"I do Crossf..."

Preface: Despite that I believe in the importance of healthy living, conversations about diet or exercise regimens can easily get under my skin. I realize that by writing this post, I risk being annoying in ways that I hate to be annoyed, but I really don’t mean it that way. I’m not pitching anything to anyone. Rather, I mean this piece as an explanation of my own behaviors and, on a totally different note, as a great big Thank You.

I’ve written before about how I have not always had a healthy relationship with exercise. In fact, in my freshman and sophomore years of college, me and exercise had a very abusive, love-hate (mostly hate) relationship. I abused exercise and it abused me right back. It wasn’t pretty, and in fact, I have discovered several parallels between my experience coping with what was likely an undiagnosed exercise disorder and my experience coping with cancer. But that’s a story for another day.

I’m proud to say that at this point in my life, I have the healthiest relationship with exercise that I have ever had. Since I mostly have one thing to thank for it, I thought that thing deserved a blog post.

* * *

Why I CrossFit

I saw this a while back and it made me laugh. In some circles, it's probably true. For me though, aside from this post and several unavoidable references in prior posts, I don’t talk about CrossFit very often. I don't even really like using the word "CrossFit" because I feel like people who don't do it immediately start to judge. For instance, my siblings constantly give me a hard time about my love for CrossFit. They joke that it’s a cult and that we have secret handshakes. They are wrong, but I go along with it. Plus, when my sister tried CrossFit, she loved it, and I know that my brother would love it, too, so I'll get the last laugh in the end.

From what I have seen from the inside, there’s nothing cultish about CrossFit. The people who are really good at it are wonderfully supportive of the newbies and of the regulars who will never be as good as them. There are countless people like me who go to a class a few times a week, who can’t lift the prescribed amount of weight in any workout, and who still believe that CrossFit is a significant part of their physical and mental health.

It's that belief that, for some reason, I feel like I need to further explain, perhaps simply to justify my own actions which to some may seem, well, stupid. Yes, I know that doing CrossFit while on chemo was not the best way to avoid germs (I did pause when I knew the neutropenia could hurt me most). And I know that continuing to do it while feeling pain near where my tumor had been also may seem silly. In my six-month follow up appointment last week, Dr. Bunnell asked me all sorts of questions about the persistent pain. “Does exercise aggravate it?”

“Yes, sometimes,” I explained.

“What sort of exercise?”

I wanted to hide, or lie, but I figured neither was a good idea since my oncologist was trying to help me. “Well, some things I do at CrossFit aggravate it.”

“You do CrossFit?” he inquired rhetorically.

“Yes, but I don’t want that to mean that you won’t take the pain seriously.”

Dr. Bunnell said he would most certainly take the pain seriously and he continued to ask me what I do at CrossFit that hurts it.

I shrunk in embarrassment. “Handstand pushups tend to hurt it,” I explained quietly, knowing how ridiculous that sounded.

He laughed, respectfully. Then he told my mom and I about an article he read recently that discussed the rates of injury to people who do CrossFit. I told him that yes, people can easily hurt thmselves, but that I am really careful. I was being completely honest. I know what physical pain can do to my mind so every time I’m at the gym (sorry, I will never be able to call it a “box”) I am constantly focused on not hurting myself.

In the end, Dr. Bunnell ordered the bone scan despite that he thought that the pain was musculoskeletal and/or due to nerve damage from my breast surgeries (or better yet, my no-breast surgeries). I didn’t say anything else about CrossFit in that appointment although in retrospect, I want to explain what that place means to me. So here’s a short list.

1. Strong Not Skinny

I spent far too much time in my life thinking about being skinny and far too little time in my life focused on being strong. I love that CrossFit encourages strength rather than a particular body image. Getting stronger, faster, more fit, those are the goals, even if they add weight to the scale or make your jeans hard to get over your legs (both of which it has done for me).

2. People there care

When I first started at my gym, I kept to myself. I didn’t go there to meet anyone, talk to anyone, or think about anyone else but me. I remember when the owner of the gym, Kevin, talked about how "athletes" will meet friends at the gym and that it was a “community.” I remember thinking, “That’s nice for all of you. But I’m just here to workout.”

