...the 45th phone call of that day...

I have received some of the kindest messages the past couple days after I wrote and posted my letter where I tried to remember all that happened the day I found out I had cancer. (This still baffles me, that it took weeks and a different set of doctors to realize I wasn't a-okay. This also should explain why I am so very grateful for all my doctors, nurses, and hospital staff. Finally, my opening sentence=way too long. My apologies.)

Anyone who was on my giant email chain when I was going through chemo (or really anyone who has ever met me) likely knows I enjoy writing. I've found it incredibly helpful to attempt to process all that's occurred the past 11 years, and during chemo, it was my way of keeping in touch with everyone who wasn't my dad, my doctor, or my nurse. Before that, trust me, my journals were filled with melodramatic poetry written in gel pens as well as really deep thoughts about life, and I may or may not have listed the boys on whom I had a crush. I've always liked lists.

However, not everything always fits into a neat list.

December 1, 2006. It's not over yet, and it certainly didn't fit with the orderly to do list I created.

After many phone calls I don't remember, my guess is that it was roughly 4 pm when Evanston NW Hospital popped up on the caller ID yet again. This time, however, it wasn't about another prescription I needed to pick up or information from the nutritionist. Rather, it was the nurse calling with an update on my blood test from earlier in the day (I would like to emphasize the fact that no one had to hold me down for my blood to be drawn--a vast improvement from previous doctor's visits).

Now, as I went back to write all this down, I pulled out my "Medical Stuff" binder...

because yes, I have one, though it's embarrassingly not complete, and yes, it is hot pink and purple. In it, I have random printouts and things I received during and after chemo. One of these random things is the following little booklet:

While no tumor markers are definitive, on December 1st, my doctor ran many blood tests--one of which measured CA-125, another measuring my AFP level, both of which are proteins that one's body may produce in response to cancer. Now, what's important to know here is that the typical normal range for CA-125 is 35 or below, and for AFP, typically the result should fall below 10. (This all from my non-MD knowledge so take it with a grain of salt.)

The nurse shared with me my blood test results over the phone:

...and because of the crazy elevation, particularly with my AFP, the doctor decided I needed to start chemo sooner, and so that's how, seven years ago, I ended up going in for my first day of chemo on December 4, 2006, just 23 days after surgery.

10 hours before that call, I didn't know I had cancer...and after that call, I had about 2.5 days to prepare for day 1. I don't recall exactly what I did after I passed the phone to my dad, but I would not be surprised if I began prioritizing my to do list.

I called my dad the other day as I was flipping through that lovely medical binder...it was past midnight in Florida, but he's a cool man and was awake.
"Dad, seriously though...my AFP blood test was in the thousands...and by the end of chemo it was 4.8. My test result was literally 1000x what it should have been. How on earth is that possible?"

While I've definitely had seven years to think about the joyful experience that is chemo, writing all this down, flipping through my binder, and reading emails I sent, I'm realizing a couple things:

1. I knew I was sick, but I don't think I fully grasped just how serious it was. ...or maybe I did, and as my dad tells it, I just wasn't going to let it slow me down. Reading things like those initial blood test results or thinking about the stats my doctor gave me about the possibility of the cancer recurring, I just don't remember every feeling like it was that bad. Yes, chemo sucked...a lot...but it could have most certainly been worse.
2. I really like exclamation points, and I was shockingly happy during chemo. I find this slightly alarming and would probably find it jarring if someone sent me an email flooded with joyful positive things during chemo. You may think I'm exaggerating here when I say that I was really positive during chemo, and so if you do, I give to you the "Top Ten Great Things About Week 2 of Chemo." That email was written without sarcasm as well as without the aid of any type of medicinal herbs...
3. I had (and still have) the best friends and family. This is not a new realization, but something worth pointing out.

Still to come in future posts...

• My hair fell out. Past the awfulness of the day it happened, there are a lot of funny stories here.
• Celebrating my birthday with chemo. There's a good story here about Chris' venture into the hospital.
• My "Must-Haves" for chemo days (kind of like Oprah's Favorite Things...)

...and with that, I think it's time for me to take a break from writing tonight and nurse my bruises from my lovely fall post-shower. I may need to get a LifeAlert necklace...

♥a

Letter to 19-year-old me

Dear Alex,

Well, today's going to be a fun day. First off, I fully support your decision to take extra time on your hair this morning--it is vital that the doctor know just how important your hair is to you. You also are rocking your outfit today. Victoria's Secret Pink sweatpants and a blue ribbon tied in your hair=no one would ever know you had surgery a couple weeks ago.

