Good news?!

Yes, there’s still that pesky question mark in the shape of the spot that’s still lighting up on my PET scan. But the doctor yesterday said that it’s “all good news.” Everything else is gone and the blood clot in my lung has also dissipated.

As for the spot, the doctor doesn’t seem to think it’s Hodgkin’s lymphoma. It could be a benign tumor. If it doesn’t grow, then they’re not going to worry about it. For the next three to six months until my next scan, it’s back to normal.

Why am I not dancing in the streets? Well, if you’ve ever seen me dance, you’d consider it good judgment. (I seriously considered signing up for a recent Elaine Benes dance contest at a Brooklyn Cyclones game.)

Also, my joints are still a little achey, something that the doctors say should be getting better soon. Apparently, it’s pretty common to have joint pain after a stem cell transplant because of the rapid muscle loss. I’m supposed to continue building strength, so my run up the steps featured in the famous Rocky scenes while in Philadelphia this weekend should prove to be therapeutic.

I should be using more exclamation points. I’m among those who overuse exclamation points to sound enthusiastic or friendly.

I feel oddly deflated. I have been buoying myself up in the face of disappointing news through all of this, and now that I may no longer need to do so, I find myself inexplicably sinking.

I’m fairly certain I have a finite amount of optimism. My boyfriend says I’m a pessimist, but I just like to prepare myself. Just last week, I pointed out that when I came across a bottle of urine under the footbridge near our apartment, I described it as half-full. If that’s not optimism, I don’t know what is.

I’m having a hard time accepting these next six months as a gift where I don’t have to worry. I feel as if I should keep my guard up. I’m afraid to get too comfortable with a (possibly) cancer-free life, only to have it possibly taken away again. I realize that’s silly.

Yesterday I did a quick five minutes of internet research and found that depression after a stem cell transplant isn’t uncommon, even if the results are good. It’s not as if I’m incapable of happiness, but I just feel a little adrift.

Since I started this journey back in February 2013, I lost my full-time job and have been freelancing, which is always laced with uncertainty. For some reason, taking on new projects after the transplant has filled me with crippling self-doubt. Assignments that I would have been able to breeze through have taken longer. I feel constantly overwhelmed and stressed out no matter how much (or little) I have to do.

The thing about depression is that it sometimes creeps up on you just when you think you should feel happy. Then you wonder what’s wrong with you and you feel worse. People try to cheer you up, and you feel even worse for bringing worry to those you care about.

So please don’t worry. I’m OK. I think. Just like the doctors are keeping an eye on the PET scan spot, I’m going to make sure this is just a passing case of the blues and not something that gets bigger and more troublesome. I have plenty of things to look forward to in the coming months—a trip to see family, friends in town, Sharknado 2.

It’s time to get my bearings and figure out where to go from here. Soon my exclamation points will return.

?

Before I even got the PET scan results, I felt as if I knew what they would be: No change. I still have a spot that lights up.

That’s pretty much all I know. It’s not any bigger, but it doesn’t seem to be any smaller.

The best-case scenario is that it’s not still cancer, and that if it’s not cancer, it’s nothing serious.

I’m meeting with my doctor on Monday to discuss options. When I spoke to him a few visits ago, he seemed to think that if the scan showed that the spot was the same size, we would wait and keep an eye on it.

Even if the scan had showed nothing, I’d still be suspicious that the cancer was waiting to sneak back up on me. Yet though this was expected, I’m a little sad. Mostly, I don’t know how to feel, because I don’t know what this PET scan means.

More conclusively, a CT scan showed that the blood clot in my lung is gone. That’s a good thing, because they had to use a big needle for that test, and since I’m out of veins, the nurse said it would hurt. It did. And then they had to put in a bigger gauge. That hurt too. Also, they did the injection slower so it would hurt me less, but it still felt like my arm was being crushed from the inside. It wasn’t horrible, just unpleasant and weird. I felt like my bloody bandage made me look tough on the train, though.

Uncharacteristically, I don’t have much to say at all. I kind of don’t want to talk about the results, because I’m not even going to venture a guess at what they mean.

Also, I’m supposed to be writing about Greece right now, and I’m behind on my deadlines and work.

So for now, I’m just going to keep putting one foot in front of the other to see what’s going to happen next. If I don’t answer emails or inquiries, don’t worry. As always, I’m just scrambling to do as much as possible in this interim of relative wellness.

In my mind, the spot on the scan is shaped like a question mark. I wish it were like a game of Operation where someone could go in and remove it.

Odds

For work, I often have to look up statistics. Just recently, for example, I researched stats for a story on recreational water illnesses. (Spoiler alert: There’s a lot of poo in pools.)

When it comes to cancer stats, however, I know surprisingly little, especially about my own odds. I’m going in for my follow-up PET scan today, the first after April’s autologous stem cell transplant, with only a vague notion of the numbers associated with the success rate.

It’s tricky in my case, because the stem cell transplant is much more effective of reducing the risk of the cancer returning if you achieve complete remission first. I’m not sure if I did, since the doctors weren’t completely sure what the tiny part glowing on the PET scan pre-transplant was—if it was still Hodgkin’s lymphoma, in the unlikely location of my pancreas, or if it was something else.

