14 Years Later

 

I was told I would never live this long, that I would be lucky to see 4.5 years. Today, 14 years ago, I was diagnosed with a honker of a brain tumor, and four brain surgeries later, I'm still here.

It's an endless saga of treatments, research, medicine, fear, bloodwork, MRI's, seizures, new opinions, old drugs, new drugs. Living the brain tumor lifestyle, rather than fighting against it, has given me so much more insight into what might be possible.

I remember thinking, "As soon as I get rid of this tumor, I can go back to living a normal life." But somewhere along the way, I realized, I couldn't have both. I couldn't go back to living a life not centric to cancer. That in order to thrive, I had to completely evolve my thinking and actions. 

My health is paramount, my research and ever evolving wellness is a gift that I give myself.

I don't have social media, but I will post updates here, from time to time. Thank you for the love and support. 

I can't believe I'm still alive, playing here on Camp Earth. It's fucking awesome!! 

UCLA Tumor Board Results

Dang it if brain tumor life isn't confusing. At least in my world! I can't be the only one who has these types of yoyo results. I mean, it's better to have differing results than a truly horrible, obvious situation. The ups and downs, though are insane. 

If you don't want to watch the whole video (3 min 44 sec), the short is: tumor is growing, albeit slowly. (Think millimeters.) I believe the two treatments I added in the past two months, are helping - who knows, maybe the tumor had grown more in the interim, and now they're even shrinking it? Who knows! I rule out nothing.

My neurosurgeon at UCLA offered a brain surgery to remove whatever she can, or she said she is "comfortable" waiting 2-3 months for another stealth (pre-op) MRI. I opted for the latter, and agreed that if I had furthering symptoms, I would move up the scan.

Some people might think I'm crazy to push-off brain surgery, since I have a growing tumor in my brain, but there are inherent risks involved. Remember when I had to learn how to walk, talk, read - learn the alphabet again?! I do. We will never know for sure if the decisions that we make are the best ones, but a decision is what we have before us. For now, we try to do the least invasive approach. If that isn't enough, we will evolve as we always have.

It's confusing because the symptoms of my seizures are the same symptoms that tumor growth would cause. The main take away right now is that it's important for me to stay the course on exactly what I'm doing treatment-wise, and perhaps even add a few non-toxic, whole body health boosting things. And I really need to lower my stress levels. They directly cause extra seizures, and that makes diagnosing possible tumor growth, very difficult.

With all that being said, I should go to bed. I have a big day planned with a bunch of friends tomorrow. We're doing a nature hike in an old growth forest. I'm so excited! I'll be sure to hug some trees for all of ya. ;-)

We All Need A Wizard

Dang it, why are there so many cool people out there? I just finished an interview with Refinery29, about the TV show, My Last Days. Yes, that is the horrible name chosen to document six different people diagnosed with a terminal illness, one of which is my story. It makes my body retch to even type it. I physically hate the title, with a palpable rancor, but I understand they're trying to gain the biggest viewing potential, and that potential could help people. It's all about pulling people in, about shock value. It's the world we live in. I just don't believe I'm in my last days. I don't describe myself as terminal, although that's exactly what I've been told. That I will die of this. But I know so much more than I used to. I know that a cancer diagnosis is a hopscotch of jumps, just to find a new treatment to outlive each phase. There are no guarantees in life, and that means we don't know what our life has in store, for example, when we will die.

So, anyway, the production company set us up with a public relations agency that's helping us understand the marketing/promotion process which includes doing an interview or two. Back to my point, I was partnered with one of the PR peeps, and she is a true wizard - one of those spirits that you instantly connect with. The Refinery29 interview this morning held the typical questions, When were you diagnosed? How has this impacted your life? My wizard had addressed all of us subjects in a recent conference call and one specific point resonated with me. I started thinking about what I want my message to be. If I can sum up my goal in discussing my cancer journey, what is my ultimate point? And in a conversation with my wizard, I finally figured it out.

Some people have to talk things out to solve their problems, others need quiet solitude. I tend to need to write. And prompting really helps. So, in talking to my wizard, I evolved. And that is what's really cool about people. Those folks that encourage, and engage, and spur us to harness our passion. And after free writing the email below, errors and all, I realized, in the most concise form as of yet, my true goal.

Good morning [Wizard]! Sorry for the delay.