Gradually, however, something happened. A crew of early birds formed, or perhaps I just started to become part of a group that had already been there at 5:30 in the morning. It was (and is) a group of hard working, kind, and humble people who get up before the sun rises so they can pull, push, squat, jump, and endure what is, no doubt, an awesome sort of pain. Over several months, those people became important to me. They encouraged me when I was the last one on the rower (I think rowing may rely on body parts that I'm not certain I still have) and they cheered for me when I finished a grueling workout. Even better, when I did the same for them, I felt good. I know very little about the lives of the other early birds at my gym. But I know that they will support me and I will support them as we try to squeak out one more round of an exercise that makes us want to puke. And I know that we all get into our cars at 6:30 feeling physically exhausted and yet, comfortably proud.

3. Short, intense workouts are good for me

In those first painful years of college, I couldn’t workout enough to feel any sort of satisfaction. I would run or swim or cross-country ski for hours and still feel empty inside. I did it all to burn calories, and I calculated everything in my head in a way that I know now was pretty sick. I did it for all the wrong reasons, and I cringe at how much valuable time I wasted.

CrossFit is particularly good for me because it has taught me that exercise is more about quality than about quantity. Today, for instance, the main part of the workout was just about eleven minutes long (for me, at least…for faster people it was shorter). Nineteen-year-old me would have scoffed at that. Just eleven minutes? What’s the point?

It only took one workout for me to learn that I was a fool to doubt the intensity that could be packed into not-so-many minutes. And perhaps more than anything when it came to exercise, I needed to be proven a fool in that way.

I know that I make way too many analogies between my cancer experience and other parts of my life, but here’s another one. Anyone who has been diagnosed with cancer, particularly, an aggressive and ruthless kind, has considered the reality that they may not live to be 90. Maybe we only live to be 40. Maybe we only have eleven minutes to everyone else’s 200. Well, then, I better put all I’ve got into those eleven minutes. That’s a huge reason why I love CrossFit.

4. It reminds me of being an athlete

Despite that I’m 34 years old, I still have dreams (literally, not figuratively) about playing high school and college sports. I still miss it. I miss practices and games; I miss winning and even, yes, losing. Most of all, I miss being on a team and competing in a way that challenges me physically and mentally. In many ways, CrossFit helped fill that void for me.

For one example, I learned a few months ago about this thing called “The Open.” It’s basically a way for real CrossFit-ers to qualify for regional or national CrossFit competitions (I think). But it’s also "open" to regular people like me.

When Kevin started to encourage everyone at his gym to sign up, I ignored him. I thought to myself, That’s not for me. I’m just here to workout and release my mental stress. I don’t need to compete with anyone. I think subconsciously I also figured that anyone with a C-section pouch and stretch marks that will never go away wasn't really made for CrossFit competitions. But Kevin and the other coaches persisted. 

Finally, out of a feeling that I owed it to Kevin, I reluctantly signed up. For five weeks, CrossFit-ers across the country, and even, I think, across the world, did the same exact workout. No modifying weight or movements -- we were all stuck with the same torture, I mean, challenge. A few of the weeks, I couldn’t do more than 10 repetitions of the prescribed exercise and two weeks I totally forgot to even enter my pathetic score into the website. But a few of the other weeks, I shocked myself at what I was able to do. And in all of the five weeks, those workouts, perhaps more than any others, pushed me physically and mentally beyond what I thought I was capable of.

Every now and then, Annabel joins me at a weekend CrossFit class. She loves it, and copies most of the things we do in her own adorable way. On the drive to a class last Sunday morning, Annabel asked me, “Will we do the combination today?”

“The combination? Hum. What’s that baby girl?”

“The combination that you do at the gym!”

Finally I figured it out. “Oh, the competition! Yes! Actually, I finished it!” And despite that even in the world of has-been high school athletes, I’m pretty weak, I still loved how proud I was of myself when I said that.

5. And so on...

I could go on and on with this list. I could talk about how I love that there's a different workout every day so I never get bored, how I appreciate that the coaches push us to constantly improve, how I sleep better, play golf better, and just generally feel better. I could write about how Kevin has used his gym to do so much good for several different causes. All of those things are true. But in the end, my love of CrossFit may be rooted in this fundamental truth -- that at a time when I felt like my body had completely betrayed me, CrossFit, and particularly, the people there, helped me learn to believe in it like I have never believed in it before. 

