Today I had my first hospital appointment in six weeks. Since July last year, this is the longest I have gone without being poked, prodded, and analyzed by my medical team. It feels amazing. 

My transplant doctor is a force of nature. She is no-nonsense, utterly formidable, and surrounded by an amazing team (of predominantly women) whom I adore. Not because she is in any way evil, but because of the magnificence she exudes, I always picture my doctor walking down the hospital corridors to the theme song of the Wicked Witch of the West. I have grown incredibly fond of my doctor. If I knew she weren't so busy saving lives, I would ask her over dinner to pick her brains about everything she knows. 

My doctor is happy with my counts and progress. My no-nonsense, utterly formidable, but truly amazing doctor even got a tad shiny eyed when I told her that, for the first time since this whole AML malarkey began, I am starting to feel more like myself. My energy is returning, I'm running, and I've started working again. 

It felt so good to be able to go through the checklist and finally say no:
Have you experienced nausea?
Are you experiencing headaches?
Are you experiencing neuropathy? 
Are you having trouble sleeping?

My next appointment will be towards the end of October when they do the one year post-transplant tests. That's going to be a really fun day.* 

*It's probably not going to be fun. A full day of hospital tests including, but not limited to, a bone marrow biopsy, bone density scan, full blood work, pulmonary function test, EKG... I'm probably going to need a double serve of gyoza, and a nice big bowl of ice cream, at the end of that day!  

After chemo, it is very common for hair to grow back completely differently. I have heard stories of brunettes coming back blonde, straight hair growing back curly, and all manner of variation in between. 

My once straight, very dark, locks came back as super soft, light brown curls. Curious at what my new do would do, I let it grow. It grew from baby fuzz to the huge mop you see above (far right) in just six months. We affectionately referred to it as my "JewFro" (I actually do have Jewish ancestry, so I'm not trying to inappropriately appropriate). 

Having sported a pixie cut for almost five years, this much hair was overwhelming. Curls were also completely alien to me. I had no idea what to do with them. I was ready to go bald again rather than deal with this ever-taller-growing concoction above my head (for the record, I LOVED being bald. I found it incredibly liberating). In desperation, I turned to good old social media. 

My dear friends and loved ones came to the rescue. Cousin Emily recommended DevaCurl, a NYC hair salon specializing in curls. Who knew such a thing existed?! I booked an appointment with a salon in nearby Park Slope.

I nervously sat in the chair. My DevaCurl trained stylist, Diana, stood behind me, scissors in hand. Addressing the mirror she asked, 

     "What would you like done?" 

         "Well... This is the first time I've had a hair cut since my hair grew back curly after                     cancer treatment..." 

Diana's eyes widened.

      "I'm a survivor too!" 

And thus the next hour was spent chatting about the "joys" of diagnosis, treatment, and its aftermath, hair, and life with cancer. All the while, Diana re-sculpted my hair into a cute little bob that I'm super happy with. 

It's the first time since diagnosis that I feel something like my old self again. 

I've heard that the curls might grow out, and my old hair will possibly return, but in the meantime, I'm loving my new locks.