In retrospect, I can assure you that the little fight you will have with Dad has nothing to do with how long it took you to get ready this morning. Though you have no clue what an oncologist is, trust me, Dad does, and he might be a little worried about his daughter and how quickly her doctor recommended she go meet with this oncologist. Right now though, the only connection you've made is that if chemotherapy might be involved here, chemo=no hair, and so it's very important that the doctor see just how pretty your hair is.

Fair warning, today's going to be a crazy one, and yes, you're going to get your blood drawn so just accept that. Now, when you arrive at the hospital, you're going to be handed a stack of papers to fill out before you head up to the doctor's office. I don't know about you, but if I were reading them, I'd find your jokes funny, so I say continue with them. Nothing says, "I'm 19 but clearly have the sense of humor of a 12-year old," like responding to the question, "Do you cook your own meals?" with "I try not to ever since I set rice-a-roni on fire." As you sit and answer all these questions, ignore the fact that most people will probably think you are there supporting your dad and that you are the youngest patient by probably 15-20 years.

Now, here's where things get fun, Alex. The doctor will see you now. You can go on up to the oncologist's office and bear with the fun that comes with every visit when you are dealing with a gynecological oncologist. Let's just say, you'll learn not to be shy very quickly with doctors.

Though this is only one of the first times you will recall this story, be prepared to share it now and take note of the pieces that all feel essential to include:

• I kept getting the "stomach flu" often, and I had these recurring fevers. (Be sure to use air quotes.)
• I tend to think I'm a hypochondriac so I was convinced I would go to the doctor, and he would tell me I was making it up.
• Finally, one day I realized I couldn't suck my stomach in...and I was nervous if I got on the metro someone would give up his seat for me and my baby, so I figured it was time to go to the ER.
• I ate a cheeseburger and chocolate ice cream the day after surgery, and it wasn't until after surgery that I realized just how awful I'd been feeling the past couple months.

One part you include that you will learn not to mention in the future: "It's so nice to know what it feels like to be healthy."

The oncologist will listen to your story, and he will explain how he reviewed your surgery report and feels it is somewhat incomplete which is why your doctor sent you to him. He will proceed to show both you and your dad a diagram of the female reproductive system (oh yes, he's going to do this with you and your DAD) and point out the ovaries. Don't forget, you only have one now so basically you should feel lopsided...just kidding.

Then, the doctor will begin to explain that he recommends a 9-week course of BEP chemo. He will write it down on a notepad, and he will show you how the cycle works. Bleomycin, Etoposide, cisPlatin. (The p is actually really because cisplatin has platinum.) You will have one shitty crazy week (he will not phrase it this way for you, but hey, I'd like to give you realistic expectations about this week) where you go to the hospital for roughly 5 hours a day to get pumped full of drugs; then you'll have two "off" weeks where you only go to the hospital on Mondays (you may think that on these Mondays the other meds will have worn off, but no, these weeks will also be pretty exhausting). Lather, rinse, repeat 3x, and your chemo treatment will be done. Sounds pretty easy and straightforward, hey?

When the BEP explanation ends, the doctor will look at you and ask, "Do you have any questions?"

...and you will ask the only question you can think of: "Yes, do I have cancer?"

At this, your doctor will pause, and say, "No one told you? Yes, yes you do." (This may make you regret saying, "I'm thankful I don't have cancer" at Thanksgiving. Don't worry, you'll laugh about this in the future.)

You, Dad, and the doctor will continue to talk a little as the doctor explains more details about the upcoming nine weeks. He'll share statistics that make it seem like a no-brainer for why you will definitely do chemo. Something along the lines of without chemo, the odds of the cancer coming back is 85%. That doesn't sound very good. He'll recommend you begin chemo in just over a week, and that time is of importance, so as much as a trip back to DC sounds great, you should put that on hold for now.

All of this sounds fine. 9 weeks. I can travel afterwards, and what was I going to do in cold Chicago for the next 9 weeks anyway?

Then, your dad will pause and tell the doctor: "She wants to know if her hair will fall out."

Get ready, despite the fact that you've read that some people don't lose all their hair during chemo, you're about to lose composure. Chemo? Sure. Hair loss? Nope. Not happening.

Doctor: "Yes. All of it."

...and the tears begin to fall. To be more specific, you will not just cry a little; this will be the kickstart of floods of tears. You should not have put mascara on today. Between this and the phone calls you will make later today, be glad you have no reason to see anyone today.

