Nearly a year ago, my life was turned upside down by a diagnosis I never saw coming.  The concept of having cancer at my age considering my good health up to that point seemed taboo, impossible.  But, as things unfolded, I learned to accept the misfortune that was upon me and suddenly I had a mission: to stay positive.  I decided I would not allow cancer to ruin my life.

Entering into the world of cancer, which I once knew little about, was like enrolling in a class.  In the beginning, the information was overwhelming, the treatments were completely new and foreign to me, and I was uncomfortable with all the attention.  But as time passed, I became a cancer pro.  Chemo got easier, the nurses became my friends, and I would frequently chat with the other apt pupils, the other cancer fighters in their chemo chairs, who taught me more than I expected to learn.  When all was said and done, I had gained a wealth of knowledge and was no longer afraid of cancer.

My case was quite fortunate.  There was never a hint of hopelessness in my diagnosis.  Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is one of the most treatable cancers.  My doctors made this clear from the beginning, so I never feared for my life.  I just knew that the fight ahead of me was going to be difficult and that I would have to find all the courage within myself to overcome it.  I did.

I will never be the same person I was before this all happened, but I’m glad of that.  I needed a change, an awakening.  I am more thankful for life now than I ever was, and even more grateful to be loved by the wonderful friends and family that supported me through it all.

Surgery Success! My chemo port has been removed!

My hair has grown back into a pixie shag and my lashes have come back with greater length and fullness.  Just a few days ago, I finally had my chemo port removed from my arm.  They let me keep it, which I did, to serve as a memory.  The port removal surgery represented the final piece of recovery for me – the end of a long battle.  I am glad to be rid of it.

Cancer is scary – there’ no doubt about that, but I have learned that it is possible to fight it and survive it with grace.  I’m no longer afraid of the idea of cancer, nor am I paranoid about getting it again.  If it happens, it happens.  I’m armed and ready to fight.

I got cancer, but it’s okay.  I’m okay.  I made it!  I know now that whatever happens, every thing is going to be okay.

6 months ago, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system.  It started when I noticed a few swollen lymph nodes on my neck.  I had them looked at, and a bunch of tests and a biopsy later, I had become a member of one the biggest health epidemics plaguing our world.  From day one, I vowed not to let cancer strip me of my spark, my love of life, or my beauty.  I vowed to stay positive, to hang onto faith, and to be strong through the 12 chemotherapy treatments I would have to endure.  At the time, 12 treatments, a 6 month course of chemo, looked to me like a black abyss of unknown suffering.  Still, I swallowed my fears, held my breath, and took the plunge into the world of cancer.

A bit of my patio garden sanctuary

Today I sit in my garden patio sanctuary, a floral display of colors I have cared for since an earlier chapter of my fight.  These flowers have been with me through it all.  They started out as little plantlings, tiny hints of green emerging from soil.  Now they are full and healthy, bursting with bright blossoms, stretching, growing, reaching for the sun.  They rejoice in each day the sun rises, and the reward is an array of lovely flowers.  My flowers came to life when I became sick.  Perhaps I did, too.

As I sit and enjoy the soft breeze brushing against my face, I realize that before my diagnosis I wasn’t really living.  I won’t go as far as to say that cancer is a gift, but I cannot deny the simple truth that cancer has made me realize life is a gift.  I took so many things for granted before this happened and now I’m just bursting with the desire to live life to the fullest.  I don’t want to waste another day feeling like this is as good as it gets.  Life always has room to get better.

Yesterday, I had my 12th treatment, which will hopefully be my last for now.  My oncologist is hopeful and feels based on statistics and her years in practice, that my tests will show that I am in remission.  I pray she’s right.  I have begun to plan for an incredible summer of living.

Moving Forward

Two thirds of the way through my fight, I went on disability leave.  For the first time since I can remember, I have endless alone-time.  In the beginning, I found it was extremely difficult to adjust from the bustling working world to quiet me-time, but after a couple weeks I really enjoyed it.  Even though a large amount of my time is spent recovering from various chemo treatments, I feel such freedom in knowing my only priority right now is to get better.  I can devote all my energy to healing and finding peace.  There aren’t many upsides to having cancer, folks, but time off from work is certainly one of them.

With the time I have left to recover, I am going to travel.  I’ve had money saved up for a rainy day, and I can’t think of a better use for it.  This will be the first summer I’ve had off since high school, so I’m going to stop dreaming, get out there, and live!  I’m overflowing with excitement to begin my new life and I am abundantly thankful that I have a chance to start over.  Now that I get a second chance at the game of life, I want to make it as bright and love-filled as I can.

The last chemo. For now.

Cancer changes a person whether we like it or not.  My changes have come in phases.  In the beginning, I was scared but determined to fight.  I was angry.  After a few rounds of chemo, I started to soften.  I found myself suddenly stopping to realize the beauty in small things – flowers, trees, birds, stars, even grass.  My eyes were opening.  And in people, I’ve grown a new fondness.  So many loved ones have supported me and I’ve learned it’s okay to lean on others sometimes; no matter how independent I am, there are moments when I simply need help.  Now, I am not ashamed to ask for it.