F-ing Hard Work

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of a hearing a marvelous social worker and yoga instructor teach a workshop about techniques to help young adult cancer patients and their loved ones deal with stress and anxiety. I almost didn't go to the workshop, ironically, because I was anxious. I had just delivered my own portion of the program at Dana-Farber's annual Young Adults Conference, a talk I had spent months preparing for, and although I was pleased with how it had gone, I was still recalibrating. I doubted that I would be able to sit still for a whole hour with all that energy churning inside, but I'm so glad that I did. (Plus, we didn't end up having to sit still.) 

The instructor, Claire, said several things in the workshop that resonate with me even now, days later, when I've typically forgotten most of what was presented in a similar setting. I'm sure I can't convey Claire's messages with the eloquence or accuracy that she did, but nevertheless, I have an urge to write about my take on some of what she offered to the packed room of patients and caregivers tormented by a vicious disease. 

Claire explained that human beings are wired to focus on the negative. She gave a great example of a pre-work routine. She explained that if you get up, take a shower, make a cup of coffee, and arrive at work, you don't say, "Wow, what a great morning I've had!" However, if you wake up, your shower floods, your coffee machine breaks, and you get in a fender bender on the way to work, you most certainly will remark that it had been a terrible morning.  

Admittedly, Brian and I couldn't help but look at each other and laugh at this example of a morning routine since, with two young kids, it is hilariously unrealistic. (In fact, if all of those "bad" things happened and I still managed to make it to my office on time with my kids safely at school, I would probably think it was actually a great morning.) Nevertheless, for several reasons, I loved Claire's message. 

First, I think that part of me is relieved by it. "I do that!" I wanted to yell at Claire over the rows of people in front of me. "I dwell on bad news all the time and I hate that about myself!" But I didn't yell; I just sat there and enjoyed the thought that maybe I wasn't being a negative person when I did that, but rather, just a normal one. 

Since I was diagnosed, I feel like the topic of "positive thinking" is all around me. Friends have given me books about it and almost every single day, it comes up in conversation. I am flattered when people say that I'm a positive person, although I don't fully understand why they think that. Still, I want to be at least considered positive, so I take it as a compliment. 

On Saturday, Claire spoke about positive thinking. She explained that if we have a performance review at work and receive 25 compliments along with one piece of criticism, we dwell on the one piece of criticism. Um, yep, I definitely do that, too. 

Claire explained that we would all be better off to spend more time with positive thoughts. For instance, those 25 compliments -- how long do we really spend with those? Do we just glance over them in search of something bad? (Yes, I do.) Claire says that we shouldn't do that. She also explained that it takes five compliments to erase every criticism. Interesting, because my ratio is more like 30 to 1. 

Of course, when it comes to dealing with terminal illness, the analogy doesn't always work. For instance, had my bone scan last week turned up cancer in my ribs or my sternum (thank goodness, it did not), I'm certain that no amount of positive thinking could lead me to believe, "But they didn't find it in my toe! That's great news!" No freaking way. There's some news that just plain fucking shits and people who receive that shitty news deserve time to process it without anyone's expectation of them finding something that smells nice buried deep within.

At the same time, there are people like me who (for example) have been blessed with good news, yet still find themselves fighting negative forces. Often, these forces are so much less significant than ones directly related to the disease, but still, they are repercussions that I think it helps us all to discuss. 

I have found that I go from being thankful to being greedy very quickly. For instance, last week, as I emerged slowly from the bone scan machine, I wanted more than anything in the world to have that scan come back clean. I would have given up my house, my job, and probably several limbs for a good result. Little else mattered. 

A few minutes later, quite unexpectedly, the nurse who had kindly injected me with radioactive dye, told me that my scans looked clean. She had spoken to the doctor who had reviewed them on the spot to be sure that additional pictures weren't necessary. I couldn't believe the news or that I had received it then and there. I asked the nurse if I was dreaming. I just couldn't comprehend it because I knew for certain (or so I thought) that they were going to find cancer. The relief I felt was, once again, indescribable. 

