Oh, so close.

"The night is darkest just before the dawn. And I promise you, the dawn is coming." Well, Harvey Dent, I hope you were talking to me. I can't eat. I can't drink. I have a fever and mucositis, and I'm also neutropenic (My white blood count is less than 0.1 K/ld. A healthy person's white blood count is normally 4.3 - 10.8 K/ld). I'm in the hospital, currently receiving 3 blood transfusions. This morning I was unable to sit up without getting dizzy, and I had to be pushed from our car to the hospital in a wheel chair. I'll be here for at least a night, having a party with my spit sucker suction wand and IV pump. The only way I am able to grit my teeth and endure the pain is by telling myself that this is the last one. The end. Finito. Period!

Not to long ago, Lexi, the Child Life Specialist here at Comer Children's hospital, came into my room to give me beads. I am participating in a program called Beads of Courage. For each procedure, for example, a blood transfusion, a PET scan, an emergency room visit, etc. I get bead. These beads are one of my most prized possessions. They represent a timeline of what I've been through. As of today, I have 147 total. Altogether, my string of beads is four feet and three inches in length.

I've never looked this terrible in all of my life. I resemble a dying old man. My eyes seem to have sunken in another inch into my skull and I'm pale as a pair of tighty-whities. I have no trace left of eyebrows or eyelashes. Not being able to recognize myself physically, has strengthened my inner self. I know that sounds incredibly cheesy but nonetheless, it is true. While I'm not one of those people who claims that their cancer was a "gift," it certainly has changed me for the better. Each obstacle has shown me that maybe Nietzsche did know what he was talking about when he said: "What does not kill me makes me stronger." One of the most troubling choices that I almost had to make involved a potential choice between trying to preserve my potential ability to have children versus reducing the risk of my cancer spreading from a Stage III to a Stage IV. Stage IV Hodgkin's lymphoma affects not only the lymph nodes but also other parts of one's body, such as the liver or bones. But having my own kids was something I’d always dreamt of. It was like having a door slammed in my face. How could I possibly decide? Well in the end, I did. I chose against preserving my fertility, because who knew if I would even survive to be able to have kids. Turns out, the choice was for naught, for I was able to get a shot that shut down my ovaries, thus protecting my fertility and my health. But even if it hadn't worked out this way, I was still presented with the option, and making the choice truly tested me.

Secondly, I now carry a certain air of confidence; after all, I've pretty much kicked cancer's ass. What is there to be afraid of? Whoever you are, bring it on. I've got my rainbow slippers as boxing mitts and my pain meds in my back pocket. You don't stand a chance. As a way of flaunting this new found confidence, on Tuesday I went to my old middle school to give my very first and second presentations about cancer and optimism. It didn't exactly go as well as I had hoped. I was devastated when my Powerpoint wouldn't work and when in the middle of my presentation, I felt very faint, and needed to sit down. In the end, I was able to show my pictures and video, and apparently one of the kids commented (after I had left) that he found it inspirational that I kept going despite my not feeling well.

I've also learned the value of a support system. Overcoming cancer is not a one-woman act. My family, my friends, my doctors, my nurses, my "blog friends," and complete strangers are all responsible for my health and happiness. They've taught me to ask myself: "Why turn lemons into lemonade when you can hollow them out and make them into whoopie cushions?"

Before I go making this post into an even sappier farewell-like letter, I need to remind myself that I still have a few weeks to go before Destiny's Child's "I'm a Survivor" plays as I walk and my headscarf trails behind me in the wind. ‘Till then!

Hey, Batter, Batter...

I'm eating raspberries right now and I just realized that they have more hair than I do. This greatly upsets me. I like putting them on my fingers to make puppets and watching them fight to the death. Then I bite their heads off.

I go in to the hospital tomorrow at the top of the sixth. Baldini-5. Lym Hodkin-0. This inning is looking pretty ugly; the lineup is Vincristine, Adriamycin, Zinecard, and Cytoxan.

Who would have ever thought that four weeks from now, in all likelihood I will be crossing the threshold from patient to survivor. (And the crowd goes WILD!) I believe it’s only a matter of time…

Blood transfusions, Pirates, and Spit bowls, Oh My!