I’ve also learned how fleeting appearances can be.  I have been challenged to rethink my idea of beautiful, to gain a new form of acceptance for myself without hair, makeup, and heels.  Under all the paint and glam, I am me at my truest.  There is beauty in every person.

I hope that I can carry these lessons with me for the rest of my life no matter what I’m going through.  I want to remain thankful for the life I have left on this earth.  I don’t ever want to forget what cancer taught me.

What’s Next?

For the next few days, I will stay resting while I allow the chemo to work its cancer-ass-kicking magic.  I still have to endure uncomfortable side effects one more time before I can begin to heal and embark on my new life’s journey.  One month from now, I will undergo a multitude of tests and scans which will indicate the state of the Hodgkin’s.  My Oncologist remains extremely positive.  Remission is what I’m praying for, but if my body isn’t ready yet, I will continue to fight with all my God-given strength.

This started over 6 months ago and it isn’t quite over, but I am thankful for many many things.  The fact that I’m still living and breathing is a miracle in itself.  I will continue to keep up with entries as the inspiration comes to me. I’ll probably even include some articles on my upcoming travels.

For the past many months I have been working on a short cancer awareness documentary that I hope to release by 2010 along with a music video for a song I wrote called “Seize the Day” – a motto I have carried with me every day since my diagnosis. And when all of that is finished, I should be ready to launch my 2nd solo album.  I will also continue to model.

:::Interesting Update on My Status::::

The docs don’t know how to respond to this, but my hair started growing back a month BEFORE my last treatment. Now my head is completely covered with a nice thick covering of hair!  They said it’s a slim chance to ever see something like this, so I think that pretty much sums it up:  Anything is possible!

Me: Post Buzz-Cut

My appearance has always been something that I value.  I personally think it’s important to stay looking my best when I’m out and about.  I don’t do it because I’m seeking approval by the masses; rather, it gives me confidence and helps me to love myself.  Yes, it’s okay to love yourself.  As a matter of fact, I recommend you try it.

As I mentioned in some of my earlier entries, one of my biggest fears upon diagnosis was how the surgery and chemo would effect the way I look.  To me, the most frightening aspect of undergoing chemotherapy was hair loss.  And, from the many talks I’ve had with other cancer babes during chemo, it seems I’m not the only one putting it at the top of the list. Fortunately, as time has progressed, I’ve come to accept the hair loss along with many other physical changes I’ve experienced.  All you really need to stay feeling and looking fabulous while battling cancer is the ability to adapt to these changes.  Here are my top 10 tips to staying beautiful inside and out while kicking cancer’s ass.

Hair loss is a big part of chemotherapy.  It can be massively devastating if you don’t prepare yourself.  If your doctor tells you you’ll probably lose your hair, he/she is probably right.  Here’s how you can better prepare yourself:

Cut or buzz your hair. If your hair is very long to start with, you may want to consider donating it to an organization that makes wigs for patients who can’t afford them.  Not sure where to donate it?  Take a look at Locks of Love.

Honestly, you’re not going to want to go through the heartache of pulling your hair out in clumps when it starts to go.  For most patients, hair loss begins 10-14 days after the first treatment.  Prepare yourself by getting rid of it while you still have control.  Maybe involve the family in the buzzing process and have a good laugh about it.  As hard as it may be to rid yourself of your lovely locks, I promise it will make losing it much easier.

Rock the buzz. Adapt to your new look.  When I buzzed my head, I contacted various photographers I’d worked with and asked if they’d want to take some shots of my new look.  They were all thrilled.  Apparently, buzzing my head was quite a fashionable thing to do.  If you throw in some big jewelry and dress a little more funky than normal, your buzz will look intentional.  Take the plunge and rock out!

Take good care of the hair you still have. I use Aveeno Baby Shampoo on the hair I have left.  It’s lightweight and isn’t full of harsh additives or alcohols.  I recommend you avoid using fancy shampoos and deep conditioners as they can tend to weigh hair down.

Only wash your hair once per week.  It might seem like a dirty thing to do, but once you buzz it, it will stay pretty clean.  So, if you can handle wearing a shower cap or taking baths instead of showers, I recommend you wash it less than normal.  The water tends to force the hair follicles to fall out more quickly.

Buy a wig that makes you feel beautiful.  Or buy a few and change your look with your mood. I went to a specialist and had a real hair wig made for me based on the measurements of my head, the pattern of my real growth, my color, and texture.  When the wig came in, a stylist colored and cut it to match my look.  I love the wig, but I must warn that it was very pricey.  If you can’t afford to go that route, try out WOWwigs.com They have affordable prices in many styles.  I purchased a few from there and have worn them all.

If you simply can’t afford a wig, ask someone at your oncology clinic to direct you to organizations that provide free wigs to cancer fighters.  There are tons of them out there.  Also, don’t underestimate the power of scarves!  Cute scarves, hats, and bandannas are available to you for free through many different organizations.  Again, talk to your oncology center about getting a list of local support groups and charities that will help you.

