- Published on
Dry skin
Dry mouth
Cracking nails
Nausea
Nausea
Nausea
Never ending queasy excruciating incapacitating nausea
That leaves you lying useless on the couch
Some days you can’t read can’t watch tv even music is too hard
Nausea
Fatigue
Extreme exhaustion
So tired all you can do is sleep for fourteen hours
Get up and lie on the couch all day
And still feel tired
Chills
Weekly appointments at the hospital
Blood work for blood counts
White cells, red cells, neutrophils, hemoglobin, platelets
Check nymph lodes for swelling
Check ankles for swelling
Check skin for rashes
Blood pressure, temperature, weight, and measure around the stomach
Measure liquid intake
Monitor food intake
Friends visit
Friends write and send sweet cards
You talk with family on Skype and viber
You try not to despair that you can’t go out into New York
Because it is filled with bacteria-bearing crowds
All in good time
Be a patient patient
Feel guilty that your love is exhausted
From caring
Feel awful that you don’t have the energy to help
Wish you could fast forward time to the part where you’re better
Swing between depression and despair
And happiness and hope that it’s all going to be ok
One day you’ll be healthy and “normal” again
This is recovery. This is healing.
Slow and tired and boring and frustrating and necessary.
Dry mouth
Cracking nails
Nausea
Nausea
Nausea
Never ending queasy excruciating incapacitating nausea
That leaves you lying useless on the couch
Some days you can’t read can’t watch tv even music is too hard
Nausea
Fatigue
Extreme exhaustion
So tired all you can do is sleep for fourteen hours
Get up and lie on the couch all day
And still feel tired
Chills
Weekly appointments at the hospital
Blood work for blood counts
White cells, red cells, neutrophils, hemoglobin, platelets
Check nymph lodes for swelling
Check ankles for swelling
Check skin for rashes
Blood pressure, temperature, weight, and measure around the stomach
Measure liquid intake
Monitor food intake
Friends visit
Friends write and send sweet cards
You talk with family on Skype and viber
You try not to despair that you can’t go out into New York
Because it is filled with bacteria-bearing crowds
All in good time
Be a patient patient
Feel guilty that your love is exhausted
From caring
Feel awful that you don’t have the energy to help
Wish you could fast forward time to the part where you’re better
Swing between depression and despair
And happiness and hope that it’s all going to be ok
One day you’ll be healthy and “normal” again
This is recovery. This is healing.
Slow and tired and boring and frustrating and necessary.
- Published on
I rarely use this blog/social media to rant. I try to be positive. See the good. Find the magic. But tonight, I am struggling. I am fed up. Cancer sucks and there's no way around it.
Tomorrow I'm hitting the lottery of medical appointments. I'm starting the day with a bone marrow biopsy. That's the one where they take a needle with a screw inside it, inject it above the hip bone and drill for bone. They put a local anesthetic in first, but it's not exactly a painless procedure. In fact, it's rather uncomfortable. I screamed through my first one. By the fourth, I'd learnt to kind of grimace through it. And sing through the crying. Tomorrow will be bone marrow biopsy number five. Like Chanel, minus the delicious scent and the feeling that something fun will happen if you wear it.
Following the biopsy, I have an appointment with the bone marrow transplant doctor. I will learn all about graft v. host disease and its myriad of potential side effects, and how the transplant will render me useless for the next 6-12 months. The doctor is actually lovely. If she wasn't busy saving my life, she's the kind of person I'd love to have at one of those metaphorical dinner parties - 10 people you'd have for dinner etc. She's a formidable force. She takes no bullshit and she lays down the facts fast and hot.
Next up, I'll have an echocardiogram. It's like an ultrasound for the heart. The first time I had it done I was still in hospital. At first it was fun watching my own heart beat on the monitor. Then the pressure of the machine, my lack of body fat, and the air-con blowing on my practically naked body made it all uncomfortable and unpleasant.
Heart checked, I'll head to another floor of the hospital for a CT scan. I'll have the pleasure of lying on a bed inside a whirring metal tube while the doctors scan my brain. I will not be able to move. By this stage, I'll probably be exhausted and starving.
As if a bone marrow biopsy, echocardiogram, and CT scan weren't enough for one day, I will finish this delightful day of testing with a pap smear. Seriously, you can't invent a day this fun in NYC.