I would love your input on this interview. I'm excited for this opportunity, but it definitely has me thinking about what I want to get across. And it's not as simple as I thought it would be. The message on my blog is about people taking control of their health, that we as patients are so much more - we're medical consumers. That we have control over the doctors and medical centers that we choose and that we deserve respect. That doctors are not rated equal, that not all centers can offer the same treatments. That you have to protect yourself, and advocate for your rights. That no one has more of a vested interested in their health then you. To not let anyone dictate when you are out of options, when you're going to die. I have no idea how the show will be edited, what they will focus on after several days of filming, my fear is that it will be more about my husband and my love story, which is glorious and magical, and unique, but I want to help people protect themselves. In 1970 1 in 30 would be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetimes, now in 2012 it is 1 in 3 for women and 1 in 2 for men. And survival rates are still dismal for most cancers. We have to prepare ourselves to be independent thinkers. Sometimes we need to hear that it's okay to ask tough questions, demand the best care, to not be afraid to ask more of our doctors. I'm not as interested in my own story, but maybe that's just because I'm so used to it.

Just writing this has helped me find my own direction, what I'm really passionate about. God, the things I've learned. I wish I could help people more. Just even the fact that when I don't understand test results, and my doctor's explanation isn't enough (as they are not trained in medical readings of scans), I will cyber-stalk the name on the report of a scan and cold contact them to get more answers on my scans. And the medical readers are always incredibly gracious, and I get better explanations of what's going on in my body. Or I'll research a new treatment, and again find the email address of the head researcher and cold contact them with questions about dosing, or side effects. Most of the time I get responses and enter in wonderful conversations. I then gain more resources as the researchers become colleagues, I can ask them further questions about related research. Sometimes I never hear back, and that's okay too - but I figure, what will it hurt? Might as well give it a shot.

I dream of a day when patients are treated with respect, not pitted, not talked down to, that we start to get treated like customers, because we are. We are paying customers with our medical, whether it's out of pocket, or paid for by our insurance. We should have more control.

Okay, that was one hell of a diatribe, and that was me trying to be minimal. Sometimes patients just need to hear that it's okay to question, to demand more, to realize that we're getting shoved into boxes with antiquated treatments. That we deserver personalized care based on our specific pathology. Nothing will change until we demand it.

Jess

In talking with others, those souls who provide a safe haven, a pure understanding and curiosity of another's plight, we are able to open further. To share the seed of our truth. And if you're really lucky, they not only nurture what's been planted, they rejoice as you flourish. My hope is that by sharing my experiences, the things that I've learned and continue to learn, it will help others find their truth. To not be afraid of the answers, of going out on a limb to find their best health.

I continue to be blessed by people that pop into my life, making everything I do more fun, more authentic, and I cherish them.

I feel more connected to others every day, and in that, I feel more alive.

From our episode on My Last Days

Does Altruism Exist?

I'm sitting at the JFK waiting to fly back home and wondering to myself how I got so fortunate in life. I just spent the night (as I usually do) with my friends Nate and Miraim, and baby Sol of course, and just being around them is calming, and fun, we talk about everything. It's engaging and energizing, and refreshing, and fills me with joy. Flash to today where Sol, Miriam and I met up with our friend John (Steph was stuck at work) for lunch and again it's the most invigorating, expressive, comprehensive friendship. How did I get so lucky to live this life and be surrounded by such amazing humans? These beautiful souls who think deeply, whose hearts are profoundly touched by human suffering or the human cause. I think they all see themselves as just normal people, but I see them as the glue that keeps humanity real, and kind. I hear their words, as they talk on any subject, and they care. They have such huge hearts, it's the most lovely thing.

The shot went well, fabulously well, Dr Germany said something along the lines of, "We're on a winning team" in reference to my protocol. Man that's a fantastic thing to hear. I don't know why I get to live this - I don't even have a good word for it - blessed life, but I am grateful for every second. And along with living a life that is true to me, and my evolving views, I will also continue my mission to help other tumor patients achieve health, and longevity.

