The name of my blog is a reminder not to give all my energy to something that worry cannot control—something that can happen to anyone, at any time, for no clear reason.
Why me?
Why not?
Last fall, I changed oncologists. I mentioned an area of concern that one of my surgeons had noticed on a scan two years earlier. My previous oncologist decided to “watch and wait,” but that never sat well with Bobby or me.
My new oncologist moved quickly and immediately began investigating. She ordered scans and referred me to a thoracic surgical oncologist, who ordered more detailed imaging followed by two surgical biopsies.
First, we needed to rule out recurrent breast cancer. Another major concern was pancreatic cancer because the scans revealed a cluster of enlarged lymph nodes and a mesenteric mass surrounding the celiac artery.
That brought us to March and, once again, we waited—through appointments, blood tests and consultations.
My diagnosis: follicular lymphoma, a type of non-Hodgkin lymphoma.
Blood cancer.
Speed bump.
For two weeks, we sat with the possibility of a surgically implanted port and R-CHOP chemotherapy.
The thought of putting my life on hold so that I could continue living made me angry. I was in disbelief.
My body and mind had already endured so much during the previous two and a half years: breast cancer, a pandemic, six surgeries, my brother’s death and even my big boy leaving for college two states away.
Despite everything, I honestly had never felt stronger—physically or mentally.
Gradually, my anger and disbelief began to soften.
I started preparing for a pause in my life so that I could protect my future. I prioritized the things I wanted to continue and considered what I might need to put on hold.
I knew I wanted to continue practicing and teaching yoga, so I decided not to plant a garden that year. A summer family vacation seemed unlikely, so we planned a last-minute trip to Nashville for the week before treatment.
I researched nutrition and ways to manage the possible effects of chemotherapy.
I cut off my hair.
Less than a week ago, I added another oncologist to my anticancer army. Her specialty is hematology.
She explained follicular lymphoma by comparing it to a weed in a garden: We treat it, watch it and, if it grows again, treat it again. It is generally considered incurable, but it is treatable.
She leads the department and is also involved in research—a rock star in hematology-oncology.
She gave me several treatment options. The first choice was targeted therapy using rituximab, a monoclonal antibody given through weekly infusions.
It seemed like a good place to begin.
I’m all in.
And just like that, we start Friday.
For the next four Fridays, I’ll be at the cancer center for treatments that could last between five and eight hours. After the fourth week, I’ll take a break and have scans to measure my response.
We are hoping to see the mass shrink significantly. If it doesn’t, my doctor has more options in her cancer-fighting arsenal.
For now, we are beginning with a treatment plan that is expected to be less difficult on my entire body than traditional chemotherapy.
I can garden. We may still be able to take a vacation. I’m embracing my short hair and, of course, continuing with yoga.
I can still do the things that matter to me. I may need to slow down, but all my energy is focused on this treatment working.
Why me?
Why not?
If you would like to join me, please send a little love, energy, encouragement and a few good thoughts my way.
A longtime friend stopped by yesterday to chat. No matter how much time passes, our rapport never skips a beat. She is someone whose questions I can always answer honestly, and I want to offer that same honesty to anyone taking the time to read my story.