Today’s scan could show nothing, meaning that the spot was Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and the radiation and stem cell transplant worked in getting rid of it. Or something will still light up. My doctor says that if it’s still a small spot, we’ll just keep an eye on it. If it’s bigger, then it’s probably not Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and we’ll have to figure out what it is. (If you’ll recall, theories include an actual fire in my belly or an E.T.-like glow. Instead of my heart glowing like an endearing extra-terrestrial, my pancreas is where love resides.)

I’ve also never been a numbers person. Numbers have only dragged down some of the only numerals I’ve cared about—standardized test scores and GPAs.

The only D I’ve ever received on a report card was in algebra my freshman year of high school. (Thankfully, gym was pass/fail.) I spent a lot of that class avoiding the chalkboard displaying the numbers, some of which were teamed up with letters in attempt to confuse me. These traitor renegades of the alphabet didn’t even spell anything, something that seems mad and obscene and makes my brain shut down. Instead, I spent my time talking to a friend who sat behind me. So much time, in fact, that the exasperated teacher once interrupted by unending stream of chatter by turning my desk around in the middle of class so I was finally facing forward.

In college, I had to take a class called Math 075, the zero indicating that it was high school level math. I thought I did pretty well in class—some of the math had finally sunk in—but I still only got a C. I got a B in my college statistics class, despite realizing, halfway through the quarter when I looked at the syllabus, that I didn’t have the prerequisite math. (So much for my supposed reading skills.)

At restaurants, when a bill comes and people need to figure out what they owe, I dutifully look at the check, pretending to read it until someone else does the math. It usually works out OK, unless I’m with someone else who also does this and there are only the two of us at the table. I once sat with a like-minded friend over the bill for about a minute before we both had to admit we were waiting for the other person to figure things out.

I had lunch recently with that friend and have been able to go out and enjoy the summer. We spent a night in the Hudson River Valley with friends. I got a Keith Hernandez bobblehead at the Seinfeld-tribute Brooklyn Cyclones game. I’ve seen Dazed and Confused and Sharknado outside and met up with a friend for lobster rolls and ice cream. Things are getting back to normal—even my plentiful facial hair has returned, and I’ve gone to the threading salon to tame my Wham!-era George Michael eyebrows. But there’s always a footnote that plagues me: This might just be temporary.

Today, I feel both nervous and numb. I’m not preparing myself for good news. As I told someone last week, I feel as if I’ve had bad luck and so it seems as if my bad cancer luck would continue, as if it has some sort of momentum. Every scan until now has shown something abnormal, so it seems as if I should prepare myself for another questionable scan. It’s not logical or scientific, just a way to protect myself from getting my hopes up.

Going in to treatment for Hodgkin’s lymphoma, the odds were good. People tell you how lucky you are to have “the good cancer,” because of the high survival rate and the likelihood that the cancer will be cleared up in months. It’s been about a year since I first got an inkling that the ABVD chemotherapy might not be working. Since then, I’ve had three months of Brentuximab, two rounds of ICE chemo, two weeks of radiation and the month-long stem cell transplant hospital stay. I’ve fallen in with the unluckiest of the “lucky” Hodgkin’s lymphoma patients.

Another person in this category suggested I join an online group for relapsed and refractory Hodgkin’s lymphoma patients. It’s a very supportive group full of brave people, but it also makes me aware of just how many have to fight this cancer for years—and that some people lose. Within a week, three people died. I don’t know what the percentage that is. If it were for work, I’d have to figure out the stats, but I’m not interested in this morbid task. One seems like way too many.

There are always inspiring stories about those who beat the odds. It’s less inspiring when the odds seem to be in your favor and then you end up in the undesirable portion of those statistics.

I don’t want to ponder my own numbers. Even if the results are good, I’m not going to have a celebration. I’m too wary—almost superstitious that celebrating the end to cancer would invite its return. (Logic isn’t my strong point. It’s too closely related to math. I thoroughly enjoyed my college Intro to Logic class but still got a C.)

I know I’m not the only person who is cautious about optimism. Once you have had cancer, there’s a fear it will return. Something’s made an attempt on your life and you don’t know if it’s ever coming back for you. There’s an invisible target on your back.

Of course, there’s always the unknown other. “I could get run over by a bus tomorrow,” people sometimes say.

Oddly, I’m also paranoid that I will indeed get run over by a bus after going through all this trouble to live. Alanis Morissette would call this irony, but she would be wrong. Irony was when I cancelled plans with friends so I could finish writing a story with statistics about how hanging out with friends is better for your health and well-being than working.

As I head to my PET scan today, I’m going to try not to think about the statistics that may or may not be in my favor or my bad luck. Instead, I’ll try to focus on a good number—I’m not sure of the quantity. It’s the number of people who have been so supportive along the way. That makes me very lucky, regardless of the today’s outcome or what lies ahead.

No matter what happens, I will still try to continue to enjoy each day as much as I can.