On my way out, the nurse asked me if I had young children. I said that I did. "You can hug them but you shouldn't sit next to them for an extended period of time tonight. There are still traces of the radioactive material in you." 

"Um, OK. Is that really safe then?" I inquired, thinking back to the Cold-War-ish metal container from which she took the dye before she inserted it into my vein. She assured me it was a very small dose. That didn't make me feel better, but I mentally returned to the good test result as I exited the room. I was so excited to share my great news. 

That night, Annabel begged me to snuggle during the kids' before-bed TV show. I hugged her, but told her I couldn't snuggle that night. She was mad, and so was I. That's when I got greedy, too. A few hours prior, I'd have given up all future snuggling with my daughter to be able to sit in the same room as her for years to come. But now I was pissed. Why did all of this shit have to happen? I wondered for a minute or two.

The night after my bone scan, I hadn't yet participated in Claire's workshop although I think some of her techniques may have already lived in me. I let go of the frustration I felt for having to accept radioactive material into my veins and I absorbed the fact that that dye had lead me to the answer I had waited so long to hear -- that the pain I felt in my chest was most likely not cancer. But here's my main point -- that focusing on the positive does not come naturally to most of us. In fact, for the record, I believe that positive thinking is fucking hard fucking work. (I rarely swear, but I just need to tonight...yes, even twice in one sentence.)

On a slightly different note, in the last few weeks, I have missed a lot of work time dealing with all of my tests and medical appointments. As a lawyer, I bill by the hour, so there's no way to fake it when I don't work. I either have hours and a product to show for it, or I don't. And although I had a solid start to 2014, in March, I fell far behind my target hours.

On the spectrum of lawyers that I know, I probably worry about my hours less than most. But still, I'm not someone who enjoys missing a target that has been set before me. Especially not when my house and family kind of relies on it. Of course, when I was in the throes of the MRI, CT scan, and bone scan, I couldn't have cared less about my hours. I figured those would only matter if I was even able to keep my job and since I felt so certain my cancer had returned, I wondered if that would even be possible.

Once my scans came back clean, however, I got greedy in this sense, too. I started to feel guilty about my low hours. I became frustrated that I hadn't been strong enough to suck it up and get work done on the nights after my appointments. Instead, I usually wrote and went to bed. I got down on myself, dwelling on all of the things that I hadn't done, the hours I hadn't billed, the work I hadn't produced.

This is where Claire once again had a message that I swear, sang to me. Spend time with the good things rather than taking all of your energy from the bad. I could so easily apply this to myself. In the last few weeks, despite my pathetic number of billable hours, I had done lots of good things. And Claire was right, I spent almost no time feeling good about any of them.

Claire explained that we can change our outlook and our attitude if we spend time with the positive rather than dwelling on the negative. I believe her. Because from what I've seen, if we want to find something to complain, worry, or be sad about, we sure don't need to look very far. But, at the same time, if we want to find something to be proud of, to feel good about, or to make us smile, we probably don't need to look very far, either. Claire made me better understand something that I have been feeling for quite a while; something that people don't usually talk about – that being negative comes naturally to most of us. And that being positive takes a lot of no bullshit f-ing hard work, none of which will ever have a billable hour to show for it. 

A Privilege

March 26, 2014. I first heard that date back in October, on the day of my last infusion. I remember thinking that date sounded so far in the future that I couldn’t even comprehend it. I remember clicking forward five times on my phone to enter the appointment into the proper month. And I remember the ironic feeling that I know so well—the feeling of desperately wanting the future and also being so deeply scared of it.

I wasn’t nervous for today’s appointment because I figured I couldn’t possibly receive any bad news. Still, I knew I’d have to talk to Dr. Bunnell about the pain that persists in my chest, and I wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

I hate talking about my pain for lots of reasons, one being that I can’t describe it well and that just frustrates me. It’s a deep pain, sometimes so deep that I can feel it behind my shoulder. Sometimes the pain is dull, but sometimes it’s sharp; sometimes it burns, and sometimes it aches. With all my breast tissue long gone and the nerves still not functioning, it can be a strange sensation to feel something beneath where I feel nothing.

In anticipation of this appointment, I tried to pay productive attention to the pain in for the last few days. I stayed away from CrossFit to see if it would improve with rest. It did, a little bit, but it’s definitely still there, and I’m more anxious than ever to return to the gym.