To prepare for this joyous day, I've meditated. I've eaten well. I've started a puzzle with my dear husband. And I feel like absolute crap. It's all a reminder that I have cancer. And I hate it. I have lived my life in an attempt to be healthy and well. I did my affirmations. Ate a plant-based diet consisting of mostly organic food. Exercised. Meditated. Avoided carcinogens. And I still got effing cancer. I've walked the Camino twice goddamn it. I have two compostellas! Haven't all my sins been absolved twice over by now?
I know it's not about "fault". I didn't do anything wrong. It's just genetic bad luck. And it's hard to go through. So F U cancer. You'd better believe I'm going to beat you and make sure you don't come back. You are not welcome here.
And on that note, I'm going to bed.
Tomorrow I'm hitting the lottery of medical appointments. I'm starting the day with a bone marrow biopsy. That's the one where they take a needle with a screw inside it, inject it above the hip bone and drill for bone. They put a local anesthetic in first, but it's not exactly a painless procedure. In fact, it's rather uncomfortable. I screamed through my first one. By the fourth, I'd learnt to kind of grimace through it. And sing through the crying. Tomorrow will be bone marrow biopsy number five. Like Chanel, minus the delicious scent and the feeling that something fun will happen if you wear it.
Following the biopsy, I have an appointment with the bone marrow transplant doctor. I will learn all about graft v. host disease and its myriad of potential side effects, and how the transplant will render me useless for the next 6-12 months. The doctor is actually lovely. If she wasn't busy saving my life, she's the kind of person I'd love to have at one of those metaphorical dinner parties - 10 people you'd have for dinner etc. She's a formidable force. She takes no bullshit and she lays down the facts fast and hot.
Next up, I'll have an echocardiogram. It's like an ultrasound for the heart. The first time I had it done I was still in hospital. At first it was fun watching my own heart beat on the monitor. Then the pressure of the machine, my lack of body fat, and the air-con blowing on my practically naked body made it all uncomfortable and unpleasant.
Heart checked, I'll head to another floor of the hospital for a CT scan. I'll have the pleasure of lying on a bed inside a whirring metal tube while the doctors scan my brain. I will not be able to move. By this stage, I'll probably be exhausted and starving.
As if a bone marrow biopsy, echocardiogram, and CT scan weren't enough for one day, I will finish this delightful day of testing with a pap smear. Seriously, you can't invent a day this fun in NYC.
To prepare for this joyous day, I've meditated. I've eaten well. I've started a puzzle with my dear husband. And I feel like absolute crap. It's all a reminder that I have cancer. And I hate it. I have lived my life in an attempt to be healthy and well. I did my affirmations. Ate a plant-based diet consisting of mostly organic food. Exercised. Meditated. Avoided carcinogens. And I still got effing cancer. I've walked the Camino twice goddamn it. I have two compostellas! Haven't all my sins been absolved twice over by now?
I know it's not about "fault". I didn't do anything wrong. It's just genetic bad luck. And it's hard to go through. So F U cancer. You'd better believe I'm going to beat you and make sure you don't come back. You are not welcome here.
And on that note, I'm going to bed.
- Published on
me. (almost) thirty and fabulous in NYC.
I’m turning 30 in three days. For the last six years, my dream has been to be 30 and FABULOUS in New York City. I was going to celebrate by picnicking in Central Park, seeing a Broadway show, and drinking fancy cocktails. Instead, I will be preparing for a second round of chemotherapy because I have a life-threatening illness called acute myeloid leukemia.
Cancer sucks. I’m not going to lie. No amount of Julie Andrews-Mary Poppins-Maria Von Trapp inspired positivity is going to change that fact. It has made me very, very sick. It makes me feel utterly, utterly exhausted. It has taken a toll on my loved ones. It has put an unfair strain on my still-less-than-a-year-old marriage. It has made our move to NYC harder, and more complicated.
Six weeks before my 30th birthday, I was faced with my own mortality. I was told that if I did not undergo treatment, I would be dead in a month. It was sobering. Treatment was no picnic. I feel like it was worse for the friends and family who looked on feeling helpless (they were not helpless. Their very presence was a gift), all I had to do was lie there. A week ago, I filled out a form that gave instructions for what to do in the event that I couldn’t make decisions for myself.
In terms of a bad situation, I truly don’t have the worst scenario. For now, I’m at home in Brooklyn (!!), in a sunny and spacious apartment, with my truly wonderful and loving husband. I’m receiving treatment at one of the top hospitals on the planet. I have been given an amazing insight into the truly wonderful support network and web of love I am a part of (as written about previously). I have been able to understand how I have positively impacted on other people’s lives. I am loved, held, and cherished.