To-Do Lists

Weeks ago, a concerned friend sent me a message to make sure I was OK after a dearth of social media posts. I emailed her back to let her know that it’s not for any health reasons. In fact, I’m feeling well enough that things are somewhat back to normal. Honestly, I’ve been busy and not busy, and it’s been the latter that has been inexplicably keeping me from getting things done—like updating this blog.

On that particular day, I was actively avoiding social media because it was right after the Game of Thrones finale, and I was several seasons behind, so I was worried about spoilers. Now I’m caught up and can freely peruse the internet.

As a freelancer, I seem to usually swing from having no work to having a lot to do. The no-work times aren’t as fun and carefree as you might think, since I spend the entire time stressing out about not having work. I also tend to get depressed and listless, so not only am I not working, but I’m also not getting the things done that I tell myself I would do with time off (like updating my portfolio). I find myself half-heartedly doing tasks at a slow pace.

I spend much of the time on pointless worrying. I was comforted by the story I saw about the study that found that most people feel better doing something than doing nothing. Basically, this study confirmed what Louis C.K. told Conan O’Brien months ago. Without things I didn’t absolutely have to be doing, I felt adrift.

Since I felt as if I should be devoting all my time to finding work, I didn’t update the blog either. I have a bunch of posts I never finished. But now that I have work to do, I also feel as if I have free time to blog. Oddly, I feel as if I can’t have only free time—it has to be balanced with work.

I’ve also had trouble focusing, and I can’t tell if this is just not having structure, or if it’s “chemo brain,” which I just read has been proven, according to a new study.

To help myself focus, I’ve been going back to making to-do lists. Sometimes I write things on my to-do list that I’ve already done, in order to cross them off and feel as if I’ve accomplished something. Someone suggested I put “write to-do list” at the top, so I can cross it off immediately.

I even put “blog” on my list. Though the dent in my list is small, I made some progress today. Below are some additional things I accomplished today that were not on my list, as well as why they’re important.

Reminded my friend that he owes me $1 million that he lost in a bet to me last night. He thought that an old Saturday Night Live skit featured Jimmy Fallon, but it was Chris Kattan. I also reminded my boyfriend that he owes me $8,999,975 over a few ill-advised bets about ‘80s songs. If they pay up soon, I can retire. However, seeing as they’re also writers/editors, this is unlikely. Perhaps my time would be better spent seeking friends who are foolish enough to make such bets with me, but who also have the funds to pay. I’ll put that on my to-do list.

Read about Jessica Simpson’s wedding. This was really important for several reasons. I’ve kicked my celebrity gossip habit, for the most part, but I continue to involuntarily collect useless pop culture knowledge. Often, they’re tidbits so obscure, they don’t even help me out in trivia. I can’t even talk to anyone else about this information. I’m pretty sure all of this is crowding out things that I need to remember, so I’ve cut down on gossip intake.

However, I decided recently that it is part of my civic duty to read at least some new celebrity news to avoid the alarming instance of recycled old news I’ve seen presented as new. Last week, I was irrationally irritated when I saw Ryan Gosling was trending, and it was a decade-old story about how he and Rachel McAdams—whom he later dated—didn’t get along on the set of The Notebook. I’ve known that for 10 years, since the movie came out. (Not that I’ve seen the film. It looks mushy, and I have a cold, cold heart.) But this was being presented as news! You can imagine my outrage—and subsequent relief to learn that he is trending today for a legitimate, new reason.

You know who has seen The Notebook? Jessica Simpson. She apparently saw it on an airplane and she decided she wanted a love like that, and that’s when she decided to divorce Nick Lachey. Why do I know that? I don’t know. As I said, I retain useless knowledge that I read years ago.

For this trip down the aisle, I saw a headline that said she went for a Great Expectations theme, so I had to click to learn more. I’ve read only part of the book, but Charles Dickens’ description of the bitter spinster Miss Havisham has stayed with me. Jilted at the altar, everything in the house is left as it was the moment she found out the groom wasn’t coming to the wedding. From what I remember, she sits with the clock stopped at that time, wearing only one shoe, the wedding dress sagging on her withered frame. Settings for guests are left out, a dusty cake goes uneaten.

I pictured the wedding in a cobwebby mansion with the bride in a yellowing dress. Also, Havisham’s not big on love, so it seemed like an odd choice. To my mild disappointment, the wedding was based on the 1998 movie. Still kind of weird, because it’s just an OK film at best. I listened to the soundtrack a lot, because I liked the songs from Pulp and Mono, and the Tori Amos song was good. Anyway, I hope Simpson’s finally found her Notebook love.

Now that I think about it, it’s my pop culture knowledge that has won me the millions currently owed to me. So the five minutes I spent reading about the wedding could pay off big some day, provided I bet the right person with the funds to pay up. Yes, this was a worthy pursuit.

Played the theme songs to Game of Thrones and Orange Is the New Black to see if my fatter cat has a Pavlovian response and associates these sounds with begging for ice cream as I watch TV. He does not. I conclude that this means my ice cream habit isn’t as dire as I feared. Or maybe (possibly) the cat isn’t as smart as I’d hoped. This was science and clearly very necessary.

