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.)