the chemo halfway through, and I was given two doses of ativan in order to sedate me. Apparently I begged them to keep going with the chemo. That sounds like something I would say. I have no recollection of coming home. My memories were stolen from me.

It's been four days. Since I didn't have that extra shot of neulasta, I have no bone pain (thank God). Since I had only a half dose of chemo, the ashy taste is minimal and there aren't any sores in my mouth and throat, at least not yet. In theory, compared to last time, the recovery period seems like it should be easier.

But... I don't know how to explain it. I feel like I'm living in thick, heavy fog. I have lost all sense of time, of space, of me. My head is cloudy, and I can't think or see straight. Waves of exhaustion and minor nausea roll over me and I am overcome with a need to lie down, even if I don't want to sleep. And when I finally manage to pull myself out of bed, my body is sluggish and I can barely lift my feet to walk. The cough is better, thanks to a super-strong syrup laced with codeine, but I've somehow contracted a sinus infection this time around.

But, I mean, it could be worse. It could always be worse.

Everyday my daughter asks me, "Mommy, why do you have cancer?" And the only response I have is, "I don't know. It just happened." What else can I say? There is so much confusion and complication surrounding this whole ordeal. There are times when I wish things were different, that I had an uneventful life, that this cancer had never found me. But there's no use in dwelling on the "what if's." And so I keep moving forward, despite the corporeal protests. I don't have any other choice. I have to remember that although I am losing control over my life, all is not lost.

I'm taking the road less traveled by, and hopefully it makes a difference to someone, somewhere.

(On a side note, my friend's mom passed away this week after an 8-year battle with breast cancer. Her funeral is tomorrow. It hits close to home for obvious reasons. I am angry that such a kind, wonderful spirit is gone and heartbroken for her childrens' loss and scared that I'm next and determined that I won't be next - not now, not ever.)

From the mouth of babes.

FREYA: Here, Mommy, this is for you.
(Gives an envelope with $4.67 inside)
ME: What's this?
FREYA: It's all of my money. You're not allowed to give it back to me or spend it on me.
ME: Thank you honey, but you don't have to give me your money.
FREYA: Well, I want to. You have cancer, and I want you to get better.

My fair lady.

My hair started falling in droves.

So, I decided it was best to just shave it all off.

And then I looked at myself in the mirror - 

I mean, really LOOKED at myself -

And I hated what I saw.

Because it wasn't me.

The "me" I knew had hair. Lots of it.

Beautiful, brown hair.

Straight, silky, smooth, shiny hair.

Disney Princess hair.

I didn't think I looked like a woman.

Because I'm bald now.

And society has told me that "real women" aren't bald.

My head is too small for my body.

My head is weirdly shaped.

I wanted to cover it up.

Hide it so that I wouldn't have to be reminded.

But woolly hats were too itchy.

And scarves made me look like a gypsy or a pirate.

I kept seeing uncomfortable stares.

I didn't think I would ever get used to it.

This new look.

But today I woke up and thought:

It's not so bad, being bald.

Sure, my head is colder than before.

But I've gotten used to the itch.

And I've gotten used to the scarves.

And I've even gotten used to the stares.

I like the way my scalp feels.

I like the way I look.

Because I realized that I haven't really changed at all.

I'm still me, still a woman - with or without hair.

I like the person I see when I look in the mirror.

I've grown accustomed to her face.

Small victories.

The philosopher Seneca once said, "Life is like a play: it's not the length, but the excellence of the acting that matters." And so, I am going to focus not on the length of my particular play, but on how well I act it out. Because, let's face it, I am a drama queen.

More than anything else, I don't want to feel like a cancer patient. Therefore, I refuse to act like one. Therefore, I will not BE one.

So, I went back to work last week, my first week back since chemo. And you know what? It was awesome. And then there was a weekend of napping off the incredible amount of accumulated exhaustion. And then I went back to work today. And you know what? It was also awesome. Even with the snow and rain and ice and chill. Even with the fact that it's not just any Monday but the day after the Super Bowl and should, technically, be a national holiday. 