My old friend Mucositis is back for an uninvited visit and this time he brought along his good old buddy Neutropenia. I’ve been begging Muco to get the hell away from me but he finds wicked pleasure in my suffering. It feels like he took a cheese grater to my throat, preventing me swallowing anything other than tea or soup, and even those two things cause me great discomfort. I cringe in pain whenever I swallow my own spit, so I’ve resorted to carrying a spit bowl. On Friday my mom went to a great deal of trouble organizing a dinner party the night before my grandmother, Rosie, was due to return to London. That morning I had gone out and nearly fainted several times. Each time, I started to lose my vision as everything went white and I was forced to quickly sit down. By the time I got home, my dad had already contacted my oncologist who ordered me report to the Highland Park emergency room for a probable blood transfusion. We got there at noon, naively assuming that we would be there for a mere three hours. Ha! How wrong we were, for we forgot that we were on hospital time. To my sheer delight, my good friend Tim was my nurse again.

We first had to get my blood typed, even though I’ve received a transfusion in the past at this hospital, which took a good three hours. I was then transferred out of the emergency room to a regular room. Two hours later, they began the transfusion. Needless to say, my mom was constantly calculating whether or not I would be able to attend her dinner party. I needed one super pack of platelets, which took about an hour to transfuse, and two packs of red blood cells which each took three and a half hours. We thought we would be home by 3:30 on Friday afternoon at the latest. Turns out we got home at 3:45 the next morning. Sorry, Mom.

The next day, I was full of energy, and against my dad’s better judgment, I, along with three friends, abducted my roommate, Dawna, and took her on a pirate scavenger hunt for her birthday. Aye, did we have a jolly good time.

By the time I got home at 7:00pm on Saturday I needed to take a rest. When my dad got home, he took my temperature, and lo and behold, I had a fever. Now, I know that normally a fever is no big deal, but when my number of white blood cells is the same as the number of hairs on my head, it is a serious matter. So, yet again we were off to the Highland Park emergency room where they took blood and urine cultures. I was given an intravenous antibiotic and sent home with my port accessed and oral antibiotics. Yummy!

Now I am at home, currently on an IV with my spit bowl in one hand and my painkillers in the other. I’m trying to stay out of the hospital as long as possible before my next round of chemo, but it doesn’t look like the evil Muco is giving in any time soon.

Feelin' Peachy

My aunt and grandparents are visiting from DC for the Thanksgiving holiday. This morning I was sitting with my grandmother as she was telling me about the screenplay that she’s been working on. It’s a love story part of which takes place in the Middle East. As she delved into plot details, I had trouble focusing on what she was saying, however, this time I don’t think it was the Chemo Brain. As she described beautiful scene, all I could think about was Iranian food, Iranian food, Iranian food! You see, the last few days I’ve been on a drug called Dexamethasone (sounds deadly, doesn’t it? I can just see my doctors standing over me proclaiming “My name is Dexamethasone, you killed my father, prepare to die!”) Anyway, one of the side effects of these dangerous pills is “overeating that may lead to significant weight gain.” Besides that, my roommate’s mom just made me this huge delicious pot of lentils, which I have been religiously consuming day and night. Despite being on low doses of this medication, mere overeating does not describe my recent behavior. I have been gorging myself with everything in sight. As I chew, food is falling from my mouth left and right. My stomach is an echoing bottomless pit, and the scale must be broken because there is no way that I’ve gained six pounds in three days.

Other than that, my head has been acting pretty funky lately. Instead of growing stubble, it’s been sprouting this strange fuzz which weirdly enough reminds me of peaches, James and the Giant Peach, and peach cobbler. Yummm. I’m pretty concerned about it though. What if my hair never grows back? What if it grows too fast? What if it gets moldy?

I’m going to the hospital tomorrow and I’m not looking forward to it. I have a follow up chemo treatment but it shouldn’t take too long. All I can really think about though is going to my favorite vegan restaurant, The Chicago Diner, and stuffing my face with a humongous veggie burger the size of my head.

