Ativan is My Friend.

Apologies for the hiatus, once again, but thanks for all the lovely emails wondering whether or not I’m doing ok/still alive! Still here. Still kicking ass. (or trying to at least).

Last chemo was a lot better than the first time-more nausea for sure, and still had a pretty bad headache, but no spinal headache at least, which is good. I ended up getting a fever on my off day, before my spinal chemo was supposed to be administered, so I was unable to get my spinal chemo. They performed an LP (lumbar puncture) procedure to test my spinal fluid, but that was it. So, I’m a little nervous that my scan won’t show my cancer is “gone enough” to begin the transplant process, when we fly out to Houston next week.

My new oncologist here at Seidman said not to “worry too much” (um sure ok.) if the scan shows I still have cancer cells, as the chemo treatment I’m on typically takes 4 cycles, and I’ve only had two. (well like 1.75). It really sucks just waiting around, but I suppose as long as the scan doesn’t show any type of progression, I will be happy. My tentative timeline is as follows: Fly down the 2-5th. Scan on the 3rd, results the 4th. If the scan shows I’m clear of cancer and good to go for transplant, I will have “maintenance chemo” from the 9th-12th (happy fucking Valentine’s Day), then have about 4 weeks (depending on the donor’s schedule) to get my shit/whole life together, and move down to Houston. If the scan shows I’m not quite ready, I’ll come back to Cleveland, have 2 more rounds (about 2 more months) of chemo, then head back to Houston for another scan. If after all of that, progression is shown, or after 4 rounds the cancer isn’t gone…..well……I’m not sure. Basically I’m screwed, because I’m no longer a transplant candidate at that point. But I’m not going to worry about that. Tentative timeline after an amazingly successful transplant: Live to be 100; Take over the world.

Recently, my dad, who is set to be my primary caregiver in Houston, had a relapse of his lymphoma. It appears to be just in his skin for right now, but a PET scan is likely to follow. He starts 18 days of radiation on Monday. WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF UNIVERSE?!!!!! So some prayers his way would be great.

Mack and Derek are doing well–Since I was less sick this time around, I think it was a lot easier on all of us. The house didn’t seem quite so chaotic. I’ve been working full time again, and my only symptoms as of right now are extreme fatigue/weakness. It really is a struggle to work out, although I know it is an absolute must to get stronger before the transplant, as well as through the chemo. I worked out once this week and twice last week (just 30 minutes on the elliptical, then some lighter weights), and I seriously felt like I walked to Ohio all the way from Texas. Awful. But I will find a way to do it because I know I have to. I mean just being a full time mom, worker, wife, builder-of-legos, et al., that alone would make anyone tired. Throw a bit of cancer in there, and shit gets cray.

My hair is really getting out of control these days, and I have no idea how to style it anymore. I was going to get my hair cut, but I figured I’d wait at least until this next scan. If I’m good to go for the transplant, I’ll prob just buzz it off since I’ll lose it anyway. I’m actually looking forward to that part, if you can believe it. I’m so used to not having hair, and taking about 4 minutes to get ready. This 15-20 minute business? Over it. I’m also looking forward to not having to shave. Definite plus. Oh! Apparently there is also a good chance that my donor is of German heritage so hopefully I get to keep my blue eyes and blond hair. (I mean not that I really care about that, but geez, you gotta have something positive to think about)!

The week before a scan is always the worst. My anxiety is on high alert, and as tired as I am, I simply can’t sleep. Luckily, there is my old pal Ativan. You are a good friend, Ativan.

Again special thanks to all of my wonderful friends and family who have been such a great support system to all of us. We couldn’t do this without you. Also some extra prayers for my girl, Keri. You got this. ❤

Hoping my next post is filled with 100% positive news. WE. ARE. OVERDUE.

5 thoughts on “Ativan is My Friend.

  1. I swear I was just thinking /worrying about you. You’re in my daughters’ age range so … basically it comes naturally.
    Ativan was my hubby’s drug of choice also. When he would ask for “one more” I remember hesitating and then thinking wtf? Why not? Give the man what he wants.
    Anyhow, your day exhausts me. Sending ALL my positive vibes your way as always. Much love. Rochelle

  2. Glad to hear from you and thrilled to know you are still fighting the good fight. So, you can seriously end up with different eye or hair color from the transplant?

  3. Mary I have been waiting to hear from you. I’m so happy your treatments weren’t too bad. Praying for you. You are a remarkable young woman. And Ativan has been my friend for a long time b/c of panic attacks. And very welcomed during my illness. Keep the faith and hopefully you’ll be a perfect candidate for your procedure.

  4. Dear Mary, I read your newest posting to Pete (Pirnat) and I/we hope and pray that everything you have gone through; this will be the answer to your prayers, and your health will be restored to you. God knows you can say YOU know what Hell is all about, and it ain’t pretty.

    Pete chuckled when you were swearing because Kris would give him the “stink eye” when he would swear. But, he knew that you two became great friends and she talked of you often. She commented on the strength you have because of the cancer you are dealing with. What a truly amazing woman she “is”. Not “was”, because someone like Kris will always be around; kinda like a very, very long vacation, sending post cards with all the love she has for everyone.

    So again; please know that we hate that m-fucking cancer also! The best to you and your family.

    Absolutely my sincerest regards,

    Marge Kleppel and Pete Pirnat

    Sent from Windows Mail

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