When Dad asks the doctor what he would do, if there are other treatment options, he will give you the answer you need not only to agree to chemo but to trust this doctor 100%: "I have a daughter, and if she were in the same position, she'd be starting chemo ASAP."

...and now the nurse will come in and give you all kinds of information about chemo, prepping for it, the appointments they'll be scheduling for you, and more. You will learn about the side effects of chemo (there are a LOT, and the fun ones include a higher risk for other types of cancer...). Remember to mention your extreme fear of needles--this will allow you to opt for a PICC line instead of a port which means you won't be dealing with needles every time you go into the hospital. As the nurse talks, you can begin mentally drafting your to-do list; that's totally normal.

Alright, so the doctor's appointment is over. Now, here's where I have to be honest, 19-year-old me, this is where things get fuzzy. I don't remember what happened in what order. As you're in the car, you will begin making phone calls. I'm not even sure who you called first. Was it Chris? That seems to be logical, but I don't remember how you told him. At some point in the next few hours (or maybe the next few days? I really have no concept of time here) the following things will happen:

• You'll go to Megan's house. She will immediately offer to shave her head with you.
• You'll make a to-do list with the items labeled "A" for Alex and "D" for Dad.
• Note: I'm still not sure this is a normal response to a cancer diagnosis, but hey, who am I to judge?
• Dad will be 100% convinced you're crazy when you explain to him that all of these things need to get done so you can be ready for chemo.
• You'll text your friends and family to ask them to call you when they are free. The first several times you say, "I have cancer," you'll cry. A lot. You may even pass the phone to Dad since you can't get the words out, but that's okay.
• Some friends will be very busy and ask that you explain what's going on via text. Despite your better judgment you will text the words, "I have cancer," once you've exhausted your attempts to get them in person on the phone.
• You will email your friends overseas and wake up in the middle of the night to talk to them. ...or maybe it's the middle of the night for them. Talking to Bobbie, Liz, and Becca will be slightly heart-breaking, but you'll also be so very grateful for them.
• You will try to go shopping at Nordstrom. Retail therapy. 
• New UGGs and Juicy sweatsuits=perfect options for the hospital. Your venture into the hat section? Too soon. 
• Dad's willingness to throw down his Nordstrom card without hesitation will tell you two things: 1. You have a wonderful father, and 2. This may be retail therapy for him, too.
• The phone will ring. ...and ring. ...and ring. Calls from the pharmacy (clearly noted on the to do list and labeled with a d? Go pick up Alex's 1400 new prescriptions), calls from family and friends, calls from nurses, and more calls from the pharmacy and doctor's office. Each time the caller ID says, "Evanston NW Hospital," you dread picking up. Eventually, you begin passing the phone to Dad.

...and that's where I'll stop today.

♥a

Being 26: "Well, you look super young." "I *am* super young! I'm not old yet!"

This past week, my cousin turned 16. This proves to be a problem as I am ten years older than her, yet I'm convinced I'm only 20...maybe 22, because I can drink alcohol legally.

I really wish I could put a table into my blog--a tree map might work well too. I'd label it: "Being 26" and one side of the tree map would be "Signs I actually am 26", the other: "Signs I may be another age."

Moving to Chicago, I think I've taken some strides to become more "26." Yes, in many ways, I may be a bit more grown-up. However, after a dinner of goldfish and diet coke tonight, I couldn't help but wonder: How old am I?

So, in non-tree map form, I give to you (you=I think I have some friends and family who pity-read this...) some insight into Alex as a 26-year old:

5. Food

• Sign I'm actually 26: I've started cooking. I use that word loosely--I sometimes just put a bunch of things together to ensure I have something to eat (in general, guacamole mixed with anything=a win), but I've made some "fancy" dishes. Asparagus risotto? Lentil salad? Homemade vegetable soup? Who am I (and thank goodness for Pinterest!)?
• Sign I may be another age: Goldfish+diet coke=dinner. I also really enjoy fruit snacks and consider them a reliable and tasty source of Vitamin C.
• Average age? 26 +10 (well, not all 10-year olds are allowed to drink soda, but I feel the fruit snacks bring me down to 10)/2=18

4. Clothing

• Sign I'm actually 26: I wear dresses to work. I actually have work clothing that I don't wear on the weekends, and most of my clothing needs to be hung up.
• Sign I may be another age: I'm on the hunt for a dinosaur sweatshirt and a penguin sweater; I already own an owl hat. I know--I'm too cool for school.
• Average age? 26+8/2=17