Because although I didn't feel quite 100% yet, at least I didn't feel like a cancer patient. Instead, it was almost like I had been sick with a really bad cold and spent the last week recovering from it. And with that, I have decided to only think about the victories, however small.

There was a part of me that feared that I may not be able to return to work, or be able to do my job at the same level of precision to which I am accustomed. But I returned to work, and it was pretty much a success, because I did my job without falling behind or screwing anything up. Victory!

Last week I had a check-up with my oncologist and then today I had follow-up appointment. During the first check-up (last week), it was discovered that the reason why I had such a strong reaction to the neulasta - the excruciating pain and whatnot - was because my white blood cell count was off the charts. On a scale of 5-11, my number was 52. So, with the pain came a flood of white blood cells that basically annihilated the tumors in my body. Victory!

And the proof is there. At the follow-up appointment (today), my doctor did an exam that found no hint of any tumors. Now, on the day of my chemo, there were so many tumors that lumps were starting to grow on my skin. It was, in a word, disgusting. And my lymph nodes were swollen and super painful. And now? Now, everything is gone after just a week. By today, the primary tumor - the mother ship. as it were - is gone. It was like I never had cancer to begin with. 

And the doctor was flummoxed. He said that he has never seen a patient with such a strong response after only the first round of treatment. He said I was a "special case." 

I keep getting told that I'm a "special case." The word "special" has always bothered me. It literally means, "better, greater, or different from the usual." So, it's like, everybody is special and therefore nobody is special because everybody is special. You know? If everyone is different from the usual then how is the usual determined? Well, it makes more sense in my head. Anyway. One other reason why "special" has bothered me is because whenever I hear it associated with my situation, there's always a negative slant to it, complete with pitiful glances and patronizing hugs. 

Also, what if I don't WANT to be special?

Perhaps my situation is unique, and therefore it is considered special. Because how many thirty-year old mothers do you know have stage 4 her2+ breast cancer? But the more I live with this cancer, the more I see that so many others have been there before me. Maybe not EXACTLY like me, but the emotions are comparable, and that's enough. Are those people any less special than me?

But, I digress. The point is, this has been a good week. But with the good comes the bad, which in this case means that my hair is already starting to fall out. All of it. Little by little. Everywhere. Even though I was told I had at least one or two more months. Because everything about my situation is extreme. "Special," if you will. But that's okay, because as we all know, hair grows back. It's just annoying because my scalp burns and itches and I am shedding like a dog. Or molting like a bird.

But I guess I am kind of like a bird. I'm the phoenix, slowly discarding my plumage until I am nothingness. And from the ashes, I will rise again - better, greater, different from the usual. Another victory to claim, when the time comes.

(Told you I was a drama queen.)

Exodus.

I wake up surrounded by hair that is mine, but not mine. Once mine. No longer mine. 

I try not to weep for the loss. My ear itches and, welp, there goes a sideburn. There's no point in brushing it, or even showering. But I do anyway, out of habit. I watch the hair float down like dandelion seeds. They cling to my skin, my clothes, the furniture. They collect in my hand, around my neck, on the floor. I need to get used to these tumbleweeds of hair. And what do I do about my eyebrows? Now I know why people just shave it all off. 

It's just hair. It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

It'll grow back.

I consider each falling strand: Thank you for the last thirty years, when you were strong and smooth and shiny. Thank you for growing quickly so that I could donate fifteen inches of you every other year to people in need. Thank you for being the subject of compliments and for giving me confidence and for making me feel beautiful. Thank you for all of the bad hair days I never had. Until we meet again, I send you off to "a far green country under a swift sunrise." I anxiously await your return.

Never surrender.

Whenever anything happens now, my husband says, "You should blog about that," or "Add that to the blog." It's true that so many little blog-worthy anecdotes keep making themselves known, and I have to fight the urge to just post and post and post. I'm trying to find that line where I share what's going on with me, yet keep a modicum of privacy, too. The thing about this blog was that it was never really intended for an audience, more for my own sanity and also a way for me to keep track of my journey. But, now there's an audience.

So.

Uh.