Keep your nails maintained. A crappy side effect of chemotherapy for some is nail damage.  My nails have become dried and cracked.  Some women lose their nails entirely.   If you still have nails, cut and file them biweekly or more often if desired, and use a nude or sheer pink polish to freshen them up.  Always use a clear top coat – it will help strengthen your nails and prevent them from breaking.  DO NOT GO TO A NAIL SALON WHILE UNDERGOING CHEMOTHERAPY.  Your doctor may tell you this on day 1.  Even though the tools at nail salons are suppose to be clean, you can’t be sure. All it takes is one little cut around your cuticles for an infection to begin.  Do your nails yourself with your own tools, or have a sister or girlfriend paint them for you.  It’s great girl-bonding to have a nail painting session in your pajamas over coffee.

If you lose your lashes, get some falsies and go glam! My eyelashes haven’t completely fallen out yet, but they’re much thinner than they were pre-chemo.  Over a week ago, I decided it might be time to check out the fake lashes in the beauty section at my local pharmacy.  The cost of lashes and glue can be under $5.  As long as you remove and wash your lashes gently with soap after each use, you can probably get at least 10 uses out of one pair.  Having long Marilyn Monroe lashes does wonders on the self esteem.  Go for it.

Keep those eyebrows sexy! Hair loss from chemo does effect all the hair on your body including lashes, brows, legs, underarms, and yes, that bikini line you’ve always fussed about.  While it’s nice not to worry about shaving anymore, you will need to pay a little extra attention to lashes, mentioned above, and your eyebrows.  Mine have thinned to a point that makes me uncomfortable, so I use a medium brown eye pencil and gently fill them in with small hair-like strokes.  You can also buy cheap brow kits from any beauty store and most beauty technicians can explain how to use them.  Google has lots of good information, too.  Try to stay away from any colors that have an orange tint.  They make brows look artificial.  Keep it simple and sexy.

Cover the bags under your eyes with an under eye concealer that is slightly lighter than your normal foundation. This helps to combat those bags that show up the moment you leave your first treatment.  By doing this, you prevent yourself from looking like you’re sick.  Brightening those bags under your eyes will make you look younger and feel healthier.  Remember, a little goes a long way. Use dabbing motions rather than smearing it on.  If you have a mineral foundation, you may apply it to the entire face after you use the concealer under your eyes.

Start blushing! In other words, get out that big soft blush applicator brush and go to town.  The added color that blush provides gives the face an instant lift by inhancing the severity of your gorgeous cheekbones.  Blush goes on after your under eye concealer and powder have already been applied.

Eyeliner and mascara make a big difference. If you’re losing your lashes but don’t want to wear the false ones, eyeliner around the top lash line and on the inner part of the lower lash line can create an illusion that you have thick lashes. Break up the lines a little with a Q-tip and smudge them very slightly.  This creates a smokey look around the eyes.  I don’t recommend wearing mascara if your lashes are falling out, but if you feel you must, (and sometimes I do), wear one that is NOT waterproof.  They tend to be hard to wash off.  Washable mascara is lighter on the lashes and comes off with warm water.

Lipstick is a girl’s best friend. On those days when you just can’t stand the girl looking back at you in the mirror, I beg you, pull out the ‘ole bag of lipstick and find one that makes you feel amazing.  A little color  can really brighten your face and attitude! It puts the focus on a part of you that is NOT being effected by the chemo: your lips.  But keep in mind, you never want to look over done. If you’re going heavy on the eye makeup, nude lipstick or a sheer pink gloss is all you need.  If you are going light on the eyes, rock out your favorite deep red!

Dress comfortably, but don’t neglect your overflowing shoe collection.  Once in a while, you need to wear heels. What woman doesn’t love to have their curvy legs elongated by a hot pair of pumps?  I understand all too well that many of your days post diagnosis will be spent in pajamas, but when it’s time to go out (and really, you MUST get out of the house frequently or you will go completely nuts), dress yourself up!  Slap on the makeup, put on an outfit that you love, and wear those heels!

There are so many more tips I could recommend, but I said I’d give you my top 10 and there they are.  A lot of my friends have commented that I don’t look sick at all.  I think it’s hard for some of them to understand my fight because they only see me when I look my best.  I have chosen to change the face of cancer in my case to one that suits me and makes me feel confident.  You can make your own, too!  You have the choice to make yourself as gorgeous as you want.  Remember, no matter how hard it gets, you are still a beautiful warrior goddess inside and out.

For more beauty tips, makeup application guidelines, and inspiration, check out these websites!

baldisbeautiful.org

makeupsense.com

expertvillage.com

A Specimen From My Sanctuary

According to Webster’s unabridged dictionary (1913), a sanctuary is by definition a sacred and inviolable asylum; a place of refuge and protection; shelter.  Other definitions also refer to it as a place of holiness, where sacred relics are kept in religious churches and temples.  I’ve been thinking about this word a lot lately.  Now that I am a cancer warrior, it seems most of my days are spent fighting cancer cells, fending off the spears of depression, blocking the arrows of low self esteem, and rolling with the punches of all the side effects that can’t be helped.  It’s a full battle schedule for me every single day, and frankly, it’s beyond exhausting.  So, how do I find sanctuary amidst the war?