After my CT scan last week, I felt indescribable relief that cancer did not appear to be the culprit of the pain. Dr. Bunnell is confident that it is not. Still, after I answered his questions about my pain today, he ordered a bone scan. This is the last of the tests he will do to try to confirm that my pain is not caused by a recurrence. After that, he explained, we would have looked everywhere there is to look.

I had not requested a bone scan, had not anticipated placing it on tomorrow’s to do list, and dread it like I've dreaded all other tests that could turn up cancer. But Dr. Bunnell thinks it’s a good idea, if only to be absolutely sure the Intruder is not lurking inside. Fun times.

It turns out that three hours prior to the bone scan tomorrow, they need to inject me with some sort of fluid. “Three hours?” I asked the scheduling lady, surprised. “That’s a long time!” I exclaimed. Sometimes having a job can be tricky on the schedule and this week has certainly shaped up to be one of those times.

For a whole bunch of different reasons, tomorrow is not a convenient time for me to spend over four hours at Dana-Farber. With a job like my mom has, I’m 100% certain that it’s not convenient for her, either. But knowing that Brian wouldn’t be able to take me (he has his own medical appointments to handle tomorrow), my mom never hesitated.

“I can do this alone,” I assured her, trying to convince myself as I said it that it was true.

“Absolutely not!” she insisted. I could tell she wouldn’t budge so I didn’t even bother arguing any more. Plus, I really wanted her to be with me. I’m such a wimp.

Lately I joke with my mom about the craziest thing that she often says. She tells me that it’s a “privilege” for her that she can help me through all of this cancer stuff. I laugh at her whenever she says that. “A privilege that you get to help me though all this shit? Oh yes, you’re one lucky lady!”

“I mean it,” she explains, smiling at my sarcasm.

I don’t know that there are many caregivers out there who consider it a privilege to rearrange their schedule for their loved one’s third scan, to sit in waiting rooms for hours, and to be strong in countless stressful moments in between. I’m pretty sure that normal people would consider all of that to be quite a burden. But my mom’s not normal. She’s like a superhero; using all her strength to help rescue someone weaker; and believing all the while that she is actually fortunate to be able to do that.

A New Nurse

It’s not easy to get an IV into my veins. As the experienced nurse at Dana-Farber said last week, my arms looked “used.” As the gateway to almost all of my medications, they certainly have been used, and the nerve damage from a year of infusions has left the top surface of them numb.

A few weeks ago, my mom and I got talking about a hypothetical that was somewhat based on experience. We were pondering which nurse we would prefer if we had to choose between two IV nurses. The first nurse, Nurse A, is a total expert and can get an IV into the arm with ease; just one poke, and it’s done. No hassle, no small talk, no comfort if you’re feeling scared. Nurse A is all business.

Nurse B is a newbie, and she smiles a lot. She struggles to get an IV into tired veins, but she tries so hard, wants so much to help, and wants so badly to not hurt anyone’s arm. The skill does not come naturally to her, at least, not yet, but she cares. Genuinely cares.

Which nurse would you choose?

My mom insists that no one should have to choose; that Nurse A’s skill should always be combined with Nurse B’s kindness and empathy. I agree, but I force her back to the hypothetical. “It’s not even a choice in my mind,” my mom explains, and she chooses Nurse A. “Get the damn IV in,” she jokes, in all seriousness. I knew she’d choose that one.

I don’t need to think about it, either, because without question, I’d choose Nurse B. Sure, I’ll endure a bit of needle-digging and I’ll leave with a few bruises on my arms, but I don’t mind the physical discomfort. It’s the mental stuff I suck at so I want someone who can spot all that mental baggage I carry. I want someone who tries, in his or her own way, to help me through it. I want someone who leaves work still thinking about the people he or she cared for there.

After my less-than-impressive early interactions in the radiology department at Dana-Farber last week, it was finally time for the CT scan. A young woman, probably in her late twenties, came to retrieve “Tara S.” My heart jumped into my throat. I gulped, and left Brian and my mom behind to venture into the testing area.