Hello!

Ugh.

Did that scare you?

Sorry.

Didn't mean to sound so chipper.

Hey.

Too casual?

Okay.

Hi.

That's better.

Moving on.

My name is Nari.

I'm half-Korean, half-Caucasian.

I just turned thirty about a month ago.

I'm married with two kids.

I work at a major Ivy League university.

I have a graduate degree in creative writing and film theory.

I have hobbies but have very little time to indulge them.

I have friends but have very little time to indulge them.

And I have cancer.

Stage 4 metastatic her2neu+ invasive ductal breast cancer.

If you want to be specific.

As much as I hate to do it, I feel like I have to tack on this last part. About the cancer. Having cancer doesn't define me as a person, at least I hope not, but it sure is a major part of my life right now. But, you know, I'm okay with it. It was a shock at first - after all, I just turned thirty! - but in this case I think it's more important to just accept it and move on than to dwell in the depths of despair, to quote Anne Shirley. So, I'm moving on from the initial shock. I'm getting the best possible treatment I can get. This past week was pretty rough, but I got through it. And there's going to be more rounds of chemo coming up, and those are probably going to be even worse, but I'm going to get through those, too. Because life is short as it is. And when there's so much to live for, you tend to focus more on the quality rather than quantity of life. This is all just one big means to a very significant end.

Remission.

The climb to the top of the mountain is steep and rocky and arduous, without many opportunities for reprieve, and maybe you fight off a few predators along the way. But, man, would you look at that view?

Freya's story.

I was going to the bathroom and my daughter, Freya (age 5), wanted to keep me company, of all places. She asked if she could tell me a story, and this is what she said - I transcribed it right after we left the bathroom but forgot to post, so it's backdated for posterity:

"Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Freya. She had a mommy, a daddy, and a little brother. One day, Freya's mommy was really sick. It's the kind of sick that doesn't make other people sick. Freya wanted her mommy to get better so she went to the Great Magic Wizard, who told Freya that her mommy would get better but Freya had to do one thing. She had to find and bring back all of the dragons of the world and then Freya's mommy would get better. So she and her brother went around the world and searched everywhere for all of the dragons. It was a really long trip and it was really hard to capture all of the dragons, because some of the dragons breathe fire and fire can hurt you. But Freya and her brother were brave because they wanted her mommy to get better. So can you guess what happened? (No, what happened?) They found all of the dragons! And they brought them back to the Magic Wizard and then Freya's mommy wasn't sick anymore and she never got sick ever again. And they all lived happily ever after."

Non sequitur.

FREYA: Mommy, how come you're so tired in the morning? Is it because you have cancer?
ME: Yes, I think it might be because of that. Or maybe also the medicine.
FREYA: Oh, okay. I thought it was the cancer. Hey, Daddy, can I fly in a rocket ship?
DADDY: Not quite sure what Mommy's cancer has to do with rocket ships, but sure!

Side effects.

I pride myself on having a very high pain threshold. I've endured multiple surgeries and procedures (including childbirth) with very little assistance from anesthetics and/or narcotics. After a while, you kind of see yourself as superhuman.

I've been warned going into this experience that I would feel some pain. I was given a shot of neulasta, which is supposed to help boost my white blood cell count. One major side effect is that it causes bone and joint pain. But pain is good, my doctor says. Pain means it's working. Pain means you're alive. It's a small price to pay, when you think about it: Temporary pain in exchange for life. I'll take what I can get.

I didn't feel much the first couple of days after chemo. That's probably due to the "steroid sandwich" I was prescribed - steroids twice a day on the day before, day of, and day after chemo. The side effects were that I had a surge of energy (I literally was puttering around the house at 2 am) and a voracious appetite. The hard part in this case was what I wanted to eat everything in sight, yet everything tasted like ash. A side effect of the chemo, which comes from yew bark. So, as a visual, imagine grinding tree bark into dust and putting that in your mouth. I'd say it's an acquired taste.