The bandaid peaking out reminds me of today's life giving treatment

The thought has crossed my mind that now I'm stable, I could say screw it and just go live my life (while obviously continuing my treatments). I could stop blogging. I could unconnect from social media and just garden, or find a career that could withstand my seizures, and time off to travel for treatments. I could turn my back on the brain tumor world and focus on anything, or everything, else. I could just spend my time in an unrelated field, or focus on other endeavors, but the truth is that I feel the need to pay it forward. I am driven, compelled, to help others who are just starting their journey, or perhaps are dealing with a relapse/recurrence. I could not turn my back on family, and that's who you all are. You are my brain tumor family, and I will not abandon you. It would be easier, probably, and less emotional, less stressful, but who would I be if I didn't help those in need? It's not the kind of person I want to be. We all have choices every moment of every day about who we are and how we're going to live our lives. I have somehow navigated my way through this crazy diagnosis, and although I'm not guaranteed tumor stability for life, with this path that I'm on, it's working for now and I know I can help others. I've done it and will happily continue. It's actually even selfish sometimes because it makes me feel good when I talk to another brain tumor diagnosees and help them figure out their own plan, because everyone is different. Each brain tumor patient can blaze their own path; they can take little bits here, and little bits there, from other patients who have been successful. When I see, or hear in their voice, the determination to live, it fuels me. When I share what I know, or connect them with others who can also give valuable information, I feel intrinsically good. Is there such a thing as altruism? I really don't know.

So, even though I worry about you guys, all my tumor friends, crying for you at times, I wouldn't change a thing about the responsibility to help. I know this is a choice. I see pieces of myself in you, I know your struggles, I know your fears. Know that I'm here, and I will help you in any way I can.

How do we celebrate?

I never thought I'd feel this way. I never thought that I would use these words, and for good reason. Doctors don't use the term "remission" for brain cancer, because "it always comes back". At least that's what all of my doctors have said (minus my neurosurgeon at UCLA, I haven't heard her speak in absolutes). But today, I feel like I'm in remission, that I'm cancer free. I'm sure I still have cancer cells in my body, like we all do, but something feels different. I feel lifted, and whole, and healed. Does that seem crazy? It feels crazy, but it feels right, like I'm on the correct path with the appropriate protocol.

 
I don't want to jinx myself, so please knock on wood, but for the first time since diagnosis, I feel human. I feel normal. I feel like an epileptic (that may never change), but not a cancer patient. I'm continuing all of my current treatments, but now I'm doing it by choice not out of duty. And I know that this shift alone will do wonders for my psyche.

I never thought that my MRIs would get pushed out to 6 month intervals. It crossed my mind once or twice, but it was like imagining a unicorn. A wonderful thing to smile about, but not a reality. But the world tricked me, see - unicorns DO exist, and I love them! 

I keep thinking about this insane tumor diagnosis and how much it has changed my life. I have gone through so many wild things, like the awake brain surgery, or the hematoma that caused major brain damage, forcing me to relearn everything from using a fork, to learning how to run again, and read again, and regain my vocabulary. There were times when I couldn't even understand concepts. My IQ was ridiculously low. I remember undergoing hours and hours of testing only to be told by one of the top neuropsychologists at University of Washington that I would never recover and read again, that I would never be capable of high level thinking or processing. I remember sitting in that same doctor's office with Dan as we went over the results, as tears streamed down my face. Man how things have changed. Not that I'm that smart, but I'm more than getting by. 

So what do I do now? How do we celebrate?!? For starters, I have decided to start training for a half marathon. I haven't run a half marathon since before I was diagnosed, and have been hesitant to push myself too far because I was afraid of seizures, exhaustion, running down my immune system, elevating my blood glucose for long periods, you name it, I was scared of it. But, I was very inspired while watching the Iron Man coverage this weekend, and I reminded myself that life is short, do what you enjoy.  So I'm starting with a half marathon in January, and my other goal is to do ChelanMan in July, the Olympic length triathlon. I don't know if you guys know this, but when I was diagnosed, I was supposed to participate in the Olympic ChelanMan that summer (I was diagnosed in April) but obviously, that didn't happen. I feel like things are coming back around full circle. I honestly never thought this would happen. It would have been too much to hope for - to live a normal (ish) life. 

So if anyone wants to join me for ChelanMan (you've got several months to decide) please please think about it. Let's get nuts. Let's get silly and have some fun and sweat, and laugh, and feel alive.

The Butterfly Effect

Holy shit I have been lonesome. I don't normally swear on here, figuring I can probably illustrate pretty well without, but, good God, I had no idea how lacking my life was until I went to camp and met other cancer fighters and survivors in person. Until I bonded face to face; until I spent time laughing about our stories; until I realized that although we have different battles, we're essentially the same. We have the same fears, the same trials, the same macabre humor, the same fighting spirit, the same heart and the same soul.