For me, finding sanctuary does not mean going to church.  I believe faith has been an extremely important ally in my fight, but faith for me is very personal.  I spent my entire childhood and teenage years being heavily involved in an evangelical church, and although I am thankful for many of the friendships and life lessons I acquired, that atmosphere no longer appeals to me.  This is not to say that I have abandoned my faith by any means.  In fact, being away from the organized side of religion has helped me to truly reflect on my own personal faith in God and understand what it means to me, not what others think it means. I’ve come to learn that there is goodness and beauty in all things, regardless of religion.

Kris Carr, writer of Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips, a must-read if you’re a cancer fighter, talks about creating a peaceful place where you can go to meditate, pray, breathe, or even just sit.  Carr’s space was set up like a shrine – a table with candles, photos of her loved ones, incense, some crosses, and even a little statue of Buddha.  When I first read her section on this topic, I thought to myself, no way am I making something like that.  That’s way too “new-agey” for me. So I continued my nightly prayers and moved onto the next chapter, but something changed when my mom came for a visit.

My mother is tiny French Canadian woman with Native American roots. She has proverbial balls of steel, the strength of a bull, and a very green thumb.  For as long as I can remember, she has spent every Spring, Summer, and Fall buried knee deep in her garden.  When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why she spent so much time tending to each and every crevice of her botanical world.  Although I enjoyed looking at her gardens and showing them off to my friends, I didn’t get my mom’s passion for her beloved greenery until I was about 20.  Before I moved to California, I had the opportunity to grow a few of my own gardens in the rich soil of Western Massachusetts, but it was short lived.  Moving westward where homes aren’t affordable meant reverting back to apartment living.  No land.  No garden.

When my mom came to visit me for my first chemotherapy treatment, she planted the first seeds of what would eventually become my sanctuary.  She potted a number of colorful spring flowers in a long planter on my patio.  I’d nurtured a few green plants over the years, but nothing with flowers.  Like I’ve said before, I’ve always been a busy gal – I didn’t have the time to maintain lots of potted plants.  But, now that I found myself on medical leave with more time to myself than I knew what to do with, I saw the opportunity to start growing my very own place of refuge.

In the past couple months, my patio has become home to over 10 varieties of flowers, 4 kinds of herbs, 2 trees of the palm family, a cactus,  trinkets, statues, and a wind chime.  I am my mother’s daughter.

I didn’t build my sanctuary intentionally.  I devoted time to creating my garden because it was something to keep me busy.  It was a positive use of my energy.  It feels wonderful to create life while I’m in the middle of fighting for mine.  I may not feel close to God when I’m inside of a church, but I feel Him all around me when I am surrounded by nature.  It’s how I find my peace, how I find healing.  The bright colors of flowers contrasting against the fresh greens remind me how beautiful this earth is.  Even the simplest life, a thing that only requires sunlight and water, is sacred.

So I may not have crosses and Buddhas all over my sanctuary, but I don’t think I need them.  God is in the floral Eden that surrounds me every day when I sit in my wicker chair on my patio in my little potted garden. My sanctuary is a garden my mother started and I nurtured.

No matter how dark my world gets, no matter how sick I feel, when I sit here life is beautiful.

Once I hit 7 years old, I decided it was time to have dad get out the screw driver and take off those little white plastic safety wheels.  It didn’t take long before my bike was transformed.  Getting on it and finding my balance would be the next hurdle.

Mom grabbed the back of the seat and pushed me slowly down the street while I peddled, trying to grab a hold of this sans-training wheel concept, but I wiggled around clumsily, unable to find any sort of alignment.  This went on for a while.  We went up and down the street, my mom pushing me, me peddling, and I was finally starting to feel like I might be getting the hang of it.  Suddenly, I realized I was alone.  My mom had let go of the bike and I was riding all by myself!  For a moment, I felt free and proud, basking in my big kid triumphant glow,  but it wasn’t long before a tiny grain of doubt broke my focus and I lost all confidence in my new ability.  Quite immediately, I fell off my bike.

It wasn’t a bad fall.  I don’t recall getting more than a few scrapes on my knees and elbows.  As a matter of fact, the ouchies were the furthest thing on my mind. Although it had only been for a moment, I had accomplished something completely new and scary without mom’s hands guiding me.  It felt incredible.  And as most “learning to ride my bike” stories tend to go, I never had to use training wheels again.

At the beginning of my cancer-ride, I realized I needed some training wheels.  Everything I encountered was new and frightening and all I wanted was a safety net – some way to feel like I could move forward without falling down.  I’ve longed for that feeling of security since the day I was diagnosed.  Learning I had cancer when my life was going so seemingly well knocked me off my bicycle and left me wishing for those little plastic wheels once again.

It’s hard not to feel ashamed when you realize you need more than your own strength to fight for your life.  When cancer entered my life, I wanted my mom, my dad, my sister.  I wanted a warm blanket, a cuddly stuffed animal, the comfort of my oldest and dearest friends.   Honestly, I wanted to curl up into fetal position, suck my thumb, and have someone tell me a story about a princess in which there is a very happy ending.  Living on the opposite coast of all of the previously mentioned loved ones in my life made me feel very alone.

