And So It Begins

Finding My Voice

First things first: people often refer to cancer treatment as a marathon, which really doesn't work for me because a few weeks ago I would have said the thing I hated most in the world was running.  Now it's cancer...but running is still a close second so let's dispense from the get-go with all exercise related metaphors.  I'm not an exerciser.  Never have been.  Never will be.  And cancer is not like going to the gym.

A better metaphor for me is that cancer is a journey story, a hero's journey, with ups and downs and laughs and tears.  You don't know exactly what's going to happen along the way but you know it's all going to be okay in the end.  So this is my cancer story.  I share my story with my many friends and family as a way to stay connected and as proof that I am still me - a survivor, a writer, a fighter.  I share my story as documentation of my journey...albeit a slightly different journey than my usual travels.  Welcome aboard.

Louie the Lymph: Diagnosis

Over a ten-day period I had my first, second, third, and fourth-ever IVs; I was told I have a "fairly large" mass in my chest cavity; I had a CT scan; I had a biopsy done, again with the CT machine; and I received the phone call that the mass is lymphoma.  The C word.

Technically my diagnosis is a primary mediastinal large B-cell lymphoma.  This is a treatable form of cancer and is most often cured via chemo alone.  Sometimes radiation is also required and there's not a 100% cure rate but the rate of recurrence is very low, given other forms of cancer.  (As I was told by our first Internal Medicine doc in the hospital, I chose the right cancer.)

I've named my mass Louie.  Louie the Lymph.  I imagine Louie to be a lymphoma-lime-green blob, a la Ghostbusters.
 
The first signs of him were that he tried to take my voice, gave me acid reflux, and left me with a persistent cough.  He's not the first male to try to take my voice and I imagine he won't be the last.  But with years of pent up anti-misogynistic anger by my side, I'm about to take him down.  Kick the shit out of him really.  I'm about to open up a 10-pound can of chemo on his ass.  Believe me, he won't know what hit him.