I have been on this hamster wheel of surgeries, and treatments, and applications of treatments, and with that I've been isolated to our house for well over a few years. Obviously, I get out (I just walked four blocks to the grocery store, in fact), but it's always limited, always within time constraints of the chlorotoxin. I've been conditioned to fear seizures, and seizure triggers (heat, sun, noise, thirst, hunger, emotional stress, physical stress), leading me to micromanage my life to an exhausting minutia. I just want to live, and explore, and laugh, and for the first time in four and a half years, in Moab Utah, I felt normal. I felt completely happy, blissful. They got me. They told their stories that I knew in my bones. I felt it. We were the same.

I do a great job of recognizing the beauty in life. In every single moment I am tangibly grateful for each breath, each laugh. I have a lot of fun noticing the little details each day (the fresh breeze on a new soft leaf, the color of the sky when I peek out of our bedroom window) but I am not living the way I want to live. Not because I have cancer, but because I have so many constraints. Too many constraints. I can't not do the chlorotoxin every four hours. I can't not do my immunotherapy. But what I can do is surround myself with people who get me. People that support me within my limitations. I have a great group of friends, but now I have a tribe. A tribe that feels like family. It sucks, but when you get diagnosed with cancer, all of a sudden everything changes and it never goes back. I've had to distance myself from friends because they didn't understand my needs, both physically and emotionally. I've had friends distance themselves from me for their own reasons. It's a complicated life that we live, and for the first time, talking to my peers, looking in their eyes, I realized that I don't have to entertain my apologetic internal dialog about what I'm going through. Cancer patients don't just fight for their lives, they also shelter the people they love, about their fears, about the true state and reality of the struggle. They try to assimilate, to blend in. It's just easier for everyone, but it's exhausting. It's necessary because people can't really handle our burdens non-stop. It's too real. It's too honest. It's too close to death.

I feel like I've awakened. I feel like I found an oasis, just in time to replenish my body. I don't know how this trip, this experience, will change the trajectory of my life, but it will. It always does.

Winking at Fear

Yesterday, I turned a year older. And, it has officially been 4 years, 3 months, and 25 days since I was diagnosed. I have had three brain surgeries. I have tried almost every brain tumor diet on the planet. I have gobbled hundreds of thousands of pills. I have researched. I have exercised. I have meditated. I've dodged seizures; I have endured them. They've injected shot after shot to boost my immune system, and to fight my tumor. I've done the high dose IV drips. I drop venom in my nose, and I swish it in my mouth. I've traveled the country, and around the world, to meet with doctors for second opinions, for surgeries, and treatments. All that, and so much more, and yet I feel like an imposter, like this isn't my life.

I got the email yesterday, a great birthday surprise, that I am included with five other bloggers to be posted on the National Brain Tumor Society website. As I read the other posts I felt like a voyeur, like I didn't belong. It's confusing because I relate to so many of the things that they wrote, yet, with others I have no experience: radiation, chemo. It's as if they were long lost family members; we had never met, but somehow I recognized myself in their faces. I loved the variation of stories, of perspectives, of journeys. The voices, although different, carried similar threads of hope, fear, frustration, gratitude, and determination. Everyone had gone through a lot, whether it had been surgery, or treatments, or a combination. But some of these fighters truly astound me with what they are conquering, what they're capable of enduring. I read the blogs yesterday but I keep coming back to reread them, trying to soak it all in. When I was first diagnosed I tried support groups and they were horribly depressing. In contrast, I'm finding that those who chose to blog about their experience aren't just wanting to connect, they want to help. They want to reach others, far and wide, in the hope that their experience will save another some trouble; to help connect the dots faster.

I am now 34 and it feels old. It feels solid, grounded in my situation, in my brain tumor reality. Kind of stuck. And in my life of contradictions, I feel removed, and floating. I was emailing, the other day, with my cancer buddy Lo, and we were recognizing how you get diagnosed, then everything stops. You keep swirling through scans, and treatments, and scans, and treatments, and year after year you get older but your world stays the same. You try not to, but from time to time, you can vividly imagine where your life would have gone, the road that was washed out before you. 

This year, to distract myself from my inevitable hamster wheel of treatments, at the recommendation of my buddy who did the same for her 34th year, I have decided to do as many things as possible (within reason) that make me uncomfortable, that scare me, that push my limits. I envision lots of nervous laughter, and triumphs. Probably a good deal of sweat, and awkwardness. Living with cancer/brain tumors makes it impossible not to live in some state of fear. More so than most. I challenge myself to open my arms this year to fear, to look it in the face, cock my head, and give him a wink, then jump.