In high school, and even into my early twenties, my freedom was something that I valued dearly.  I grew up in a conservative household, so once I had my own place, the last thing I ever wanted was to be coddled again.  Then without any warning, I ended up with cancer and all I wanted was coddling.

I’m starting to understand how important family is – especially in times like these.  Since my diagnosis, I’ve been blessed to have a different family visitor come for nearly every treatment.  At first, I was resistant to the aid.  It was very hard for me to let go of my pride and independence and revert back to that little blonde 7 year-old with training wheels.  But over the course of these past 4 months, I have come to be at peace with the extra attention.  I have learned to accept the love my family knows I need right now, and for the first time since I was a little kid, I’m allowing myself to sit back and let people help me.

Cancer is a plague that is running a terrible course through our world.  Nearly every person I have spoken to about my situation has experienced it in some way, and many have lost someone they loved.   So, here is my advice to you.  If you have cancer or any illness that is severe, let people into your heart, accept help, and do not lose your pride over it.  Fighting for your life is nothing to be ashamed of.

If you are not fighting cancer or some other illness,  it’s a likely bet that you know someone quite close to you who is.  Help them.  Give them space when they need it, but hold your door open for support.  It means more than you’ll ever know to the person you’re helping.  My family has meant so much to me, and I will forever be grateful.  My friends and family are the army that stands behind me in my fight.

Yesterday, I went to my local mega store and did something I haven’t done since before I hit puberty; I bought a bicycle.  My muscles have atrophied noticeably while on chemo, and my energy levels have hit an all time low for me, so I thought an occasional leisurely bike ride might help me build some strength. I ended up getting an adult sized pink bicycle, a beach cruiser with wide chrome metal bars, and a white basket for the front.  It was the one that made me smile the most.

Once I got home, I took my new pink wheels for a gentle spin around the block.  The breeze felt just as cool and refreshing as it did when I was a kid.  It doesn’t matter how much time I’ve let slip between the last time I rode a bike.  Learning how to ride a bike is a lesson that stays ingrained in a person.  I no longer need training wheels and never will again, but the sense of mom’s hands pushing behind me and the comfort of knowing I’m not alone, even if she and my family are much further than down the street, will always help me to find my alignment.  So when it’s time to remove my cancer training wheels and gain my independence back, I know they’ll still be watching from afar, ready to come to my rescue if I lose my balance again.

The chemotherapy has started to take its toll now that I’m getting deeper into my treatment cycle.  My hair is very thin now and it’s increasingly more difficult to hide the bald spots.  Fatigue seems to shadow my every move.  At this point, I’m beginning to lose my sense of self, or the self I was before all of this happened.

A few nights ago after treatment, when I was feeling particularly ill and tired, I decided to take a hot bath.  Baths, by the way, are a wonderful way to relax when fighting cancer.  I’ve been taking nearly 3 a day for the past month, and I love them.  Epsom salt, which you can purchase at your local grocery store or pharmacy, works as a powerful soaking aid and can help with any body soreness that one may incur from chemo side effects.

Anyhow, that evening when I was taking a bath, I looked down at my body and failed to recognize it.  One might say I had an out of body experience.  I looked at myself and did not know who I was.  My skin looked pale, my breasts unrecognizable from bloating, my nails cracked and dry.  I felt like a stranger in the tub, detached from myself, ashamed, and afraid.  Naturally, I started to cry.

It hit me. I am not the woman I was before this happened.  She doesn’t exist anymore.  Cancer hasn’t ruined or taken my life, but it is reshaping my life whether I like it or not.  Now that I understand that I am changed and will never be quite the same again, I realize I am free to reinvent myself in whatever way I choose.  I have been given a rare chance at a young age to face death in the eye and tell it to “fuck off!”  So, where do I go from here?

Most people spend their days striving for the next best thing.  We all grow up knowing that careers, marriage, children, and real-estate are the pieces that make up the American dream.  It’s a path many of us tend to take, but what happens when a wrench gets thrown onto the trail?  Cancer doesn’t seem to fit anywhere in the American dream, so where does that leave the cancer fighters like me?

To be honest, cancer is sort of like a forced time out.  Most of my young adult life has been spent being busy, cramming what I thought was living into a tiny amount of time.  I worked hard, I played hard, and I never seemed to get enough rest.  Now I don’t have a choice.  If I over-exert myself even just slightly, my body reminds me that I can’t.  The treatments have made me weak, and my body needs to heal.  There is no negotiating.  I have to listen to my body!

I wish that it was more acceptable in today’s worker-bee society for people to take breaks.  I’m not talking about a five minute smoke break after your shift is up at Wal-Mart, people.  I mean a real break.  Every one wants to please every one else.  We all say yes to things even when we don’t want to or know we can’t.  Why do we focus so much on pleasing others  all the time?  It’s so stressful! Cancer is teaching me that I have to let go of the small things, savor the good things, and treat my body like a porcelain temple.  I’ve only got one life to live, and I want it to be a damn good one.

When I try to think about the positive things fighting cancer has brought to my table, quiet time to myself is on the top of the list.  These past few months have given me some of the most spiritual and peaceful moments I’ve ever experienced.  I’m learning to shut the unimportant chatter off in my brain and focus on the healing and love that surrounds me in my life.  Sometimes, the most important thing you can do to keep living is breathe, and I realize now that every breath is precious.

