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.