So cheers to another year! This time, instead of cancer pushing my limits, always cancer driving my fear, or cancer making my life uncomfortable, I will take control and steal away some of cancer's power. I'm ready for a different type of fear, and a better adrenalin rush.

Here's a few photos from my birthday celebration, checking out Crystal Mountain, with Dan (including my attempt at a photo bomb). The year is already off to an exciting start... 

The Glass Box

I hate saying this. I hate that this is the situation; that this is how I feel. But, this is a tumor blog and it's where I go to share my journey, so here goes nothing....

Tonight I went to a couples baby shower. It was at an understated, yet trendy bar full of friends. There was laughter, and hugs, and back slapping, and smiles. The celebration was for a specific husband and wife, but half of the women there were pregnant, so by default, it was a celebration for several along side. 

I got the chance to catch up with my beautiful friends, which was lovely, and yet painful. I even cried on the drive home, which is incredibly rare.

Throughout the evening, as I got caught up with people's lives, I couldn't help but notice the disparity between who I would be if I hadn't been diagnosed (a career, the ability to drive, financial stability, perhaps children). As I listened to people speak, with a smile on my face, I felt myself mourn for my old self. I mourned the person I could have been, of who I was on track to be.

I love watching my friends deliriously happy, so excited with their life's journey. But it's also confusing. It's uncomfortable that being around friends makes me both happy, filled with joy, and yet regretful, deeply saddened. I hate that I feel that way.

Currently, I am stuck on a hamster wheel of treatments and won't be finished for years. My life is lived in 4 hour increments, and I should be thrilled by that luxury since it implies that I'm doing well. But it is also extremely taxing. I can handle the stress when I live in my bubble, when I bound around the house being silly with Dan, or off jogging with Emma. It's times when I'm social that hurt too much. That make me feel isolated within a crowd. I can't relate. It's as if I'm in the room, but surrounded by a clear glass box. Alone. This girl who used to be incredibly social, even labeled vivacious by some, has morphed into an introvert. A person more comfortable by herself.

I am very grateful to be alive, please don't get me wrong, but I don't know if I will ever get used to living in limbo. I am putting all of my energy into these treatments, all of our money, and energy, and if they don't work then I will have wasted precious time that I could have spent crossing stuff off of my (yet to be written) bucket list. 

I hate that I'm so self absorbed that I couldn't even completely enjoy such a special occassion. Lots of "hate" in this post. I hate that too.

Fixing The Chinks

Wake Forrest was such a unique trip. We would never have happened upon the destination, but while we flew over the Rockies, I thought about how different my life would be if I wasn't able to explore the opportunities that pop up in my life. The majority of my success, the ability to jump at cancer fighting treatments, or subsequent programs, lay within the hands of those whom I have loved so dearly, who have supported us emotionally - but above that, financially. I am blessed beyond measure. Dan and I have dedicated our lives to creating our own mini think tank, to include the best doctors for my care. We will fight this scary adversary with support from all angles, and now we're able to include Lindsey, my strategist who will help me understand the medical world, the research, the opportunities for treatments, and I also have the Take The Fight (TTF) resources of Andy, Dineth, Lawson, and so many others who are working toward their undergraduate degrees while literally changing the world of cancer care. It is thrilling!

As a basic recap, Danny and I flew to Winston Salem, North Carolina to meet with a group of students at Wake Forest University (overseen by David Warren who was out of town helping his father fight his glioblastoma). It was for a new program called Take The Fight which will subsequently spread across the country to other universities, and further expand around the globe. It pairs students, one-on-one with cancer fighters. The student uploads all of your medical records onto an online database which is easy to access and modify for those on the TTF team and yourself. You also receive a briefcase of hard copies of everything (even all of your MRIs). Both of these systems (the briefcase and online database) make it easy to continuously research and update your plan, whether it's nutritional choices, supplements, clinical trials, research of the disease or upcoming FDA approved treaments, or whatever you personally need to fight your best fight. Your strategist can also join you in appointments with your doctor which is amazing. While we were at Wake Forest Baptist Hospital meeting with Dr Glenn Lesser a neuro-oncologist, we had two take the fight strategists observing and taking notes. Later, the information from the appointment was uploaded onto my medical drive so that I could access it, and they researched a clinical trial that was mentioned and are following up on some upcoming research that was mentioned. It was amazing! Since I will be doing this program long-distance, my situation will be unique. I have plans to ask all doctors as an appointment begins if I can record the session (which I have secretly done in the past...oops...that might be illegal). Also, another option, if my strategist is available, perhaps I can have my computer ready with Skype so that she can be "present" at the appointment. There are lots of options, and I feel, already, that I am being supported, that I'm moving in the right direction. I feel more organized, and hopeful.