Watched some internet cats. I don’t do this as much as people seem to think, but in my defense, I was celebrating crossing something off my to-do list, and the video is very short.

Wrote this blog. Oh, wait, this was on my list. Phew. Time to celebrate…

Songs for the Full Moon and Friday the 13th

As a former goth girl, I feel as if I should be out celebrating the coinciding of Friday the 13th and the full moon.

As a superstitious person, I’m probably not going to leave the apartment. I’m glad I don’t have a PET scan or anything scheduled for today.

The last time Friday the 13th and a full moon coincided was October 13, 2000. It was the day after my birthday. I’m not sure what I was doing. It’s possible I drank a few $3 happy hour martinis then watched the Yankees-Mariners game, because that’s how I spent a lot of my Fridays then. Not that I ever watch sports, really—I just hang out with people who are intermittently paying attention.

The next time this happens will be 2049. (At least it’s before the return of Halley’s Comet, which I missed seeing in 1986.) It’s cloudy and rainy right now, though, so I may have to wait until then. I feel the pressure to do something to commemorate today, though, so I’ve made a moon playlist.

“The Moon Song” by Karen O. This is one of the most recent moon songs, from the Her soundtrack. In 2049, a love story between a man and his operating system will probably seem quaint to our android overlords.

“Bark at the Moon” by Ozzy Osbourne. Of the songs on my list, I think this is the most appropriate for today. Nothing says a full moon on Friday the 13th like werewolves and Ozzy Osbourne in a straightjacket.

“The Killing Moon” by Echo and the Bunnymen. This is one of my all-time favorite songs, so I would listen to this whether the moon was full or not. A lot of people associate this song with Donnie Darko, so there’s something to do tonight. Is watching Friday the 13th too obvious? For me, it would be too scary.

“Moon River.” I saw Sex and the City episode featuring this song before I finally got around to watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Speaking of scary movies, this song reminds me of how terrible the Sex and the City movie was and how it made me hate the series. I suppose if I wanted to be really terrified this Friday the 13th, I could watch the sequel, which looks worse. But Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminds me of the Seinfeld episode in which George Costanza watches the movie instead of reading the book for his book club. I’m full of conflicting emotions.

“Blue Moon” by the Marcels. A classic moon songs. Why are most moon songs so melancholy?

“Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Perhaps this is the most appropriate song for today. Just listening to it made me decide to stay home. Despite the foreboding lyrics, it’s pretty upbeat when compared to other moon songs. John Fogerty sounds as if he’s ready trouble and he has everything under control. A few years ago, I got to see Fogerty play a free show at the South Street Seaport, and he performed this song on the banks of the East River, a full (or nearly full) moon in the sky.

“Tahitian Moon” by Porno for Pyros. I suppose a Tahitian moon is very different from a potentially ominious Friday the 13th full moon. One of my friends loved this song when it came out and it reminds me of him and the summer of 1996. It was a weird summer, the last one I spent home from college. I worked at Boston Market before staging a two-employee walkout, and I sold Cutco knives.

“Man on the Moon” by R.E.M. I included this because it’s an obvious moon song, but I’m not really a fan of R.E.M.

“Sexy Boy” by Air. OK, so this song isn’t about the moon, necessarily, but the video is about a monkey astronaut, and the moon plays an integral role.

Enjoy the rare full moon/Friday the 13th combo!

Time and Aging

I don’t really notice the passing of time much. I somehow lost the month I was in the hospital, so I keep thinking that it’s May, not June. Summer caught me by surprise.

The recent flurry of graduation photos posted by friends on social media also caught me off-guard. My friends’ kids posed for kindergarten, middle school and even high school graduation pictures.

Then someone asked about my 20-year high school reunion next year. Didn’t I just attend the 10-year reunion? Didn’t I just graduate?

Everything feels like it happened not that long ago.

Part of this is because I have a good memory, or so I’m told. It’s not that I’m particularly good about recalling useful information like trivia answers, deadlines or where I put my phone. It only seems as if I have a good memory, because I can recall events, stories and random bits of information from years ago—a conversation I had with someone in third grade about my Shamu eraser or the night an intoxicated man pulled his classic car into the parking lot where some high school friends and I were hanging out and tried to convince us to drive him home.

It’s sometimes a bit lonely when you’re the only one who remembers something, especially when you’re speaking to someone who is part of your old story. “Really? I don’t remember that,” the other person will say, slightly suspicious.

I try not to respond with the details that I remember, because it makes me sound creepy. But I sometimes find myself saying things like, “Yes, you were wearing your blue Converse for the first time and eating Twizzlers. It was the day before our biology final. Are you sure you don’t remember this?”

I’ve never had a firm grasp of time. Anyone who’s ever waited for me could tell you that. My boyfriend says I have no concept of time—usually while he’s exasperated, standing by our apartment door, waiting for me.

My poor mother used to arrive to places early before my own arrival—an entire month before I was due. She says my birth was the first and last time I was ever early for anything.

Now that I’m older, I am more punctual, but I tend to arrive right on time, never early. I hate waiting. And yes, I feel terrible about making people wait for me, but that’s mostly in the past.