From the moment I met her, I liked the nurse who prepared me for my scan. She noticed things, like that I was shaking and on the verge of tears, and she so clearly wanted to help ease my pain. When she asked me to take off my bra, explaining that underwire could interfere with the scan, she immediately went to lower the shades to the window that looked into our room (I hadn’t even noticed people were behind that glass). The shades were broken but the nurse insisted on getting them to work so I could have some privacy. I waited while she tugged at the string. “Oh, don’t worry, half this place has already seen my boobs,” I joked quietly, appreciative that she respected me the way that she did.

When I lied down on the table, clothes and shoes on, the nurse explained that she was new so another nurse would be helping her. I have come to love new nurses. I’ve found that they often seem to try harder to do well than more experienced ones do. (I’ve always been one to judge people largely based on effort.) As the new nurse prepped the IV gear, she explained that they would run contrast into the IV at one point during the test. “You’ll feel a warm flush and you’ll probably feel like you peed on the bed even though you didn’t.” Lovely, and ultimately, very true.

She then explained what would happen during the test. The table would move me in and out of the thin tunnel a few times and a voice inside would tell me when to hold my breath. It sounded very simple, but still, tears fell onto my pillow. The nurse reiterated that the test would not be as scary as I thought. “It’s not the test I’m afraid of,” I explained. “It’s the results.”

In truth, I was so scared that my spirit was barely contained within my body, the former perhaps trying to escape from the latter for having betrayed it. Everything around me became snapshots, clear images captured in time; almost everything in the background completely blurred out.

The nurse looked at me. She saw the terror, and she wanted so sincerely to make it better. At one point, I’m pretty sure she almost started crying, too, which made me want to hug her and tell her I would be OK, even though I thought that was a lie. She rubbed my arm and told me that her mom was breast cancer survivor of several years. That she can only imagine how scary this must be; that I’ll get through it. She told me that I was brave. That last part made me laugh out a, “Yeah, right.” I had never felt less brave in my entire life.

It all sounds simple now, what the nurse said to me. But the power of her kindness was indescribable. She took the weight of the world and made it lighter.

Soon it was time to get the IV into my arm. The new nurse went to fetch her mentor, a more experienced nurse, and they each stood on either side of me. The new nurse attempted to insert the IV. She dug around in my stubborn vein for a while, apologizing for causing me pain. “It’s nothing,” I explained. “I really don’t mind.”

Eventually, both nurses realized that the IV wasn't going to flush correctly and we’d have to try again. I couldn’t even really see her, but I could tell the new nurse was disappointed in her apparent failure. She apologized some more. I tried to convince her that I didn’t mind at all. “It took five times at my last infusion,” I explained. But neither of the nurses saw that as an excuse. They clearly didn’t want to stick me five times. 

The expert nurse—a woman equally as kind and comforting as her mentee—started to assemble the materials to insert the IV on my other arm. I knew that she would get it in on the first try; she had that sort of calmness and confidence. But I had another idea.

“She can try again,” I told the mentor nurse, referring to the new nurse. They both froze, confused. “I know she can do it, let’s have her try again.”

What happened next was so awesome, probably because I think that education is the key to all progress in the world. I watched the experienced nurse teach the new one. The woman on my left explained to the woman on my right how deep she enters the vein with the needle before she “threads the catheter” (only one quarter in). She asked the new nurse to describe what she felt as she tried to hook into my vein. For a minute, it wasn’t about me. It was about teaching and learning; an expert passing on her wisdom to someone who so badly wanted to learn it. Despite the fear that had, minutes prior (and minutes later), overwhelmed me, I was able to escape into those few moments and see the real beauty in them.

We all celebrated quietly when the new nurse got the IV into my arm on the second try. I was so proud of her, and she was proud of herself, too, which made it even better.

The test came next, and both nurses continued to guide me through it like angels who had swooped down to earth to rescue me from what really had become the scariest time in this whole ordeal.

I could see the experienced nurse’s name stitched into a patch on her white coat. I locked her name into my memory so I could thank her one day. The new nurse’s badge was flipped backwards, however, so I couldn’t see her name. Once my legs stopped shaking violently (no doubt, at the thought that a radiologist was somewhere viewing the inside of my chest that was riddled with tumors), I asked the new nurse her name.

“It’s Kristen,” she answered. I smiled to myself, and knew that I would never forget it. 