Friends and family have started asking what I’d like for my birthday. I honestly can’t think of anything materially. I want to be cured. I want to be well. I want to live for another 50-60 years and snuggle my darling husband and tell him every day for forever how much I love him. I want to sing and dance on Broadway and trip the light fantastic and and teach voice and stage plays and write stories and travel to places I haven’t seen. I want to eat delicious food and grow my own veggies and volunteer in community gardens. I want to explore our new neighborhood. I want to play in NYC. I want to read books, see shows, watch films. I want to meet Julie Andrews and thank her for raising me. I want to meet Patti LuPone and thank her for inspiring me. I want to meet Geoffrey Rush and do a master class with him. I want to work. I want to play. I want to live.
In three days, I will be turning 30. I’m in NYC. I'm bald, and dammit, I'm fabulous. There will be no picnic in Central Park, or a Broadway show, or cocktails. That’ll happen when I’m better (you’re all invited. Details to follow). For now, here are my birthday requests (10 for September 10th). They are things I love and want to share. Please do one, some, or any of the below.
You are welcome to share this post. You are welcome to write and share your stories, I'd love to hear from you (although my replies may be slow... chemo brain is real!).
With love and gratitude,
Lu xx
Cancer sucks. I’m not going to lie. No amount of Julie Andrews-Mary Poppins-Maria Von Trapp inspired positivity is going to change that fact. It has made me very, very sick. It makes me feel utterly, utterly exhausted. It has taken a toll on my loved ones. It has put an unfair strain on my still-less-than-a-year-old marriage. It has made our move to NYC harder, and more complicated.
Six weeks before my 30th birthday, I was faced with my own mortality. I was told that if I did not undergo treatment, I would be dead in a month. It was sobering. Treatment was no picnic. I feel like it was worse for the friends and family who looked on feeling helpless (they were not helpless. Their very presence was a gift), all I had to do was lie there. A week ago, I filled out a form that gave instructions for what to do in the event that I couldn’t make decisions for myself.
In terms of a bad situation, I truly don’t have the worst scenario. For now, I’m at home in Brooklyn (!!), in a sunny and spacious apartment, with my truly wonderful and loving husband. I’m receiving treatment at one of the top hospitals on the planet. I have been given an amazing insight into the truly wonderful support network and web of love I am a part of (as written about previously). I have been able to understand how I have positively impacted on other people’s lives. I am loved, held, and cherished.
Friends and family have started asking what I’d like for my birthday. I honestly can’t think of anything materially. I want to be cured. I want to be well. I want to live for another 50-60 years and snuggle my darling husband and tell him every day for forever how much I love him. I want to sing and dance on Broadway and trip the light fantastic and and teach voice and stage plays and write stories and travel to places I haven’t seen. I want to eat delicious food and grow my own veggies and volunteer in community gardens. I want to explore our new neighborhood. I want to play in NYC. I want to read books, see shows, watch films. I want to meet Julie Andrews and thank her for raising me. I want to meet Patti LuPone and thank her for inspiring me. I want to meet Geoffrey Rush and do a master class with him. I want to work. I want to play. I want to live.
In three days, I will be turning 30. I’m in NYC. I'm bald, and dammit, I'm fabulous. There will be no picnic in Central Park, or a Broadway show, or cocktails. That’ll happen when I’m better (you’re all invited. Details to follow). For now, here are my birthday requests (10 for September 10th). They are things I love and want to share. Please do one, some, or any of the below.
- Write to someone you have been thinking kindly about. Make it a person you have not spoken to in a long time. Do it without expectation of a response. Tell them you’ve been thinking of them and why.
- Buy a copy of The Big Issue, or equivalent street mag, from the next vendor you see.
- Pay attention to your breath for one minute. Don’t worry about whether you’re “doing it right” or breathing “properly”. Just pause and watch your breath go in and out for one minute. Repeat throughout the day as you remember this request.
- Read an actual book. Not on a device, an actual book. Smell the pages. Feel the pages between your fingers. Savor the delicious feeling of being-almost-at-the-end and not wanting it to be finished.
- That instrument you’ve always wanted to learn? Work out right now how you can get a hold of that instrument, and seek out lessons. The internet is an amazing place.
- Seek out your local farmer’s market. Buy something you’ve never seen/eaten before and learn what to do with it.
- If you are willing and able, donate blood and/or platelets. Google it right now to find out where you can do so in your city. If you can’t donate, consider sharing information on how to do so.