The common side effects of most chemo treatments are hairloss, fatigue, nausea, vomitting, mouth sores, and a metallic or chemical after taste that lingers in one’s mouth persistently.  Like I said, those are the most common.  I’ve had some of those and a bunch of others not on that list.  For example, no one prepared me for constipation. Perhaps it’s TMI (TMI stands for “too much information” for those of you who don’t know web lingo), but constipation was one of the worst side effects after my first treatment.  Why?  Because I wasn’t aware it was coming.  Fortunately, now that I’ve gotten familiar with how my body responds to treatment, I know how to prevent it.

Another unpleasant side effect for me is bloating.  On chemo day, nurse Heather gives me a needle full of a steroid called Decadron.  It helps to prevent certain side effects like nausea.  Also, for three days after each treatment, I take another low dose of a different steroid in pill form – again, to lessen the potential of stomach ouchies.  Now, if I was a roid-raging exercise-aholic trying to build massive pecks or abs, this might be a fun adventure, but alas. For a gal like me, steroids mean bloating which is a killer on my self esteem.

Although the bloating is uncomfortable and makes me feel like a balloon, the steroids are helpful in keeping the nausea at bay.  As a matter of fact, to date I have yet to vomit from chemo.  10 years ago, when my mom was going through chemo for breast cancer, they didn’t have the same medications they do now to help offset the side effects.  She vomited all the way from diagnosis to remission, so I am truly blessed that these medical advancements have been made.  I only wish it had been easier for her.

If the constipation and bloating aren’t enough to keep me from feeling normal, then I can thank the body aches, acid reflux, and swollen tongue for filling in the gap.  The day after chemo, I have to go into the clinic one more time for a booster shot called Neulasta.  It promotes white blood cell reproduction in my bone marrow to encourage my immune system.  Neulasta has its own side effects, the worst being muscle and skin soreness.  2 days after my Neulasta booster, I am so sore to the touch that it hurts to get out of bed.  This is when a good book comes in handy!  Thankfully, the worst of the pain lasts for only a day.  Oh, and I can’t forget! The 4 mg shot they give me costs $4500.00 every time I receive it.  Thank God I have insurance.

I can’t write all of this without getting to the part every one seems to be most interested in.  Hair!  I’ll be completely honest.  I had some awesome hair before all of this.  As a matter of fact, I loved my long golden locks so much, I had a paranoid fear that I would somehow end up with cancer and lose it all.  I guess my subconsciously fearful self was psychic!

The first question I asked my oncologist post diagnosis was, “Will I lose my hair?” followed by, “I’m a model, so it’s really important that I don’t!”  She looked at me tenderly (my oncologist is a compassionate doctor, thankfully), and said it was likely that I would lose most if not all of my hair.  Then she said some people don’t lose their hair.  The hopeful side of me really wanted to focus on the small percentage of people that don’t lose their hair.  But the rational, self protecting side of me thought, Buzz it, chop it, get rid of it now, find a great wig, and take control over what you can!

I’ll never forget the day I walked into my salon to tell my beloved hair stylist the news.  I didn’t have an appointment for a cut or color that day, but the salon is just down the street from my apartment, so I stopped by.  My stylist had done the hair for all the ladies in my wedding just a couple months prior.  She’s been my trusted hair handler for over three years now, and I love her to pieces.

Another client was sitting in her chair, so I told the receptionist that I just wanted to talk to my stylist for a minute.  The receptionist went to get her, and the second she walked over to me, I lost it.  If I had gotten through being told I had cancer after my biopsy without crying, why was this so hard?  When the words came out of my mouth, “The chemo will probably make my hair fall out,” she started crying too.  That made me stop.  Then I had to console her. It was sad and strange and kinda sweet all at once.  Two days later, she cut off 8 inches of my main, which I donated to Locks of Love.

Two weeks after that, my hair started falling out.  I didn’t even have time to enjoy my new shoulder length hair cut before realizing how temporary it truly was.  I was on an acting job in LA, performing motion capture (if you don’t know what that is, read this) for a new video game I’m in, when it hit me the most.  All day, I ran my hands through my hair only to pull out more and more. It wasn’t coming out in “clumps”, a term I’d heard other cancer fighters use, but it was coming out just enough that it bothered the crap out of me.

That night when I got home, I turned to Matt, my soul-mate, and told him to get out the buzzer.  Both our eyes welled up with tears.  By the end of the night, I had a buzz cut.  Piles of my hair cluttered the kitchen floor, as did puddles of our tears.  It was quite an experience.

The next day, I was torn and depressed.  I’d had a wig made for me, but I didn’t like it, and I was petrified of showing up to work with a buzz cut.  Some people at my company knew about my situation, but a lot of them didn’t.  I was afraid that the buzz would draw attention to me, people would ask questions, and inevitably, I’d end up telling them I have cancer.

I called my good friend, who was about to take his lunch break.  I trust him on all things fashion because A.) he’ll always be honest with me, B.) he has great taste, and C.) he’s fabulously gay.  He came over, saw the buzz, and loved it!  This, by the way, is what friends are for. So that day, I embraced the buzz as my new look.  I’ve now grown to appreciate even the tiniest bit of hair on my head.