The Chemo Blues

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like the days before Hodgkin’s,” I keep telling myself. I look down at my feet and instead of ruby slippers, I see my rainbow fuzzy ones, and every time I stand on my tippy toes to tap my ankles together, I end up losing my balance. My family keeps telling me that they can see the finish line, but maybe I need a pair of glasses. I feel like a fish in a fishbowl, looking out on everyone’s happy lives, while being stuck in a claustrophobic glass container, separated from all my friends. At least goldfish get pretty decorations like colorful rocks and fake castles. Lucky for me, I get appealing IV tubes. I just got back from the hospital yesterday. Getting through the week is pretty tough without seeing my friends. They are always so busy with their own schoolwork and extracurricular activities. The only time I really get to see them is on the weekends. Sure, they warned me about the nausea and the hair loss, but no one ever mentioned the loneliness.

Anyway, upon describing the “fishbowl” syndrome to a friend, I got a lovely surprise in the mail that certainly brightened my spirits:

Yay for my own pretty decorations! Thanks, Dr. Dave!!!

I’m having a great deal of difficulty concentrating on my schoolwork and remembering common words and/or simple facts. It’s like a mental cloudiness that just will not seem to go away. Apparently it is a real side affect of chemo that isn’t terribly uncommon. It affects approximately 20-30 percent of patients undergoing chemo. Some sources say that some people experience it for up to four years. Oh, Goody!

Anyway, that’s really all that’s being going on with me-- ‘Till next time!

Another Trip to the Hospital

At dinner we received an emergency-like phone call, informing us that my platelets were extremely low (they were 6,000. 120,000 is considered normal). In a nutshell, this means that I could potentially bruise and bleed easily. They said that I should go to the emergency room immediately to receive a blood transfusion. This will be my third blood transfusion. I got the other two when I had mucositis. Right now, I’m sitting in the hospital, accompanied by my parents and my good friend and fellow vegan Mallory, waiting for one unit of platelets from the blood bank which is currently being rushed over in a cab. Mal and my mom both look like monkeys in their facemasks, but at least they don’t look as silly as my dad who hasn’t yet figured out that his mask is upside-down. My nurse is pretty cool. His name is Tim, he’s bald like me (except for his goatee) and has this awesome dragon tattoo on his forearm. Watch out, Matt. ;)

Trick or Treat

When one gets diagnosed with cancer, trivial things can suddenly become a big deal. On Halloween night, a few friends together with my brother and I decided to go trick-or-treating, seeing as it was our last year that we could get away with it. I untied my headscarf, stole a pair of my dad’s wire-rimmed glasses, and grabbed a sheet and a walking stick. Hunched over, I introduced myself as Gandhi. So, from house to house we went, chewing on Twizzlers and Laffy Taffys as we walked. Not being quite the highly coordinated, aged Indian man that that I thought I was, I toppled over, somehow resulting in the mysterious removal of my shoe and sock and some very minor scratches on two of my toes. I initially thought nothing of the matter and didn’t feel a thing. But Tuesday night (three days later), my foot started hurting. The next day I awoke to a throbbing and swollen foot. Frantically, my father called Ghostbusters! (Just kidding, he called the hospital.) We learned from my pediatrician that these tiny scratches were, in fact, infected. Unable to walk, I resorted to the use of crutches. They put me on Clidamyacin, an antibiotic. Since then, the swelling and redness has decreased considerably. Halloween was not the only night we got a fright.

From left to right: Gandhi, the wicked Mallory,

effeminate Aaron, and unibrowed Ari.

The Best Medicine

If I've learned anything from this hell of a roller coaster ride, it's that no matter how strong the pain killers are, no matter how many chocolate soy ice cream smoothies you drink, no matter what your doctor tells you, nothing, and I mean nothing in the entire world can make you feel better than your friends can. I must be the luckiest person alive to have such amazing ones. On Tuesday, I was having the official worst day of my life. I felt like crap, didn't want to get out of bed, and was completely unmotivated to take a crack at my schoolwork that had been piling up since my last trip to the hospital. After an unproductive day of moaning, groaning, and drowning myself in misery, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. That night, my dad had just walked in from work, and he told me to come downstairs and look at what he had found at the train station. There, standing in our foyer, were my roommate Dawna and my boyfriend Matt. I tried to run down the stairs to hug them, forgetting that my fragile body is no longer capable of what it used to be able to do. Toppling on my surprise guests, I welcomed them. I could not believe they were standing before me. They had taken two trains, all the way to Highland Park from Aurora to see me! They stayed the night, and completely turned my mood upside-down. Too bad they don't sell this stuff at Walgreens!