Sounds and Tastes -- the CT Scan

For my birthday, I asked Brian for new headphones. In particular, I suggested the "Beats by Dre" because my friend, another suburban mom-lawyer who I wish I could be more like, raved about them. When I made this gift suggestion, I figured the headphones would be no more than $100.

On my birthday, the kids helped me rip open the box. They had told me at least 50 times that Brian got me a "colow pwintew" (color printer) and I was pretty sure they were part of Brian's ploy. (Brian and I learned a while ago never to tell the kids a secret about what we got each other so Brian has started the amusing tradition of telling them a lie about what he got me.)

Let me tell you a few things about these new headphones. First, I am certain I look absolutely ridiculous in them. Second, they smell fabulous, like new leather. Third, they cost about three times what I thought they would cost, and I'd have returned them because of that but for the fact that...Fourth, the music is absolutely unreal. The headphones drown out other noise and then they make every note that is supposed to be heard sound so damn good. I'm kind of obsessed.

On the box of the Beats is a quote by Dr. Dre. He says, "People aren't hearing all the music." I like that, and in many ways, I think he's right. For proof, the other day on the train, the music sounded so good that I listened to a Bruce Springsteen song that I usually skip past. The song was "Queen of the Supermarket" and the first verse starts like this:

There's a wonderful world where all you desire
And everything you've longed for is at your fingertips
Where the bittersweet taste of life is at your lips

I teared up then and there, amidst the smell of body odor and pot that so often fills the subway. "Bittersweet taste of life." Yes, precisely. 

*  *  *

I think I knew that I was heading towards rock bottom of my "recurrence rut" when, last night, I was almost numb with fear. I didn't take an Ativan because I was supposed to work today, but I am sure I could have benefited from one. Instead, I hoped that I would wake up, go to the gym, release some anxiety, and get through one more day until my CT scan. 

I woke up this morning feeling absolutely exhausted, which terrified me, despite that it was 5:15. I know that it's normal to be tired at 5:15 but it's not normal for me (at least, not after I've brushed my teeth). I recalled Kristin telling me that fatigue was another reason that she had had a feeling that something was wrong.

On the drive to the gym, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I felt cancer; was so sure of it that I started to think about how I would live my life for the next few months knowing that I was about to die. I tried to psych myself up; I told myself, You will do it. You will find peace and you will say goodbye when you need to. But then, I started to cry at the thought of how much I wasn't ready to say goodbye. Of how much I wanted to still be alive. 

When I got to my class (I am still loving my Crossfit), I tried to hold it together. But I couldn't. I felt the cancer in my chest as I rolled out my sore legs. I wanted to carve the tumors out but there was no way to escape them. I panicked and thought I may throw up in the bathroom. I had to leave.

Luckily, I know the owner of the gym well enough that I told him why I had to bolt before we had even started the workout. "It's back," I told him, too scared to have a functioning edit button. "I know that it's back." He told me it wasn't, that I had done everything I could have done to beat it. But I didn't believe him. And I felt so badly that soon, my tragic test results would shock him and everyone else into seeing that they had been wrong about me; that I had been wrong about me. That I had not, at least not literally, beat cancer. 

I bawled my eyes out the whole way home. It wasn't even six yet so when I crawled back in bed sobbing, I kind of shocked the hell out of Brian. "This is it," I told him. "I can't do this anymore. I need to figure this out." He agreed, probably still totally confused as to what was going on. 

When I first scheduled my MRI a few weeks ago, I did so at a time that was relatively convenient for my work schedule. I tried to balance a whole bunch of things the week of that test. But this morning was different. This morning, I had fallen back into survival mode, that mode I remembered from my surgery and chemo days, where I couldn't focus on anything but figuring out if my body was going to allow me any more life. 

I called out of work (i.e., emailed my most supportive colleagues and friends), and sent messages to my doctor through approximately four different avenues. By 9am, my test was rescheduled to this afternoon. One o'clock. Thank goodness. Because I would rather have been physically tortured than wait another day. 

*  *  *

The hours home alone before Brian picked me up for the test were dreadful. I felt like a ghost in my own house. I tried to distract myself by fixing a computer problem I've been having (Shockwave plug-in, you are not my friend), but instead, I found myself staring at Brian's screen saver (a photo of him with Teddy and Annabel) and wondering if they really would be OK without me.