Amazingly, I am not bald yet!  I still have enough hair on my head that I can get by without the need to wear a cap or scarf.  I use dark mineral makeup to cover some of the thinnest spots where my scalp shows through, and people really can’t tell.  Every day that I still have hair, I consider a miracle at this point.  Most cancer fighters go bald after their second treatment.  I’m about to go in for my fifth!

The worst part about being chemo-sick is feeling so damned tired.  I’m a young chick.  I’m used to running around, zipping from here to there, never stopping to think or breathe.  Now I find myself forced to sleep or lay still on the sofa.  After about 5 days, I come back to life again, but I’m left weaker and weaker with every treatment.  Dr. Tetef told me last week that chemotherapy has a cumulative exhausting effect on the body.  The more treatments I have, the harder it will be to bounce back to full energy before the next round.  Thank God I’m almost halfway done.

I know it all sounds scary.  The world of cancer is full of scary things, but it’s only as bad as a person can make it.  For me, staying positive means never losing sight of that light at the end of the tunnel.  It’s a long road to recovery, but it’s not a dead end for me.  Hodgkin’s is cureable. When I remind myself of that, chemo seems like an uncomfortable bump in the road on my way to freedom.  I can handle that.

My particular chemotherapy cocktail is made up of 4 different cancer-ass-kicking chemicals.  Every type of cancer requires a different mix.  Thankfully, the combo for Hodgkin’s is relatively mild compared to what they use for tumorous cancers, like breast or lunch cancer.  A typical day of chemo, which I have to do every 14 days, isn’t actually that bad.

Every other Thursday morning at 9:30 AM, I drive 10 minutes down to road to my oncologist’s clinic, which is a small practice overlooking a glistening lake.  It resembles a health spa moreso than a clinic, except its patrons are thin and bald instead of tanned and chiseled.  The nurses are always buzzing around like bees, mixing chemicals, taking blood, and answering questions.  The place is always a full house.  Nearly every chemo lounge-chair is taken when I arrive.  I try to scout out the most private looking spot I can.

My nurse’s name is Heather.  She’s in her late 30′s, but she looks 28.  Her eyes are big and bright, and now that I’ve gotten to know her, I’d describe her heart the same way.  I don’t know how a person can work with so many cancer fighters, (I call us “fighters” instead of “patients” or “victims”), day in and day out and stay as positive and sunny as she is.  It’s inspiring.

Heather takes 2 viles of my blood and then brings them back to be tested.  About 10 to 20 minutes later, she returns with a piece of paper listing all my blood stats.  If there’s a smiley face on the piece of paper, that means my levels are normal and I’m awesome.  Okay, it doesn’t mean I’m awesome, but I like to think it does.  A smiley face on that piece of paper puts a smiley on my face.  A tiny feat, really, but when you’re sitting in that chair, even the smallest grain of encouragement is fiercly appreciated.

When my blood work is finished, Heather hooks me up to a rack that has a saline drip dangling from the top.  Then she goes off to tend other fighters while my chemical cocktail is being prepared.  The other nurses are sitting at a station behind a glass window busily preparing peoples’ injections while they chit-chat and giggle.  The atmosphere is almost always quite pleasant.

I am the youngest cancer fighter in the room at any given time.  I look around hoping another 20-something will walk in.  We could share our situations and laugh about how all our friends will likely be out partying over the weekend, while we’ll be at home desperately trying to remedy constipation or steroid bloating. But I haven’t found my match yet.

Although I don’t have someone my age to share with, the other fighters are fabulous! Most of the cancer fighters that come in on Thursday mornings are women in their mid to late 40s battling breast cancer.  It’s scary how many women have breast cancer, by the way.  Many of these gals have advanced stages of breast cancer, yet they seem unbroken, noble and statuesque in the way they sit to receive treatment – goddesses, really.  Unlike me, a lot of them have children at home.  To them, it seems chemo is like another chore on their never ending list of Supermom tasks.  It’s unbelievable!

I love talking to them.  They seem so wise, so strong.  Sometimes, if I start to get caught in the downward spiral that I call “the cancer blues”, I think about the women I’ve met in chemo. I picture them in all their brave glory, standing with full armor at the front line of an Amazonian battle, ready to strike those negative thoughts with piercing arrows.  The corrolation makes sense.  Greek Amazon ladies of lore were known to cut or burn off their right breast so they could weild a bow more easily.  Cool stuff!

A normal chemotherapy session for me lasts about two and a half hours.  Once my chemicals have been properly prepared, Heather administers them one at a time.  3 of the chemicals are injected through a syringe.  One drips from a bag on my rack.  That’s the one that takes the longest.

The process is painless.  None of it actually hurts, but about an hour into my treatment, I begin to experience some side effects.  Generally, my stomach begins to cramp and I get a chemical aftertaste in my mouth.  Then I get really sleepy.  By the end of my two and a half hours, I’m ready to pass out.  And as soon as I get home, I do.