Morphine

I have been in the hospital for 5 days now. On Saturday, I was taken to the emergency room after feeling weak and not being able to swallow food or water, and was diagnosed with mucositis ( the painful swelling and blistering of the mucous membranes that coat the digestive tract, a common side effect of chemotherapy). I am in severe pain. This is my 3rd trip to hospital in 2 weeks. I am so dehydrated that I can barely stand for more that a few minutes without getting dizzy. It is difficult to talk, my speech is slurred, and I’ve been told that I hardly sound like myself. My face is puffy and red. I can’t really open my mouth, let alone swallow my own spit. Instead, a suction wand (like the kind they use at the dentist) drains my mouth and all the spit goes into a little bucket at the side of my bed. I like watching the spit level rise. Right now it’s at 350 mL. The only thing I am eating or drinking is popsicles. I just hold them up to my mouth and let them melt away as they numb my gums. The pain in my mouth and throat is partially being controlled by morphine—lots of morphine. I am on a continuous morphine drip and in addition, I have a special button near my bed that allows me to add a little boost of extra morphine every 10 minutes for when I really need it. Every so often, when I reach over to press the button to increase my morphine intake, I recall a specific memory of my friend Linzey, the one with a brain tumor, who I have mentioned before in a previous post.

Never in my life had I seen anyone in that state. There she lay, motionless, eyes fixed on the television. I noticed that she had gained weight; her petite body was now heavy. The circles under her eyes had never been this dark. Her breathing was heavy, and it was clear that she had never been this weak in her life. When she finally noticed my presence, I tried talking to her, but I realized that she was too weak to respond. I found myself telling her things, to deflect my real thoughts. Occasionally her head slightly nodded in response to certain things I told her. Suddenly, I saw her struggling to get a groaning sound to come from her mouth. I was in the room alone with her. Fear struck me, and I was unable to move. It was obvious that she needed something, but I wasn’t sure what that something was. I tried to ask her to point at what she wanted, but she just kept breathing heavily. I feared that if I left the room to go get her mom, she would be alone, and even though it was only for a slight moment, who knows what could have happened? After realizing that it was the only thing I could do, I frantically sprinted around the house looking for her mom. I told her that Linzey needed something but I didn’t know how to help her. Her mom followed me into the room, and I was relieved to see Linzey in the same position as I left her, heavily breathing away. It was almost as if a mother read her daughter’s mind. She knew exactly what Linzey wanted. After rummaging around in a bedside drawer, she pulled out a clear syringe, filled with a liquid form of morphine. I turned away as she emptied the liquid in Linzey’s mouth, drop by drop, drugging away the pain. All of that time I had just spent with Linzey, she was suffering, and I had not even realized it

During both moments, the present and the one described above, I am experiencing pain. Currently, I am experiencing the same physical torture that Linzey was so familiar with. I am building up a tolerance to morphine, and thus must take higher doses every day for it to be effective. Side effects of this medicine include a swollen red face and itchy skin. I am on even more medicine to counter these side effects, each of which have side effects of their own. When I recall this one particular snippet of my time with Linzey, I experience a much different type of pain, one of hopelessness and fear. There was absolutely nothing I could do to help my friend. Linzey passed away before I was able to visit her again.

I was planning to go to San Antonio with my mentor tomorrow to present some psychology research that I’ve been working on for an entire year, but that now seems impossible. My situation, unlike Linzey’s is merely a waiting game, a test of my strength and patience before my white blood cell counts rise.

Justified Fear

The after-chemo nausea is definitely not supposed to last this long, or at least, it's never quite hit me like this before. I'm throwing up day and night as if it is an instant reflex to eating or drinking. I have trouble holding down water, and I can feel myself getting dehydrated. I've already lost my taste buds and six more pounds, and I can feel the mouth sores forming again.

When you step into the hospital, time seems to freeze and you might as well throw away your watch. Just because it is dark outside, you are not guaranteed sleep. Nurses operate like small elves, working tireless hours 'round the clock, coming in and out of your room, responding to the never-ending beeping of your pump. The chemo nurses wear full body protective layers, terrified that a drop of chemo will touch their skin, yet they have no problem pumping the same chemicals directly into your veins.