I was also warned that my energy levels would be lower as the days progressed, especially once the steroids have worn off. A friend referred to this as a "crash." But, there was laundry to be done and the kids were especially clingy, so I kept up with my normal routine last night. I did "take it easy" but only to the extent that I didn't work as efficiently as I normally would.

For the sake of posterity (and not as a form of complaint), here is what I'm feeling right now on Thursday morning, four days after chemo:

- Pounding headache (it sounds like someone is doing construction outside, but my husband insists that it's completely silent; also, hard to keep my eyes open)

- Aching bones and joints (it's not as bad as childbirth, at least I can breathe, but I definitely am having a hard time moving, particularly my jaw and lower back, and when I get back into bed from walking around it feels like my legs are going to fall off)

- Muscle fatigue (in my opinion, there is nothing more degrading than having to ask for assistance to get out of bed just to go to the bathroom)

In addition, it's hard to speak, my mouth can barely chew food, the light hurts my eyes, and I have no desire to do anything. There is so much pain throbbing in my entire body that it feels like I'm being attacked from all sides (and, more importantly, from within myself) without any kind of defensive shield as protection. Again, I'm not complaining, merely trying to articulate the experience.

I'm told that these particular side effects are cumulative as the treatments continue. All I can think right now is: if this is how it is after Round 1, imagine what Round 5 is going to be like...

In a way, I am grateful for this perspective. I went into chemo not really knowing what to expect. I thought I could handle it, and, I mean, I can (for now, anyway). But this is all one big learning curve, and at the end of the day I have to remember that I have been given a very unique opportunity. I have to learn to let go of certain aspects of myself - pride, stubbornness, arrogance, self-reliance - and to just ask for help or accept help that is offered. There is no shame in having limitations. So I have to remember that I am not superhuman. I am human, and I feel pain. And that's okay.

Because pain is good. Pain means it's working. Pain means I'm alive.

Round 1: In the beginning.

So, I had my first chemo/immunotherapy treatment yesterday morning (01/19/15). It all went smoothly, and I was fortunate to have an incredible support team at my side: my husband, both of my parents, and my older sister (my #1 cheerleader who was diagnosed with sarcoma on her 25th birthday, but has luckily been cancer-free since then...fingers-crossed).

Up until this point, people have commented on how impressed they were with me because I seemed so level-headed about this whole ordeal. I'm not an emotional person to begin with, so it was easy to essentially adopt a pretty calm demeanor when publicly explaining my diagnosis. And I kept up with my daily routine of taking the kids to school and going to work and doing chores around the house and running errands on the weekends.

The truth is, I have been in denial about my cancer.

I basically had the attitude that if I busied myself with work and kids and home stuff, then I wouldn't have to think about the fact that I was sick and probably dying. Not only that, I fooled myself into thinking that I was totally okay, that all of this cancer talk was for someone other than myself, that I just happened to be very closely involved with this poor cancer patient's story.

But the day before my first chemo treatment session, I had a total meltdown. Because I realized that once chemo started, it would mean without a doubt that I, indeed, had cancer. And there was no going back. And I hated that so much. I hated that I had no control over this experience. I don't deny that I'm a controlling person by nature, very neurotic and obsessive-compulsive. But it's like someone made a deal with the devil on my behalf without my consent, and I didn't even get some selfishly irresponsible request in return, like ever-lasting life or fame and fortune. I had all sorts of plans for the future - who doesn't? - and it was like watching these plans disappear in a puff of smoke,

I couldn't wait to take my daughter on college tours, even though we both know she is going to Princeton anyway (like her father and aunt before her), because that has been her dream since she was 3-years old. I couldn't wait to hear all about her studies in chemistry and how she's developing the latest breakthroughs in perfume creation, because she has always wanted to be a chemist and make love potions for a living since pre-K. I couldn't wait to meet the one with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life and give him SUCH a hard time, because no one is good enough for my daughter.  I couldn't wait to watch my daughter act like a total bridezilla on her wedding day (like her mother before her) and then totally put her in her place, because I'm her mother and mother knows best. I couldn't wait to be in the delivery room with her and try to convince her to let me name the my first grandchild, because that's something I'm really good at doing and she knows it.