- If you are willing and able, sign up to be a donor on the bone marrow registry in your country. You could be a life-saving match for someone. Google it right now to find out where you can do so in your city.
- Be kind to yourself. No really. Stop being so hard on yourself. You are awesome and more loved and valued than you realize.
- Remember that you are alive. Remember your passions and what makes your spine tingle with delight, your heart race, and your soul feel happy. Allow yourself to feel sad when you’re down. It’s ok. This too shall pass. The good, the bad, the ugly. Just be here.
You are welcome to share this post. You are welcome to write and share your stories, I'd love to hear from you (although my replies may be slow... chemo brain is real!).
With love and gratitude,
Lu xx
- Published on
The day after having all my hair shaved off. I don't actually have many memories of this time.
I had been feeling utterly, utterly exhausted during the first session of camp. More so than usual. Worn out by tasks that hadn’t ever given me grief, and puffed from walks up a short hill. A few days before I was due for two days off (a once-a-summer luxury that is prized and cherished), I noticed two bumps, one on each shin, that I assumed were spider bites. My legs were covered in mosquito bites, the bumps only hurt to the touch, and to be honest, I just didn’t have time to worry about them. I was working 14 hour days, and just too damn tired to care.
Double day off finally arrived, a small group of us headed to the Catskills for our well-earned weekend away, and all I could do was sleep. The bumps turned into circular raised red bumps that hurt like hell. My ankles and feet became puffy. We went out for dinner, and the sight and smell of food made me feel ill. I went for a walk while our group finished eating. We went home and I collapsed back into bed. Throughout the night I slept fitfully and had fevers. At 6am, feeling absolutely awful, I asked my husband, Aaron, to take me to the doctor.
The kindly doctor said she had not seen anything like my legs before, but she had seen several camp counselors this summer with infected bug bites. She prescribed an antibiotic and told me to go the hospital if I wasn’t feeling better in two days.
The next morning, a Monday, we drove back to camp. Walking was agony. Sitting up made me delirious. But theatre auditions could not wait. I was propped up on a couch and we started auditions for RENT. It was self-inflicted torture. My friends begged me to go to the infirmary. But I was insistent. There was NO WAY I was missing auditions. I love my theatre babies, and I was going to be there for them. I would sit up for the kids when they came in to sing, dance, and read their scenes, and between groups I’d lie back down, feeling like I had the worst flu in the history of the world.
By 2pm, I was done. I wanted to throw up. My legs were aching like nothing I had known. I sat outside the Actor’s Studio and sobbed. My friend Johnny happened to come by and took me to the infirmary. I fell onto the bed and didn’t get up again, except to go to the toilet and ask the nurse for more tylenol. Throughout the night I threw up twice, and sobbed. In the morning, the doctor took one look at me and told me to go to hospital.
Aaron drove me up, and supported me as I hobbled into the ER. I was admitted, blood was drawn, and I lay in bed feeling terrible. The doctor came by. Now I don’t want to upset or frighten you, but you’re going to the hear the word ‘cancer’. Your white blood cell count is astronomically high. Que?! I’m an organic vegetarian runner who meditates, rarely drinks, and never smokes. People like me don’t get cancer.
Dr Lombardo. Oncologist. What the hell is happening. Breathe. Bone marrow biopsy. Hold Aaron’s hand. Scream. WT actual F. This is awful. Why is this happening?! Breathe breathe breathe.
Sleep overnight in the hospital. Aaron is with me. The next day, I tell Aaron to go to his work call at camp. The camp director, Laura, comes to visit. She is sitting next to me and holding my hand. Dr Lombardo is in front of me. Luisa, you have leukemia and we need to transfer you to Danbury Hospital for treatment. A million questions in my head. I ask her what would happen if I don’t have the treatment. She looks at me directly. You’ll be dead in a month. Oh. My. God. Is this real?
To be honest, the next two weeks in my mind are a complete blur. I remember being in the ambulance. I remember being wheeled into my room at Danbury and thinking how beautiful the view was. I remember Jesse and Brenda, my wonderful amazing glorious parents-in-law, holding my hand and comforting me. I remember Aaron never leaving my side and being the most supportive and loving husband a person could ever wish for. I remember Mum, and my sister, Anita, arriving and rushing into the room and being simultaneously thrilled to see me after a long separation, and devastated that I was so sick. I remember Adrienne shaving my hair off, and seeing Emma with the same new do. And that’s about it. I’ve since been told of all the friends who visited, of nurses trying to tell me the side effects of chemo while I fell asleep mid-sentence, and of week long hallucinations where I thought I was surrounded by campers, needed to be working on stuff for RENT, and was touring with a band. I was dosed up on morphine for my legs, receiving chemo, and delirious.