Given how I feel today, I understand their fear.

A Quick Medical Update

It's a Monday, so I had a visit from my nurse, Maureen. I just received my blood results:

For the most part everything is looking pretty good. My white blood cell results are artificially high because I got a shot called Neulesta, which essentially boosts one's immune system. The shot itself costs $4,000. Yes, the decimal is in the right place. Four thousand dollars. Luckily, $3,940 of it is covered by insurance. Can you believe that I need 6 of these? I am so grateful that my family has health coverage. I am finally getting over my cold, which long overstayed its welcome, as snot trickles its way down from my sinuses to my stomach. I am going in for my third round of chemo this Thursday. I have to stay at the hospital overnight, and frankly, I'm not excited. I'm not prepared for another round of mouth sores, achy bones and nausea, but ready or not, here it comes!

Floating on a Cloud

I can't believe it. I feel like a Disney princess, but somehow 'The Great Baldini" doesn't sound as elegant as Cinderella, Jasmine, or Sleeping Beauty. Either way, last night was a dream. I went to the homecoming dance at my high school. I was voted Homecoming Queen, and my boyfriend Matt was Homecoming King. Even as I sit here typing this I can't believe it. It is amazing how my class makes me feel like such a part of them, even though I am not physically at school. I am so grateful to everyone for their support. Last night I felt cancer-free and on top of the world.

Hairdo's and Don'ts

This Saturday, I am going to my high school's homecoming dance. As my roommate Dawna and I were planning out the evening, she suggested that I come early so that she could do my hair. I started laughing, and she was confused. The funny thing is, she wasn't trying to make a joke. She actually forgot that I was bald. I was blown away by this. Cancer is such a core part of who I am now, but when my friends think of me, it's nice to know that they don't think of me as "Cancer Gabi" or "Chemo Kid." To them, I'm still just Gabi.

And I thought I was invincible…

The first round of chemo, I barely felt a thing. It’s funny how things change. Now, I feel as if I’ve been stripped of my superhero abilities, thrown to the ground, and humiliated as everyone else points and laughs. Please give me back my mask and cape to hide my grotesque face. When I see people that I haven’t seen before I was diagnosed, they don’t smile at me like they used to… sometimes I get a fake flash of teeth before they look me in the eye and wonder who the hell this imposter is. “You look…(then there is a long pause as their eyes hurriedly search for something to say) …. good.” Ha! I had no idea that people would have such difficulty telling me what they think. Besides the thinning of my eyebrows and my loss of hair, I’ve also developed lovely bags around my eyes. How I wish it was only my physical appearance that was changing, but my mouth stings with open sores and my throat burns like crazy. These pains have made me hesitant to eat, thus resulting in a three pound weight loss in three days. It’s really amazing how many things I took for granted before I was diagnosed. I guess I’m learning the hard way. It’s only round two of what appears to be a six round battle. I guess I'm one-third of the way there.

The Other Girl

I went to the hospital yesterday for another round of chemo. As I walked into the treatment room, there she was, a girl probably around my age. She was wearing a bandanna over her bald head and was looking at me, but not staring, as if we had encountered eachother before. Our eyes met, and at that moment something happened. Let me explain. I felt a strange connection with her, a special bond. I felt as if I had been inducted into her sorority. We had both been through the same chemo "hazing," further unified by our scarves and bandannas, tied neatly by well mastered and strategically placed knots. The similarities in our facial features were striking: the paleness, the recessed cheekbones, and the thinning or absence of eyebrows. Months ago, we probably looked like two completely different people. Yesterday we could have been twins. She smiled at me, radiating a special warmth. We had a world in common that we could have spoken about, yet words were not spoken, for none were needed.

A medical update:

The Silver Lining

The number of bad days are starting to catch up with the number of good ones. I have a pretty nasty cold and I fainted yesterday. “Hang in there!” everyone is telling me. Well, my arms are getting tired and I want a break. My mohawk is out of my line of vision and I’m starting to see the real cancer. All I’m asking for is just one day to walk away from this whole mess and return to my math and science mothership, to sit in on some impossible classes and to eat some Trader Joe’s brand oreos dipped in soymilk with my roommate. I miss my friends. I miss not worrying about taking pills, my temperature, and my weight. I miss being the old me.