I will continue to research and adjust my strategy. I will work hard and utilize this opportunity, and I feel really fortunate to have a teammate, my new buddy, my partner in crime Lindsey to bounce things off of, and learn from her fabulous mind. I am so lucky to have my brilliant new friend to help me navigate the medical world more thoroughly. She is a stunning 4'11 package of sweetness and force with a gorgeous laugh and absolutely fabulous demeanor. She has her eyes on becoming a surgeon (she comes from a long line of various doctors), and just from spending time with her I can tell she would be just the type of person I would want working on my body. She is thoughtful, kind, precise - clearly brilliant. She is just the cutest little thing, with such an amazing mind, and drive. I feel lucky to know her, even outside the whole TTF thing, and I can't wait to be following up and cheering her on along the way!

Thank you for all of the financial support, to our home town of Friday Harbor, our late home of Wenatchee, our current home of Seattle, my old home in Fort Wort, both Dan's mother's and my parent's home of West Seattle, the readers of the blog, our friends in Canada, my family in Poland, our buddies in the Middle East, and everyone else whom I embarrassingly forgot. I just feel insanely fortunate. I'm not exaggerating, I think about how grateful I am every single day. Thank you for the donations. I am a lucky woman, to be supported by so many. Dan has said so many times that he doesn't care if we spend everything (easy to do), mortgage everything (we have nothing of value - we rent a place and use a beater vehicle), he does not care, we will exhaust every option, every avenue until we find a way for me to be healthy. The guy is amazing. I'm sure you guys get sick of me going on and on about him, but he really is the most astounding support as far as a husband goes.

Life is about chances, it's about circumstance. Then, after that, it's about what you make of it. I am enjoying life every single day. Sure, I get cranky. Then, I look at Dan, or call a friend (if Dan's not home) and find a way to laugh and get over myself. Life is just glorious. I probably sound crazy, because I know life can be dismal at times too, but Dan and I have dealt with lost jobs, having to sell vehicles, no money, plummeting credit (really gets me in the heart), debt, missing out on creating a family, and so much more just because of cancer. Cancer sucks! But I have Dan. And my family. And I have friends. And the support of my blog readers. And now Take The Fight, and Lindsey. I am energized with this new program. The way that it's organized helps to show the areas that I'm lacking (ex: concise supplement schedule). I've already uploaded a few new notes/research from my little kitchen office that I can share with Lindsey. It's exciting to have this running dialog with a buddy who is medically minded. I mean, literally, it's in her blood! With Take The Fight I'm able to fix the chinks in my armor, so that I can fight as a real warrior. This is truly changing my life.

I Need To Believe

This last weekend was such a blast! Danny and I were able to pack Emma and a bunch of goodies for a quick road trip to Wenatchee. We didn't tell my parents we were coming, and they were completely surprised and ecstatic - I'm horrible about keeping surprises secret, but somehow I managed. As we drove closer and closer, I became more and more giddy. I am so lucky to have two amazing parents who give me so much love. They are incredibly supportive. I had been needing more hugs lately, and on Saturday morning my parents engulfed me, it was so healing. I love the fact that I can tell my parents anything. They understand so much because they see things that I'm going through, the struggles, the demands on my body, on my mind, they know so much because we talk almost daily. But it's different to get a hug :) A hug might be the best support I could ever get.