As our families and close friends were informed, support started flooding in. Emails, flowers, cards. People asking: what can we do? Aaron and Anita set up a GoFundMe page and shared it on facebook. In three weeks we raised over $25,000. We knew we wouldn’t have to worry about the inevitable hospital bills and a huge weight was taken off our shoulders. Friends from camp gave up their days off to come and help run errands. They baked treats and bought me fresh food. They opened up their houses for our families to stay. We received literally hundreds and hundreds of messages of support and love, by email, card, and telephone.
And here is the entire point of this long post. We received donations, cards, gifts, flowers and messages of love and support from across the entire world. People who I haven’t even met who are friends and relatives of my own friends and relatives got in touch. From every aspect of my thirty years on earth, from primary school through to both my high schools, to university, theatre productions, travel friends, London, Buck’s Rock, and all manner of things in between. People wrote messages of how much I had inspired them, how my positivity had uplifted them, how I had been a light in their lives. Many people wrote how my writing had moved them. I had not heard from some of these people in close to twenty years. It was incredible. It was overwhelming. It was uplifting.
One friend wrote:
Double day off finally arrived, a small group of us headed to the Catskills for our well-earned weekend away, and all I could do was sleep. The bumps turned into circular raised red bumps that hurt like hell. My ankles and feet became puffy. We went out for dinner, and the sight and smell of food made me feel ill. I went for a walk while our group finished eating. We went home and I collapsed back into bed. Throughout the night I slept fitfully and had fevers. At 6am, feeling absolutely awful, I asked my husband, Aaron, to take me to the doctor.
The kindly doctor said she had not seen anything like my legs before, but she had seen several camp counselors this summer with infected bug bites. She prescribed an antibiotic and told me to go the hospital if I wasn’t feeling better in two days.
The next morning, a Monday, we drove back to camp. Walking was agony. Sitting up made me delirious. But theatre auditions could not wait. I was propped up on a couch and we started auditions for RENT. It was self-inflicted torture. My friends begged me to go to the infirmary. But I was insistent. There was NO WAY I was missing auditions. I love my theatre babies, and I was going to be there for them. I would sit up for the kids when they came in to sing, dance, and read their scenes, and between groups I’d lie back down, feeling like I had the worst flu in the history of the world.
By 2pm, I was done. I wanted to throw up. My legs were aching like nothing I had known. I sat outside the Actor’s Studio and sobbed. My friend Johnny happened to come by and took me to the infirmary. I fell onto the bed and didn’t get up again, except to go to the toilet and ask the nurse for more tylenol. Throughout the night I threw up twice, and sobbed. In the morning, the doctor took one look at me and told me to go to hospital.
Aaron drove me up, and supported me as I hobbled into the ER. I was admitted, blood was drawn, and I lay in bed feeling terrible. The doctor came by. Now I don’t want to upset or frighten you, but you’re going to the hear the word ‘cancer’. Your white blood cell count is astronomically high. Que?! I’m an organic vegetarian runner who meditates, rarely drinks, and never smokes. People like me don’t get cancer.
Dr Lombardo. Oncologist. What the hell is happening. Breathe. Bone marrow biopsy. Hold Aaron’s hand. Scream. WT actual F. This is awful. Why is this happening?! Breathe breathe breathe.
Sleep overnight in the hospital. Aaron is with me. The next day, I tell Aaron to go to his work call at camp. The camp director, Laura, comes to visit. She is sitting next to me and holding my hand. Dr Lombardo is in front of me. Luisa, you have leukemia and we need to transfer you to Danbury Hospital for treatment. A million questions in my head. I ask her what would happen if I don’t have the treatment. She looks at me directly. You’ll be dead in a month. Oh. My. God. Is this real?
To be honest, the next two weeks in my mind are a complete blur. I remember being in the ambulance. I remember being wheeled into my room at Danbury and thinking how beautiful the view was. I remember Jesse and Brenda, my wonderful amazing glorious parents-in-law, holding my hand and comforting me. I remember Aaron never leaving my side and being the most supportive and loving husband a person could ever wish for. I remember Mum, and my sister, Anita, arriving and rushing into the room and being simultaneously thrilled to see me after a long separation, and devastated that I was so sick. I remember Adrienne shaving my hair off, and seeing Emma with the same new do. And that’s about it. I’ve since been told of all the friends who visited, of nurses trying to tell me the side effects of chemo while I fell asleep mid-sentence, and of week long hallucinations where I thought I was surrounded by campers, needed to be working on stuff for RENT, and was touring with a band. I was dosed up on morphine for my legs, receiving chemo, and delirious.