Lately, I’ve been more acutely aware of time, because the past year and a half has been mostly full of waiting. I waited six months for the ABVD chemo to be over, three months for the clinical trial to finish, and a month or so for two rounds of ICE chemotherapy to pass and the weeks it took to complete the stem cell collection. The month in the hospital went by fairly quickly, save for the final week, but sometimes I would look at the clock in my room and watch the seconds pass.

Now, I’m waiting until mid August for my immune system to recover from the stem cell transplant enough to resume some sort of normal. Of course, I also wait for the scan, which could mean more cancer and waiting. After I recover from the transplant, if I get clear scans, I’d like to stretch the time out in between them while I enjoy myself because I’m terrified the cancer will come back, especially since it’s been so reluctant to leave.

For the first time since I was a kid, I’ve wanted time to pass quickly. The good news for me is that when you’re a child, a year seems like an eternity, whereas time seems to accelerate the older you get. My boyfriend says that time seems to speed up because the years become smaller percentages of your life. When you’re 5, a year is one-fifth of your life, but by the time you’re in your mid-30s, a year goes by pretty fast.

My tenuous grasp on time seemed to have loosened even more now that it’s sped up. This makes some people feel old, but I don’t really ever feel old. I’m just amazed that so much time has passed—without feeling as if I’ve aged very much.

I suspect I might just be immature. When there’s a serious situation, I still feel like I need to find an adult, before I remember that I am one. (That doesn’t stop me from looking for another, more responsible adult to handle the situation.)

Aside from the assumption that I might be mature enough to handle important things, I don’t mind getting older, really. I’m still years away from the aches and pains of old age. The only other main downside is that I’m wise enough to be embarrassed of my younger self. I probably can cringe at the person I was yesterday. I know the wisdom that comes with age is hard-won, but I could do without the flash of wince-worthy moments from my past—like worrying I was old at 23 or 25.

I graduated from college just shy of my 21st birthday, so as an employed college graduate, I felt old before my time hanging out with my friends who were still in college or on campus. (I wasn’t a huge fan of the whole collegiate thing anyway, so I was happy to be out of school as fast as I could.)

In my 20s, I worried about getting old. I checked for wrinkles. I actually haven’t worried about getting old since I turned 28. Turning 28 really bothered me. While other people balk at milestone birthdays like 30 or 40 or 50, turning 28 made me inexplicably sad. I saw it as some turning point—I was no longer a kid. I’d have to get it together. At that point in my life, I had a career and a house, but I mourned the loss of my youth. I thought I should feel more mature.

A lot of rock stars die at 27. It seems to be a cut-off point for either being forever young (and, unfortunately, dead) or going on with the rest of your life and growing up.

Since my 28th birthday, I’ve never felt old. I’m glad I experienced the Smurfs, telephones with cords, black-and-orange-screen computers before the internet, the ’90s (giant coffee cups, grunge, etc.). I still miss VCRs and I sometimes try to rewind DVDs like they’re VHS tapes. When I see those lists about what “kids these days” won’t know, I don’t feel old; I’m just happy to experience the time that I did.

I also live in a blissful lack of self-awareness when it comes to knowing what’s cool. When I stop doing something, I assume it’s not cool anymore. For example, I assume people don’t go to clubs anymore, because I don’t.

I’m also surprised when other people see me as older. A few years ago, I took a bus back to Ohio, and during a rest stop break, a man came up to me while I was in line and said, “Young lady, you dropped your smile.” I’d forgotten how friendly Midwesterners can be.

Smiling, I got back on the bus, and a college student asked to use my phone. She called her mom. I overheard her say that she borrowed a phone from “a nice lady.”

Lady? It took on a different meaning than it had only minutes earlier. I nearly interrupted her and said, “I think you mean young lady.”

Since I got all the feeling old part of my life over in my 20s, with no other approaching birthdays bother me, it’s been smooth sailing. I love celebrating my birthday. In a way, I see it as a celebration of youth. After all, I’ll never be any younger than I am on that day. The numbers are just going to keep going up.

My upcoming birthdays are going to be even better, as I hope to celebrate many more to come. National Cancer Survivors Day was last week. I still don’t consider myself a cancer survivor, since I’m not sure if the stem cell transplant got me into remission. I read recently that by 2024, there will be almost 19 million cancer survivors. I hope to be among them. I look forward to the opportunity to get old, and maybe even becoming a nice old lady.

Forgiveness

Something strange has happened since my hospital stay and stem cell transplant. My ire is gone.

I just wanted the cancer gone, but the radiation or the four days of chemo seems to have removed some residual anger. I’ve wondered before if the stubborn spots lighting up on my PET scans were angry words that I swallowed and lodged in my trachea or the molten glow of my temper in my gut.

I joke that Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza is my spirit animal, because when I try to calm down, it’s basically as effective as angrily shouting, “Serenity now!”

Part of my lessened anger, I realize, is because I haven’t been around people. I’ve been pretty isolated at home and at the hospital, where everyone was unfailingly nice to me. I know a few train rides will raise my blood pressure. But I feel as if I’m experiencing something more long-lasting than the peace of isolation. (As isolated as one can be in such close proximity to 10 million other people.)

