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.