When I checked in at the radiology desk in the Dana building, I was fighting to stand up straight. The receptionist asked my name and my birthday. She found me in the computer and, with all good intentions, looked at my schedule and remarked, "Well that's great, you have an easy day today! Just this one test!" Easy day was not exactly what this one had felt like for me, but I was in no position to rationally explain that. Plus, I actually felt bad for this woman as I grunted in response and she continued typing away. I felt bad because she had failed so miserably at her effort to be nice, and it's never fun to watch someone fail so miserably. 

Then we waited. I shook and drank water and filled out my own paperwork despite that I struggled to remember the date. Finally, a man called my name and brought me back. I thought I was going in for the test but it turned out these were only screening questions. Brian joined me for those and stood very displeased as the man rattled off questions to me with less empathy than someone behind the desk at the RMV (Brian's line, not mine).

"Birthday?"

"Three. Ten. 1980."

"You've had CT scans before, right?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Well, I had one before cancer but none after."

"OK. Have you ever had a reaction to an injection?" I was confused. He repeated the question. 

"I don't know. I had a bad reaction to a chemo drug. Is that an 'injection'?" 

"No, I mean contrast." 

"Contrast? Um, no, I don't think so." 

He asked me more questions, kept typing with his back to me, and then sent us out to wait in the waiting room again. I wasn't impressed.

A while later, it was time for the test. In that most scary of rooms, I met two angels. Actually, I met another angel in the waiting room, too, but these stories will have to wait for another day as I'm too tired to do them justice tonight. But I will tell those stories soon and they are really beautiful ones.  

*  *  *

I knew I could get the results as soon as tonight but I figured it would be tomorrow. Nevertheless, I gave Brian my cell phone because, like when we waited for my biopsy results, I didn't want to have such horrible words etched in my brain forever. When Brian picked up just before dinner time, I was in the basement crawl space digging out a box of old baby shoes that Annabel wanted to give her "cousin," JJ, who Brianne and Seamus had brought by to visit. 

"It's Dr. Bunnell," I heard Brian say from upstairs. I dropped the box of shoes, nearly collapsed, then somehow made it up the old wooden stairs. 

Brian was listening carefully and after what felt like an eternity (it was probably five seconds), he smiled. "Good news." 

I fell to the kitchen floor, with so much relief and thankfulness that I could barely catch my breath. Teddy and Annabel came running over soon after and I had to explain to them that sometimes people cry because they're so happy. They looked really confused and I had to keep telling them I was crying because I was happy. Eventually, they believed me and they were really happy too, although I was glad they didn't join me in crying. I know, I should probably try to keep all that emotion behind closed doors but Dr. Bunnell called when all the doors happened to be open. 

Dr. Bunnell explained that these results are preliminary. The protocol calls for two radiologists to review the scans and by dinner time, only one had reviewed them. Dr. Bunnell knew I was a wreck and so he was kind enough to call with the good news, even if it was only preliminary.

I can't explain the relief that these results brought me. I still don't know why my chest hurts, but with a clean MRI of the soft tissue and a clean CT scan of the bones, lungs, chest wall, and lymph nodes, I feel confident that my pain is what my oncology team has suspected all along -- "post-surgical musculoskeletal pain." I feel confident that the intruder is not the Intruder and that relief is so great that I feel like I could float away.

Tonight, as I ate dinner with family and friends and tucked my kids in bed, I really did feel like everything I longed for was at my fingertips. The paralyzing fear and crushing numbness had lifted like a fog and I could, once again, feel the wonderful world around me.

But of course, it's not that simple, not once one has lingered in the Kingdom of the Ill. Now that I am finding my way back to the rational world, I am starting to see that so much of this recent torment for me stems from the torment that Kristin and her family is experiencing with her recurrence of HER2+ breast cancer. The bittersweet taste of life. So true. Because the relief that I feel right now exists largely because I know that I can avoid, at least, for now, the indescribable challenges that good, innocent, and loving people like Kristin must face. I tasted that pain in these past few weeks and I can say for certain, it's a taste no human being should ever have to bear.