I have a legendary hold on my grudges. My mental nemesis list is long and spans my lifetime. It includes Prince and the supposed friend who told my second-grade crush that I liked him. In the latter case, it’s not fair, because her last name rhymed with the word “beaver” and, unfortunately, she was bucktoothed, but I never made fun of her like the other second-graders. Why would she betray my confidence and scar me so I wouldn’t reveal my crushes to anyone again until I was 14 and started dating? I can picture her triumphant, toothy grin after her big reveal.

I still feel a flush of humiliation thinking about that day. (I think the guy in question transferred schools the next year—not because of me—and I saw him as a freshman at Ohio University during my brief time there before I transferred—not because of him. But I still felt embarrassed when I saw him a decade later.)

As you can probably tell, I take things pretty hard. I joke about it, but often I can think about an instance where I felt wrong or hurt and feel just as angry or upset as when it actually happened. It’s something I don’t like about myself. Also, it was no fun to feel those things the first time, let alone again. And again. And again.

That’s not to say I don’t get over things or that I don’t forgive people. True, it’s pretty easy to get on my nemesis list, and it’s pretty hard to be removed. It might involve a jar full of the offender’s remorseful tears. Or, more often, a simple, “Sorry.”

But how do you forgive someone who never asks for forgiveness? Or—even harder—how do you forgive someone who truly believes the way he or she treated you was justified? That’s so hard. For me, bearer of grudges, it’s almost impossible. I’m still working on it.

I may never be able to look my second-grade crush in the eye should I ever see him again, but I forgave that girl a long time ago. Yet that day in second grade was probably the first time I was blindsided by someone who I thought was a friend suddenly and inexplicably turning on me. It happened again when I was 20. And 22. And 24. And 31. And 32. Probably some times in between all those too. I guess I don’t learn.

If you think I haven’t worried that I’m the problem, don’t worry—I’ve given it plenty of thought and therapy sessions. At one point in my 20s, someone who I would say was truly malicious drove a wedge between me and some other friends. She was so skilled at it, and I felt so raw and hurt and vulnerable. I let other people make me feel as if I were a bad person and if I were crazy. Looking back, I can say that’s crazy.

Luckily, I had other friends who reassured me that I wasn’t insane or a terrible person. But I was pretty broken. I even went to therapy for a while to put the pieces of myself back together—and reassemble myself as a more confident person. In a way, that girl did me a favor.

I realized a lot of those people who hurt me were insecure about themselves and tore me down in an attempt to feel better. I have my own insecurities—less after this cancer battle—but I certainly have had plenty over the years. When I recognized insecurity in others, I saw a kinship with the hope we could boost each other up. Everyone’s insecure about something. But when it’s someone looking to belittle someone else—well, I might as well have a big target on my back.

Yet it’s so hard when someone you trust tells you something she believes to be true about you to not take it personally—even when you realize, on some level, the situation is really about her (or him).

I’m pretty gullible at times. It’s dangerous when someone I trust tells me something terrible about me that isn’t true.

I obviously tend to dwell. The other day, though, I found myself reflecting—not dwelling—on some past relationships with family and friends. It felt different to reflect. I thought about things without the anger.

I was really thinking about wasted time. Since the things I can do post-transplant are still very limited and I’ve been limited to varying degrees for almost a year-and-a-half, I reminisced about being well—but I also remembered feeling terrible at times. Mostly, this was because I was dwelling on a past hurt or wrong, making it last much longer than it had to. In some cases, instead of letting myself heal from someone’s words, I picked at it, like a scab, until it became a giant wound.

I regretted the time I’d lost to feeling bad about myself. Wasted time wasn’t any time spent with friends. Or moments spent rubbing the belly of a cat when I had other things to do. It was time I’d stolen from myself. Now that cancer—something that both is and isn’t me—has stolen time, I’m more protective of it.

Poet, author and activist Maya Angelou died today, and the Internet was peppered with her words of wisdom. I read a long quote about forgiveness, and Angelou certainly had a lot to forgive (and a lot to say on the subject). One of her well-known quotes: “It’s one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, to forgive. Forgive everybody.”

I’m not going to forgive people for them. I’m going to do it for me.

It’s still really hard, even with less ire.

Could this be a good side effect of the chemo? With so much poison coursing through your veins, there’s no room for additional poisonous thoughts and feelings? Could I have been hanging on to anger in the marrow of my bones? Bones seem like as good a place as any to harbor resentment, being hollow and all. I would think organs or even muscles are too soft for hard feelings. The stem cell transplant was supposed to be a re-birth of sorts.

I have to confess that there’s also something else about forgiveness that appeals to me. If you tell someone who hasn’t asked for forgiveness that you forgive him or her when that individual doesn’t admit to any wrongdoing, there’s a good chance it will really annoy that person.

OK, so maybe the old me isn’t completely gone. For now, I hope that the cancer has left, along with my ire. If not, I have to remember that I can control at least my recurring anger, my emotional cancer of sorts.