I couldn't wait to help my son develop his love of music and then be totally disappointed when he tells me he has decided to forgo college in place of a music career (no matter how much I try to convince him otherwise). I couldn't wait to watch him become a famous musician and be so proud of him (and probably brag about it) for not giving into the easy temptation of adopting low standards, because he's had the raw talent since he was only 2. I couldn't wait to learn about all of the charities and scholarships to which he planned to donate his time and money, because he always had such a kind, gentle spirit. I couldn't wait to try to convince him again that perhaps college was still an option if he ever decided to take a break and he would consider it, because I'm his mother and mother knows best. I couldn't wait to see how he tries to fumble through growing up and becoming responsible enough to maybe marry and have kids, because he spent so much time comfortably in his sister's shadow.

I couldn't wait to celebrate 10 years of marriage this July with the man I have grown to love after all this time together. I couldn't wait to fail to convince my husband not to splurge on a new self-driving Telsa, because I know how much he reveres Elon Musk and he has always dreamed of owning a self-driving electric car that didn't look as conspicuous as some of the other options out there. I couldn't wait to grow old with him and celebrate having an empty house (for once), until the kids come back with their dirty laundry. I couldn't wait to use our new-found free time to maybe adopt a greyhound or a dachshund and watch Broadway shows and travel across the globe and be totally cantankerous about youths today. I couldn't wait to think back on the many, many decades and think to myself: what a lucky woman I am to have had such a full, prosperous life.

And now with this cancer diagnosis, I can't help but think to myself: man, life is so not fair. I mean, let's face it, five years might be great when considering the life expectancy of stage 4 breast cancer from ten years ago (about six months), but five years is still not a long time. I have so much left to give, I have barely made a dent in my to-do list, and I am devastated at the thought of leaving my husband and kids behind prematurely.

But I guess there's no point in dwelling in the negative. To look back on the past and wonder what could have been. What is important now is the future. And only to say, as the French would, "Aux armes, citoyens / Formez vos bataillons / Marchons, marchons !" To arms! To battle! Let's march!

Not to yield.

I have to remind myself every day that I am not DYING of cancer, but LIVING with cancer.

Because that's the nature of this vicious beast, isn't it?

Cancer is blind when choosing its victims. Cancer doesn't care whether you're old or young, male or female, black or white, Christian or Muslim, gay or straight, good or evil. Cancer doesn't care if it's your birthday or if it's Christmas Day. Just because you're young doesn't mean you're invincible. Just because you're a parent doesn't mean you're exempt. If you are a living, breathing human, then cancer will try to destroy you by using your body as its weapon of choice, leaving you a ticking time-bomb with only what is essentially poison to fight against your own mutinous cells. Talk about a catch-22.

Am I afraid? Yes. Contrary to what my kids will tell you, I am not a robot. But I will continue to wake up each morning and get my kids ready and send them to school and go to work and come home and try to do chores and cook and run errands and remember to tell my husband that I love him before going to bed. For a brief moment I can forget that it's not "business as usual," no matter how much I wish, that in between dropping kids off at school and going to work I also have to get a test done or visit a doctor or have blood drawn. But, hey: ob-la-di ob-la-da, que sera sera, the sun will come out tomorrow, there can be miracles when you believe. Sometimes when you lose, you win. It's just hair, and it WILL grow back.

I have to remind myself every day that I'd rather have this life than no life at all.

Because that's the nature of this precious gift, isn't it?

So, funny story.

I'm at the radiologist's office, waiting for my brain MRI to start.

Some old, white dude is chatting up my poor husband, who is clearly in need of a rescue. So, I start going over the upcoming schedule of food deliveries and scheduled play dates and family visits with my husband, while this dude is still trying to get a word in. Finally, he stops talking and I think to myself, SUCCESS! When all of a sudden, he peers over my husband and stares at me, all creepy-like. And says, I kid you not,

"Are you a child bride?"