For anywhere from 4 to 8 days after treatment, I go through a number of shitty ailments, all of which are normal side effects of chemotherapy.  Since there are so many and it’s a lot to cover, I’m going to save that stuff for another post. Plus, Cancer Girl is tired and sleep is very important to my full recovery.  So until next time, Adios!

It’s impossible for me not to ask these questions.  The hard part is reminding myself that this isn’t my fault.  They don’t know exactly what causes Hodgkin’s, so there’s no point in me trying to figure it out.  Besides, what good would it do?  Finding out how it happened won’t cure me.  Still, it’s hard not to wonder why.

Being diagnosed with cancer was like being hit by a train.  My life was running pretty smoothly prior to my diagnosis.  Between modeling, acting, music writing, and my day job (yes, I have a day job), I didn’t have the time to worry about proper nutrition, how much caffeine I was pumping into my body, or how many drinks I’d had on the weekend.  Scheduling a physical exam was the furthest thing on my mind.  I felt healthy, attractive, strong – why should I need to get a check-up?

Things started to change when I was planning my wedding.  The stress of organizing every thing while maintaining a healthy relationship with my fiance was exhausting.  I found relief in weekend partying with my friends.  Dirty martinis, extra dirty, three olives.  That was my poison.  I’d rationalize my behavior.  I’m 24!  Every one else my age drinks this much on the weekends!

I come from a genetic line of heavily codependent “users”: severe alcoholics, drug addicts, chain smokers, obsessive scab-pickers (gross!), bipolars, and drama queens and kings.  Fortunately for me, my parents are the most normal of them all.  Still, knowing what my genetics carry, I’ve always had a very guilty conscience about my partying intake.  If I smoke this one cigarette, will I end up smoking three packs a day until I die (like my grandparents did?).  If I drink three martinis tonight, does that mean I’m an alcoholic? I’d beat myself up over the worry of becoming an addict.

The truth was I had a pretty high drinking tolerance for my age.  I could drink some of my guy friends under the table and still walk when it was over.  I was prideful in this ability until something changed.  My hangovers got unbearable.

I thought it was happening with age.  I’m just getting older – I can’t handle as much liquor anymore. The after effects of a weekend martini binge left me unable to get out of bed, brain dead, achy, and completely depressed.  Finally, after one too many bad hangovers, I decided it was time to give my partying a rest.  My body told me to stop, and I listened.  About a week later, a lump appeared on my neck.  Time to schedule that physical!

I’m not accusing alcohol of causing this cancer, but I do think the hangovers were my body’s way of saying, “I’m not okay!  Stop hurting me!”  It was a major turning point in my life.  I’d spent years ignoring what could have been signs and symptoms of health problems that I didn’t feel I had the time to address.

Knowing your body is so important.  It speaks in a way only you can understand.  Listen to it, love it, nurture it.  Pay attention to changes, and SCHEDULE THAT PHYSICAL EXAM!

The bone marrow biopsy may have been the most peculiar procedure I’ve had thus far.  Dr. Peete was an outrageous woman.  While she was standing on a chair above me, screwing in a 1.5 foot needle into my pelvis, she told hilarious jokes.  It made the procedure go by much faster, and helped ease the pain as well.  She mentioned she’d driven over a sofa on the freeway just days before, launched herself airborne, but survived, as did her car, with nothing more than a dent in the license plate. I liked her.

One of her jokes in particular was, “What do you get when you cross a penis with a potato?”

The answer, “A dictator.”

The next morning, with a very stiff back indeed, I showed up at Dr. Tetef’s office for my first chemo treatment.  My mom flew in from the east coast to be at my side.  They sat me into a lounge chair, put me on a saline drip, and got to work.  The nurses were kind to me.  At my age, I seem to get a bit more attention than some of the others.  Many of the nurses looked at me as if I could be their daughter.  I saw the sympathy in their faces.  Most of them are my mother’s age.

My mom was right at home in the clinic, trading stories with the other ladies sitting in their chemo chairs, most of which were Breast Cancer patients.  It was helpful for them to see someone on the other side, a survivor.  One woman in particular was in the middle of her third bout with cancer, had 5 children, and a mother who was also recently diagnosed with Stomach Cancer.  A story like hers makes me abundantly thankful that my situation is as good as it is.

As the chemicals dripped into my veins, I became increasingly tired.  Every 20 minutes or so, a nurse would come and check my blood pressure.  I chatted with the ladies around me, sucked on pretzels, and sipped juice.  After 4 hours, I was done with my first treatment.

When I got home, I went straight to bed at 5:00 PM and stayed there the whole night.  I had a few close calls, moments where I thought I would vomit, but it never happened.  I felt like I had flu, a bit achey and dizzy, but never to the point of loss of control.  Dr. Tetef had tried to assure me that the anti-nausea medications they have now are so good at counteracting the side effects of chemo, that I’d probably be just fine.  After seeing what my mom had been through 10 years earlier, it was hard to believe.  But she was right.  I made it through my first treatment okay.

It has now been two and a half days since my treatment was administered.  I feel fatigued to say the least, and my stomach has been in and out of knots, but for the most part I’m doing pretty well.  If this is supposed to be the worst treatment, then I am fully prepared to take on the rest.