Photo note: When I’m in doubt of what type of photo to put up, I use a cat photo. I forgive this particular cat on a daily basis for something, almost immediately, because—well, look at that face!

A Return to Working Out (Plus a Cockroach)

It feels good to put on workout clothes again, even if it’s just to do a 30-minute walking DVD or stream a yoga for cancer patients practice.

I’m especially excited to just move again and work up a bit of a sweat. The thing with feeling pretty good post-transplant is that it’s easy to overdo it, so I still have to remember to take it easy. I overdid it a bit on Tuesday and I was asleep by 10:30.

It’s humbling how much strength and flexibility I’ve lost, but I just have to start slowly to rebuild. I have to admit, the trainers in the beginner workout videos are more gentle than the intermediate or advanced levels. Leslie Sansone just wants me to walk and do some bounces, unlike Jillian Michaels, who wants me to “feel like you’re going to die.”

This post isn’t really about my triumphant return to working out or the long journey I have ahead of me. It’s about the momentary terror I felt this afternoon, after I unrolled my yoga mat.

As I looked forward to stretching and finding some inner peace, I was confronted by my mortal enemy, which fell out of my yoga mat. (No, it wasn’t Prince, though he is tiny.)

When I spread out my mat after months of not using it, out fell a cockroach.

We rarely get cockroaches in this apartment, but if you live in New York City, you’re probably going to come across a stray roach or two. I find that most of them seem to by the doors, but they’re pretty big, so I guess trying to sneak in through a smaller space isn’t an option. It’s like Gregor from The Metamorphosis is coming for a visit and has to knock. A former co-worker was once shocked that a roach made it into her doorman building—she kept emphasizing the doorman part, as if vermin have to be vetted at the front door. But it seems as if the larger ones do just waltz in like an uninvited guest.

I’ve presented people with the following question: Which is better, big roaches or small roaches? Most people will say big cockroaches, because they’re easier to find, plus an infestation of small cockroaches seems to mean they’re more bountiful. Also, many people—especially New Yorkers—seem to have a very specific vermin hierarchy of worst to “best” for having in one’s apartment.

I live in fear of coming across cockroaches, but it’s a terrible way to live, so I eventually let my guard down. That’s usually when one makes a dramatic appearance.

Cockroaches seem to choose to present themselves specifically to me. People I live with rarely find cockroaches, while I’m convinced they specifically sacrifice themselves every now and then to torment me.

In my early 20s, when lived close to The Ohio State University campus, I was plagued by sightings, while my two roommates never saw them and dismissed my complaints. I was telling a friend about this recently. “So I started to leave the roach bodies around for him to find,” I explained. “He didn’t believe me.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied. “He was the one being unreasonable.”

I never said I was a good roommate.

My theory is that I was responsible for the death of the Cockroach King, and since then, cockroaches have been trying to avenge the murder with intermittent psychological warfare. I was in Portugal when I remember seeing my first cockroach. We were on a family vacation, and I was 4 years old, walking down the street and holding my mom’s hand when I was stopped in my tracks by the biggest, ugliest bug I’d ever seen. I screamed so loudly that my mom said everyone stopped what they were doing. I was wordlessly pointing to the offending, terrifying creature. “Oh, it’s a cockroach,” my mom said. My grandpa heroically stepped on it.

This cockroach was undoubtedly the Leader of All Roaches. Since then, I’ve been able to sense when a roach is considering me with its horrible antennae. I’ve showered with cockroaches in Mexico. I’ve pulled a dead cockroach from my mouth at a restaurant. (It was buried in some rice, and we knew the sanitary aspect of this particular place was questionable.)

This afternoon, it was my terrified cockroach-specific scream (lower than my mouse scream) that my boyfriend heard when I saw a roach on the floor. He always seems alarmed at my cry, then annoyed that it’s just a cockroach. After eight years, he still doesn’t understand the subtle nuances of my vermin screams.

I stood frozen in place until my boyfriend got the Raid and sprayed. When he hit the bug with the insecticide, the roach moved. But it was from the blast. The cockroach was already dead. It had crawled into my yoga mat and died just to spite me, in one last act of defiance.

Thankfully, the yoga helped to calm me down and get rid of the post-roach heebie-jeebies. When I was supposed to close my eyes and look inward, however, I kept one eye open—just in case.

Freak

After going to high school during the “alternative” craze of the ’90s, I was goth during my late teens and early 20s. I wanted to be a freak. Ministry’s “Every Day Is Halloween” was my anthem. I wore all black. I had vinyl pants. But I never was one of those people who would dress head-to-toe goth all the time, because I’m lazy when it comes to fashion. (Hence the goth thing—all black—versus a counterculture that would require more color coordination.)

My rebellion was only part-time. But I reveled in throwing my differences in the face of the world, even as I copied the looks of others. I started dressing weird in high school to scare people away so they wouldn’t bother me. It worked, for the most part.

I’ve always wanted to stand out and blend in at the same time.

I’m still not quite sure what I was rebelling against. Other people? I still wear a lot of black. Everyone in New York City does, so I feel as if I’ve really arrived home.