The irony of my situation is incredible. A few years ago, I had a friend, Linzey, who was struggling with her own battle against a brain tumor. I was the one paying her weekly visits and making her “get well soon” cards. Unfortunately, Linzey lost her 10-year battle with cancer, and after her death, I started a fundraiser in which my friends and I sold stuffed animal cats (her favorite animal) to raise money for a pediatric brain tumor foundation. When I look in the mirror and see my bald head and thinning eyebrows, I hardly recognize myself. I only see Linzey.

The universe is further mocking me by the number of pills I take daily. Not too long ago, if you came near me with even the tiniest of pills, I would gag and make a whole fuss. Now I down them like candy… six, seven, or even eight at a time.

A third irony is that I’m a three time donor to Locks-of-Love, a foundation where people can donate their long hair to be made into wigs for cancer patients. It’s funny that I could easily be eligible to receive one of these wigs, yet I kind of like being bald. After all, I am the Great Baldini.

As the saying goes, “We cannot direct the winds, but we can adjust the sails.” Unlike my friend Linzey, I am lucky that my prognosis allows me to take charge of my direction.

The other day, my mom and I took a little detour on this wild expedition of ours. Her friend and wonderful photographer, Jonathan Friedman, did a photoshoot of what I like to call “the silver lining.”

My mom and I '"painting" each other.

Here is just one of his many brilliant shots.

Someone whom I consider a very special friend recently wrote to me: “Those wise old Greeks knew that we can only learn joy through grief, as it is only by contrast that we can define anything. "Tall" is only "tall" if there is a "short." So where is the joy in your present state? I would guess it will be in the slowing-down-of-things, in the closer-examination-of-things. The capacity for wonder can substantially increase for you now. Just imagine: you're reading a 400-page book (about an inch thick) and unwittingly, you turn two pages at once. The nerves in the skin of your fingers notify your brain instantly. Your skin can tell the difference 1/400th of an inch and 2/400ths of an inch! We so take for granted this astounding body that carries us from place to place. Taking things for granted is a state of emotional inertia. Not taking things for granted is an intellectual and emotional odyssey. Bon voyage!”

Second port of call

Today was different.

My family departed at quarter to five in the morning for the hospital. Despite the wee hours and my encrusted eyes, my mood was cheery, for at last my troublesome port was to meet its well deserved fate.

We checked in at six am and were met by a very friendly team of nurses, anesthesiologists, and surgeons who explained to us what they planned to accomplish.

My surgeon, Dr. Liu, pointing to my existing port.

I was given a general anesthetic and the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room, parents by my side, with a swollen lip and a very dry mouth. The intensity of the piercing pains in my chest were unlike anything I had ever experienced. My lovely nurses quickly provided me with whatever I needed to get through it.

My team of angels.

A friendly visit from my surgeon, Dr. Liu.

The repositioning of my port. Don't I look happy?

At this point, I would have liked to think that I was done for the day, but lucky for me, I still had my second round of chemo ahead.

Yummy.

If I thought my port was giving me trouble, then the pump was Satan himself. It took 3 nurses, many attempts, and an extra hour to resolve this complication. But to their credit, they got it nailed, as I braced myself for the next two hours of chemo.

Me with my medications.

Un personaje ejemplar, mi doctor y mi amigo: Dr. Morales

Aside from the pain in my chest from surgery, my throat felt raw, my head was spinning, and I had a new appreciation for the word "nausea."

Turns out they let me go home, only to return tomorrow for another day's battle. On the ride home, as I lay head on my mother's lap, I felt it coming up from within. I opened the window, and a flare of orange spewed out from behind our car.

Day 29

Wouldn’t life be different if it were a video game? We’ll in a strange way, mine kind of is… old school Mario Bros. on Nintendo 64, that is.

This whole cancer fuss is like running into a goomba: those evil, brown, mushroom-like creatures. Yeah sure, I may lose a life, but then something magical happens. I find that I am blinking; moustache, overalls, everything. My body quickly vanishes and reappeares. I am invincible, and nothing can stop me now. Although in the game it may last only for a few seconds, this flickering phenomena is here to stay. It is caused by none other than the wonderfully overwhelming support of my family and friends. Every email or wallpost that I get is like a mushroom, adding “1-up” to my total lives. So thank you, everyone, for keeping alive and helping me to conquer the evil "Lym Hodgkin".