Now. I have been asked/told some pretty ludicrous things over the last three decades of my life, but NEVER have I been asked this question before. I looked around the room, like, Did anyone else just hear that? There was this black lady sitting across from me, staring at the dude with a total WTF? expression, so glad to know it wasn't just me. I admit I was so taken aback that it took a while for me to respond, which was, essentially, "What did you just say to me?" And before I could reply with anything else (retort, sarcasm, full-on animosity), my husband is like, "Er, she's older than me" (this is true). And the dude chuckles and says, "Well, she sure don't look it."

Later, as we were laughing at the incredulity of it all, I said to my husband, "Thinking idiotic thoughts are one thing. You can think whatever the hell you want. I just can't understand what compels a person to actively decide to SAY such idiotic thoughts out loud. To a total stranger, no less! I mean, what was he hoping to gain from saying that to me? Was he trying to get a rise out of me?" To which my husband responded, "Well, look on the bright side: He thought you looked young enough to be fourteen. He thought I was a pedophile!"

UPDATE: Brain MRI results showed negative for cancer cells. At this point, I am willing to take whatever victories I can get, however small. Always look on the bright side of life, as they say.

Thank you.

A HUGE thank you to all of my family, friends, coworkers, acquaintances, and even total strangers, for your encouraging words of love and support. It has been quite a shock and very difficult to process, especially after only having been diagnosed a month ago (a week after my 30th birthday), but my husband, Godfrey, and I are overwhelmed and grateful to be a part of such a wonderful community. 

Thank you for thinking of us during this challenging time - we certainly anticipate many trials ahead, but as we Koreans say, 화이팅!

Is this real life.

So, more news.

Not good news.

Actually, it just keeps getting worse.

And worse.

Deep breath,

Well.

Okay, so.

Remember how I found out I had stage 2B cancer like, a month ago? Anyway, my doctor was all, we need to have some more scans done to make sure nothing else spread. We tried to get a pet scan done back in December but my insurance denied it three times! Thanks, guys. So, finally I did a series of tests: BRCA gene mutation blood test, bi-lateral MRI, a full-body bone scan, a CT scan of the chest/abdomen/pelvic region, an echo-cardiogram to check my heart, a fertility visit to discuss options and to make sure my ovaries are okay, an OBGYN visit to make sure I don't have cervical cancer, and a dental visit to make sure I don't have cavities. And then after all of that, my doctor is like, so, good news: negative for BRCA, MRI report shows the cancer is localized in the right breast and some lymph nodes only (so, nothing on the left side), bone scan report shows no signs of cancer cells, echo-cardiogram report shows I have a good, strong heart, OBGYN report shows no signs of cervical cancer, and dental report shows I have perfect teeth. On to the bad news: While the fertility visit showed that I had perfect ovaries, it was clear that I wouldn't be eligible for any procedures, such as harvesting and freezing eggs (due to time constraints) and shutting down the ovaries wouldn't be really be worth it because it would mean giving me super uncomfortable menopausal symptoms on top of the chemo symptoms. And the CT scan shows that there are signs of "abnormal" growth in my liver and right lung, so I'll need to have to have a liver biopsy and a brain MRI done, and so I did the biopsy on the same day that I put in my port catheter (ugh, THAT is a story for another day) and the liver biopsy results came back today. Surgery/additional radiation are no longer treatment options, at least for now.  Because the biopsy confirmed that the growth is indeed malignant.

So now it's considered stage 4.

As in metastatic cancer.

As in terminal cancer.

Typical life expectancy for stage 4 breast cancer?

The median is 5 years.

FIVE YEARS?!

But... but...

I'm only 30!

My kids are 5 and 2!

Well, the HOPE is five years.

And then better treatments will come out.

Which would HOPEFULLY prolong my life a little more.

Maybe another 5 years.

So, 10 years.

At best.

That is the hope, anyway.

I just... I can't.

Silver lining.

FREYA: Mommy, you look really beautiful with short hair.
ME: Thanks, Freya.
FREYA: You will look even more beautiful when you're bald.
ME: Oh, honey...
FREYA: And you can have a wig for every day of the week. And you can borrow my crowns if you want. You don't even have to ask me if you want to borrow one, you can wear them any time.