My Saturday morning hug came because I was honest with my parents about how I feel about my future. I have been trying very hard to keep a brave face, to shove down the thoughts of failure, of death, but it's not as easy as it once was. Unfortunately, in January, a very close friend said to me, "You know, there's a chance that none of these treatments will work. That there's nothing you can do." It was quite possibly the most painful thing that I've ever been told, and I said that to her. Obviously, you guys understand that I realize, only too well, that I might just die. That my fate may be sealed. That I'm spinning my wheels to no avail. It's something that crosses my mind several times a day, then I try like hell to be positive, to fight on. Just for future reference for friends and family, I only want support. I want to believe - I NEED to believe - that I can beat this diagnosis. I need unfailing support. I can not have anyone say to my face that I might not make it. You guys can say it behind my back, that's fine, but not to my face. It's just unnecessary, and cruel. Her words resonate in my mind and I hate it. It physically hurts my heart, my soul, and sucks at my hope. And I know that it's stupid for me to be effected by someone's words, but words are powerful, especially when they echo your own fears. Ok. Enough of that, I just had to get it off of my chest. For the record, I know that my friend didn't mean to hurt me, but obviously it did. Some things just don't need to be said.

Dealing with cancer is a 24 hour 7 day a week kind of thing. I'm constantly trying to think positive thoughts, making healthy decisions, researching supplements, diets, treatments, doing anything I can so that I know that I'm up on all of the latest treatments and tricks that fight brain cancer. It's exhausting because as I research I also learn so much about the things that don't work, I read stories of people time and time again that have not made it. Brain cancer is one of the least forgiving cancers. It ravages your being, your mind, who you are. Reading and researching is emotional and scary. I feel I need to do it because I learn so much, that I need to be my own expert, my own advocate, but it's terrifying. It becomes overwhelming and that's why I need the outlet of this blog, to just purge my feelings and fears. Somehow, being open and honest about how I'm feeling gives me strength, it makes me feel honest, and transparent.

On a positive note, I have officially been in ketosis for 10 days. Ketosis is when your body uses ketones to burn energy instead of glucose (ie: sugar or carbs). The science behind this diet of low carb, high fat, medium protein, is that your body's organs and cells can fuel them selves off of ketones, and tumors and cancer cells can only eat glucose. Therefore, the less glucose you provide your body, the more you starve the cancer.

I have tried this diet before, several months after my first brain surgery, but it was too restrictive. I was still yearning to eat the foods of my friends, to share wine with the girls, I was unable to completely commit. Thankfully, I have a renewed strength and amazing friends who don't mind if I'm drinking Pelligrino, or abstaining from most foods. The girls that I've been able to spend time with, Christel, and Libbey, and Laura, have been so supportive. They want me to succeed above their own immediate desires, discussing the details of my lifestyle so that they can join in when we're together. It's so nice to be able to talk about the details of what I'm going through, what I'm researching. Each time I explain the ketogenic diet and its' relevance to brain tumors and seizures, I gain further insight into the whole process. It solidifies my memory and makes it easier to continue. Also the girls have all kinds if ideas on recipes, we end up turning it into a fun excuse to do something different, to problem solve.

Over the weekend Dan, my parents and I golfed 9 holes at Desert Canyon (We played best ball - which I must be honest took three hours. Ha!) and it was a blast. My goal these days is to continue to get out and enjoy life. It requires lots of naps and resting later, but it is so worth it!

Love, True Love

My girlfriend Meghan just emailed this photo to both Danny and I. How fun! I had never seen it before. I can't believe how short my hair was, and how far I've come. I'm so fortunate to have such a wonderful man who loves me so deeply. I'm incredibly grateful to have such wonderful friends, and an amazing family. I am not defeated.

Last Thursday was a turning point for me. I had breakfast with Jude, and Seanene, and after I jogged home, I called So Cal Patti. I had been living on a 25% belief that I could beat my cancer, but then, throughout the day, something shifted. When he came home from work, I told Danny I was at a solid 75% which is great news because I had been tearful at the drop of a hat before Thursday. And, I'm incredibly happy to report that after this past weekend, I realized I'm back at 100% again - just like the old days. I can't explain it, it's just a gut feeling. That's not to say that I'm not fearful for my journey, but I'm more excited about the future success of my treatments.

Somehow I realized, truly absorbed the notion, that I am incredibly healthy. That no one would ever expect me to be ill. That I'm shockingly healthy, and capable, and fortunate. I have been surrounded by a loving and selfless man who continuously makes me laugh uncontrollably, and I have mounds of friends who endlessly hug me, and give me their love, constantly filling up my soul. I have family who will stop at nothing to help me beat this. I have new friends who have found me from this blog, and continue to support and love me even though they have their own challenges in their lives. I am alive, I am thriving, I am quite possibly the luckiest girl in the world.