But I think my freak past is why losing my hair and looking kind of weird hasn’t bothered me as much as it does some cancer patients. I’ve gotten double-takes on the streets before. I’ve stood out in a crowd. (Unless it was a crowd of other goth people, and then I just blended in to the sea of black, achieving my delicate balance of standing out among the masses and blending in with my counterculture brethren.) Even after I stopped wearing so much black, I’d still wear some crazy outfits.

Now I look like a freak again. I’d forgotten what it was like. In New York, it’s pretty hard to get people to do double-takes. People are pretty conditioned not to look at you too hard unless you’re really going out of your way for attention. It’s not a bad place to look a little different. But I do notice people looking at me and then looking away, not wanting to stare at my bald head or my lack of eyebrows and eyelashes. I should make more of an effort with a wig, but eh. And I’m not going to draw on my eyebrows unless I really want to look like a freak.

Every now and then, I get the “Oops, I shouldn’t stare” look.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling nasty and I’m full of self-pity, I have that old feeling of rebellion, and I want people to stare. I want to remind people that, out of nowhere, something crappy can happen and turn your world upside down. It’s such a mean thought, and it’s erroneous to think that everyone walking around with hair has a charmed life. As I noted, I’ve been trying, at least, to remember that Ian MacLaren quote: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” That person who looks physically fine (who I might be unfairly resenting) might feel worse than I do or might feel terrible inside and I’d have no way of knowing. People who look well aren’t my enemy; my toxic thoughts are the problem.

Before I had cancer, I would sometimes sense—maybe wrongly—resentment every now and then from people who thought I had a charmed life. Not often, but every now and then, I’d get a whiff of resentment—a snarky comment, an undertone of bitterness. I wouldn’t even blame them—I often wondered if I had it too easy, or if I needed to be tested by something. I know now that I didn’t. I’ve had my internal battles.

Irrationally, sometimes I hope that I paid for good things to happen with this past year and that I can resume a life where things seem to fall into place for me.

Because things sometimes do seem to fall into place for me. I’d consider myself lucky, but I wouldn’t leave everything to fate. I’ve worked hard. It’s not like I’m undeserving of happiness.

I do have a gift, though—or gifts, I should say. Sometimes I wish for something and I magically get it. It’s always something random and very specific. For instance, I soaked my Converse once at SXSW and really had no shoes to wear, and at the next event I attended, they were giving out free tennis shoes. One morning, I wished for a hair blow dryer, and that night I got invited to an event where they gave out gift bags with free hair dryers. I’ve sat at my desk and wished for ice cream and had a co-worker pop her head into my cubicle, offering me a sundae she bought and didn’t want. I forgot deodorant on a trip back to Ohio, and before I could buy some on my way back from yoga class, I discovered a basket of free deodorants right by the door of the yoga studio. I have a lot of stories like these. It’s like, every now and then, life gives me a free gift.

I can’t wish for a million dollars. It has to be something small in order for my wish to be granted, and I can’t summon it to happen. I have to be not expecting to magically get what I want.

I already know I can’t wish the cancer away. I just have to hope—like everybody else—that this last treatment was successful.

I also know that I really don’t want to be some sort of sad reminder of mortality to people who see me in all my bald glory. (And I know I’m too lazy to always wear a wig.) I hope people just see me as a fellow person fighting a great battle along with everyone else. I’m finally standing out, like I always wanted, but I’ll be happy to blend in again.

Photo note: This photo is from my goth days. In the full photo, I’m looking up and smiling at a friend who has spiked his hair completely up before a Bauhaus show in Chicago.

Be Kind

This week, after sharing my blogs about having had panic disorder and my recent feelings on everything that’s happened and things I’ve lost (and gained) to cancer, I thought of that quote:

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”—Ian MacLaren

So many people reached out and told me about their experiences with anxiety disorders, cancers, chronic illnesses and hospital stays that I had no idea about. They were offering sympathy and support, and, while I wasn’t surprised I know so many strong, wise people, I was kind of surprised that I didn’t know what friends had been through.

Most of these people aren’t casual acquaintances, either—we’re talking about people I’ve known most of my life or people I’d see every day at work. Since I’m so open about my dealings with panic disorder, I thought I’d known about other people’s struggles, but whenever I mention anxiety, so many others come forward and talk about their experiences. That’s why I think it’s so important to talk about panic and anxiety disorders—everyone feels alone, but it’s really shockingly common and not something that people should feel ashamed to talk about.

It’s strange that now that I’m finally recovering, it’s the time I finally look like a cancer patient—thin and balder than ever. For most of the time I’ve been going through this cancer journey, I’ve looked like my old self, or a lady with extremely short hair. Now I look like I’ve fought a hard battle—and hopefully, I’m going to start looking like I won.

Sometimes, when I looked OK and felt terrible and scared, I just wanted to lash out or beg strangers to be nice to me. If I had no idea that friends have been through their own battles, silently, then it goes to show you often have no idea what people are dealing with on their own.

After this, I’m going to try to remember that everyone is fighting a hard battle and to be kind. (Not too kind, though—I do live in New York and I don’t want people to think I’m getting soft.)