As our families and close friends were informed, support started flooding in. Emails, flowers, cards. People asking: what can we do? Aaron and Anita set up a GoFundMe page and shared it on facebook. In three weeks we raised over $25,000. We knew we wouldn’t have to worry about the inevitable hospital bills and a huge weight was taken off our shoulders. Friends from camp gave up their days off to come and help run errands. They baked treats and bought me fresh food. They opened up their houses for our families to stay. We received literally hundreds and hundreds of messages of support and love, by email, card, and telephone.
And here is the entire point of this long post. We received donations, cards, gifts, flowers and messages of love and support from across the entire world. People who I haven’t even met who are friends and relatives of my own friends and relatives got in touch. From every aspect of my thirty years on earth, from primary school through to both my high schools, to university, theatre productions, travel friends, London, Buck’s Rock, and all manner of things in between. People wrote messages of how much I had inspired them, how my positivity had uplifted them, how I had been a light in their lives. Many people wrote how my writing had moved them. I had not heard from some of these people in close to twenty years. It was incredible. It was overwhelming. It was uplifting.
One friend wrote:
From when you first heard the bad news, to when you will recover, what has formed for you is a HUGE web of love because you have so much love around you. This will act as a safety net for you to fall back into, and trust me, it will catch you whenever you feel like falling.
He was entirely right. This may have been the scariest, most confronting, most shocking thing to ever happen to me. Instead, it has shown me the web of love I live in. I didn’t really know it before. I had no idea how expansive it was. In my closest circles, I had no idea how limitless and unconditional it was. And as cheesy and corny as it sounds, that love was healing and uplifting and wrapped around me constantly over the past month. Yes, all my doctors and nurses were amazing and treated me with the utmost care. There is no denying modern medicine and science saved my life. But the web of love got me through it.
Being told at Danbury I needed more treatment because the cancer cells were at 50% was devastating. Moving to a world-renowned cancer hospital on the upper east side wasn’t quite my plan for moving to New York. But, after being transfered to Sloan Kettering, my blood counts started returning to normal. I was taken off the restricted diet. After a third bone marrow biopsy, the cancer cells were down to 6% and I was told I could go home.
There is still a ways to go. I will need further chemo treatment until I have a bone marrow transplant. I'm almost completely bald, I’m utterly exhausted and small tasks completely wear me out. But I can’t even begin to describe how awesome I feel. I’M HOME WITH MY LOVE! We’re finally living in New York! I am surrounded, enveloped, and filled with love and support!
Being near-death is the strangest way to discover it. But I am so glad I have. And I'm not ready for my actual funeral yet. It’s my thirtieth in a couple of weeks, and I plan to CELEBRATE. My birthday wish is that you reach out to the people you love. Tell them you love them. Tell the writer you love reading that you love their work. Tell your friends how much you appreciate them. Send cards. Write letters. Don’t wait. Life is short and unexpected and full of batshit crazy events. Go to it!
Thank you to you all, with deepest love,
Lu xxx
Being told at Danbury I needed more treatment because the cancer cells were at 50% was devastating. Moving to a world-renowned cancer hospital on the upper east side wasn’t quite my plan for moving to New York. But, after being transfered to Sloan Kettering, my blood counts started returning to normal. I was taken off the restricted diet. After a third bone marrow biopsy, the cancer cells were down to 6% and I was told I could go home.
There is still a ways to go. I will need further chemo treatment until I have a bone marrow transplant. I'm almost completely bald, I’m utterly exhausted and small tasks completely wear me out. But I can’t even begin to describe how awesome I feel. I’M HOME WITH MY LOVE! We’re finally living in New York! I am surrounded, enveloped, and filled with love and support!
Being near-death is the strangest way to discover it. But I am so glad I have. And I'm not ready for my actual funeral yet. It’s my thirtieth in a couple of weeks, and I plan to CELEBRATE. My birthday wish is that you reach out to the people you love. Tell them you love them. Tell the writer you love reading that you love their work. Tell your friends how much you appreciate them. Send cards. Write letters. Don’t wait. Life is short and unexpected and full of batshit crazy events. Go to it!
Thank you to you all, with deepest love,
Lu xxx