I want to say that "cancer" is just a word, but that would downplay the reality. Cancer is serious, it's scary, terrifying actually, but life is full of beautiful relationships, of love, laughter, and kindness. Somehow, I no longer really feel like I have "cancer". I feel like I am a whole person, completely healthy, incredibly capable, and that my choice to do this chemo drink, to take all of my supplements, to exercise, to partake in the IV treatments, and to practice my deep breathing, are all to keep me healthy. I feel like I'm more in the maintenance phase than a deeply stressful fight to save my life. It's an amazing evolution, one that was necessary for my survival. People can not function in survival mode for long, not without enduring serious consequences.

Too Large? Too Dense?

Man. What a week. I've been a busy bee. Happy second anniversary to us...for the brain surgeries, that is! April 27th and 29th (which also happens to be my mom's birthday - yay for mom!). Last Friday, I jogged over to the UW hospital to retrieve my most recent records from my MRI. I always get copies of the actual scan, and then I also get the radiology report which shows the analysis by the radiologist experts. It's important to get copies of the reports because they are constantly contradicting my nurses and oncologist. It's incredibly confusing.

For example, at the main appointment after my MRI, my oncologist haphazardly pulled out measuring instruments to compare my current MRI on April 19th, to the tumor scan in January, during which he showed a couple of millimeters of growth in a couple of directions, telling us the tumor was progressing. But, according to the current radiology report, my tumor measured the same exact size of 10 mm x16 mm x 11 mm.

What gives? Are the nurses and oncologists uneducated in accurate MRI measuring techniques? If so, maybe they shouldn't be interpreting the results in our meetings. Maybe they shouldn't be inferring results and determining treatment until they receive the official radiology report. According to the current report, there is slight growth, however the measurements have not changed. I'm not sure why they would say that there has been slight growth, and yet the measurements have not changed. We were so confused that my parents contacted the hospital so that we could talk to a MRI reading specialist. For the record, this is not a typical or usual occurrence, and it is not encouraged - but my family is persistent. I think most people don't analyze their MRIs quite as deeply as we do, but I think people should. On Thursday morning we'll be meeting with a fellow who constantly reads brain MRI's. We're hoping that he can explain why the measurements have remained exact over the past six months, over three MRIs, and yet they're saying there's growth. We're not arguing because we can see the slight changes, but we're confused as to why the measurements haven't been adjusted.

I am baffled by the contradicting interpretation of the measurements of my brain tumor. Is it really that subjective? It doesn't seem right. They're trying to tell me to do radiation and fry my brain, yet even the doctors and specialist within the hospital aren't on the same page of what we're dealing with.

It is imperative for patients to get their medical records and review on their own. Not only before you enter a treatment, but also because doctors will say there's "no new growth" when that actually means, "not much" or a few millimeters. That's what was happening to me before October of 2011, and that is a serious problem. Let me tell you why: If your tumor is growing, but you aren't aware, you don't know that you should be looking into treatments. According to my bioengineering artemisinin guru researcher friend, there is a point when a brain tumor can be too large or too dense to treat it safely with artemisinin. When he told me that, I almost vomited (he wouldn't have known - we only talk over email). It never occurred to me that the artemisinin might not work. It all started unravelling when we noticed that the three other areas of concern continue to shrink, and yet Hermie grew just a bit. I asked the guru, one of the top artemisinin researchers in the world, and he said that if the area isn't shrinking like the others, it might be too large or too dense to eradicate with artemisinin. AAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Seriously? That never, ever occurred to my simple, hopeful mind. I thought I just needed to find the correct dosing.

So, what have I learned? Well, if I would have been reviewing my MRIs ever since my surgeries, I would have seen the changes in growth, and I would have been able to start the artemisinin treatment to treat my brain cancer. EEK. AAAAHHHH. I'm so frustrated with myself. I realize that it was an innocent mistake, that I didn't realize how much I needed to be on top of my care, but that doesn't fix the problem of possibly missing my window. We won't know for sure until the next MRI on July 19th. I'm not going to lie, the idea of this treatment not working is absolutely terrifying. I'm not willing to give up though, and, deep in my heart I truly believe that it WILL work, but jeez. This is scary.

To change the subject, here's a photo from the weekend that should make you laugh. Danny, Eric (Dan's brother), Christel (Eric's girlfriend), and I went to the Huskies spring football game, and we came upon photos of the two players of the jerseys that Dan and I wear at Seahawks games. How crazy is that? Just another sign showing that we're a match made in heaven.