On a more serious note, my blood counts are high (a good thing) and so are my spirits.

Twice a week, I get blood drawn for a Complete Blood Count (CBC). I have a port, which is a piece of medical equipment surgically implanted in my upper chest . It makes frequent blood tests and injections less painful. A catheter connects the port to a vein. Under the skin, the port has a septum, through which drugs can be injected and blood samples can be drawn many times, rather than using a painful needle stick in the arm.

The port connects to a vein close to the heart. In my case, the catheter is problematic and does not allow for the free flow of liquids and as a result, my port needs to be replaced, probably tomorrow in a small operation involving general anesthesia at the Comer Children's Hospital at the University of Chicago. Also, immediately following the operation I am scheduled to start my second cycle of chemotherapy. I expect to be admitted into the hospital until Saturday, although it is possible that some of this chemo may be done on an outpatient basis. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

CBC results as of 9/08/09:

Mohawk now gone, my outer appearance fits my title: "The Great Baldini."

My new "look."

A little bit of fun

I was supposed to wait until Friday to shave my head, but I couldn't deal with the hair falling out any longer.

Invasion

Our household has been invaded by a relentless army of hairs. The strands have advanced on the battlefield, from the bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen, I’m afraid I’m faced with a full frontal assault. Armed with my dust buster, I face this battalion. Although it is an inevitable defeat, this is no surrender, only a temporary retreat. In the words of General Macarthur, “I’ll be back!”

I'm Shedding!

This is how much hair I've lost over the last two days.

Ew. This is disgusting. There is hair everywhere, even on the keyboard as I type. I can run my fingers through my hair and small clumps of hair come out. I feel like an 87-year-old man. I guess it is normal for someone receiving chemo, but in a way it's plain old freaky. I'm having a "shaving of Gabi-and-her-dad's heads party" on Friday. I've invited friends and family. It should be fun. However, at the rate that I'm shedding, who knows if I'll even need to shave my head.

What a difference a day makes

20 days ago I was a different person.

20 days ago I was an overly ambitious teenage nerd, counting the hours until I would return to the math and science academy I call home.

19 days ago, I diagnosed with cancer. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Stage 3b.

Since then, I have entered a world of pills, hand sanitizer, and IVs. A world where the only medicine is to flush one’s body with poison: enough to kill the cancer, but not enough to kill oneself. I must say, the initial few days I spent wallowing in self pity. I was pretty down about not returning to school. But today was different. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it’s a mood swing, or maybe it’s the meds, but something happened, and I think it’s for the better.

I came to this incredible realization that I can't just walk out my front door and start screaming at whatever lies beyond our atmosphere for "giving" me this. I've accepted the fact that I have cancer, and I'm going to kick this thing in the ass. For example, my dad and I are shaving our heads together, but for a day or two we're going to have daddy-daughter mohawks. I also picked out a purple wig for graduation. Apart from that, I'm writing a speech, where I hope to work with cancer foundations and elementary schools about cancer awareness and ways that kids can help. (I'm waiting until I'm completely bald though, and I'll let the kids touch my head if they want).

As for the chemo, I feel like I am cheating the system. My doctors and nurses warned me about nausea, terrible pain, mouth sores, all sorts of things. Ha! I barely feel a thing. I'm either really lucky or the chemo isn't working.

While I’m at home all day, I’ll be taking 3 classes from school, studying up on my Spanish, and continuing psychology research that I do at the University of Chicago.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of this whole cancer chapter of my life is the support of my friends and family. For example, my grandparents literally dropped their lives in Washington DC to come live with my family and me in order to help out. Furthermore, words cannot describe the loyalty and kindness of my friends. Someone once said, “Friends are our chosen family” and the actions of my friends as a result of this illness have really shown this to be true.

As for now though, I can only hope that I’ll keep up this attitude, this drive to make something wonderful out of what could be so terrible. I'm not going to let this thing beat me, and I'm certainly not going to let it beat my spirit.

This was day 20.