3. Personal Care (I bet you're wondering what this actually means...well, I didn't know what this fell under so personal care it is)

• Sign I'm actually 26: I sometimes get my nails done (when I don't bite them), I regularly get haircuts, and I pay for these things myself. I also own a Sonicare toothbrush and a Clarisonic Plus.
• Sign I may be another age: I've slept on our couch several nights this week--there's no one to force me to go to bed like when I was little, and thus all those awesome things go to waste, because I don't actually wash my face/brush my teeth/etc. unless I feel so inclined when I wake up at 4 a.m. I also own a penguin humidifier.
• Average age? Not sure how to calculate this one. I'll call this 20.

Photo source

2. Drinks

• Sign I'm actually 26: I drink green tea or mint tea on a regular basis; they make me happy, and I also instantly feel healthier drinking them (yes, it's a complete placebo effect, but hey, if I want to believe it, gosh darn it, I will). When I go out, I like to get drinks with faces like my cool drink from the tiki bar.
• Sign I may be another age: I still think milk and water taste gross. Nothing tastes better than a fountain diet coke; I had one for dessert the other night.
• Average age? 26+10/2=16

Always true

1. Reading

• Sign I'm actually 26: I don't read textbooks or have assigned books to read--and I read for fun. I also read the news. I've discovered there's a whole lot I don't know, and I figure I might as well start reading every day to learn just a little bit more.
• Sign I may be another age: The Hunger Games. Divergent. Anything by Mo Willems.
• Average age? 26+9 (I'm averaging The Hunger Games with Mo Willems)/2=14.5

Dream home?

And now a sign that I am NOT 16 but actually am 26, it's 11:30 p.m., and I'm tired. I want to write more, but really, I just want to go to sleep.

So off to bed I go. To my grown-up bed. With an owl pillow. Scary thought? I turn 27 in less than 2 months...

♥a

I could have retired, I ate soap, and other stories from Chicago...

I'm comfortably sprawled out on my couch at my place in Lincoln Park, and I'm listening to wonderful music.
I live in a beautiful city, and I'm surrounded by friends and family.
Dare I say it? I'm blissfully happy.

To be honest, I don't know how I'd define happiness vs. blissful happiness, but I like the way "blissfully happy" reads. Odds are, on most days, I feel happy. I have no reason not to be happy--but this move, starting a new job in a "new" city brought a whole new level of happiness.

...and I think that's all I'm going to write tonight. I'm blissfully happy. Short, sweet, and to the point.

Stories to come in the future, I promise.

♥a

P.S. I really did accidentally eat soap today.
P.P.S. I also am convinced if I never bought anything from iTunes I could have retired by now.

To Chicago I go...

I fell asleep. In a bar.

Yup, old age has hit when I fall asleep in bars (and when I don't think through my eating habits and just let myself drink on a practically empty stomach...). Last night I was lucky enough to have drinks with some friends to celebrate moving! In just two days I head to Chicago. It still hasn't fully sunk in that I am moving, moving far far away from my home the past 8 years.

8 years ago, I remember packing up 3 suitcases for Pepperdine. The night before I packed my 45 polos into my suitcases, my cousins, who at the time were 7 and 5 I believe, played a game called, "Who can count Alex's shoes the fastest?" They ran along the line of shoes I was packing (a mere 15 at the time) and tried to "outcount" each other. As I packed up 2 boxes and a suitcase of shoes, I realized, some things never change. I still own far too many pairs.

When I arrived at Pepperdine, it was the first time I'd ever been there. I never visited, just applied and accepted, because really, can you fake photos of the ocean? Pepperdine didn't scream "college" to me with its lack of gothic architecture, but Pepperdine was by far the best choice I could have made.
One of my first nights at Pepp, I remember playing beach volleyball on campus, and then heading to the beach in my friend's convertible later that night. Pepperdine wins.

I also learned a lot of things at Pepperdine. From basic things to life lessons...
-->Lesson #1 of college: How to make my bed
My roommate from freshman year still tells me she remembers walking in to see my in a bright pink polo as my brother explained, "So you put the fitted sheet on your bed first..."
-->Lesson #8 of college: Not everyone wears their pajamas to class
Enter Alex. I wore sweats and a tie-dye shirt to my first college class. Pepperdine is not your typical college, and everyone else looked really cute and trendy at 8 am. Lesson learned.
-->Lesson #23 of college: Walk everywhere
At Pepperdine, walking up and down the hills=the best workout ever. This also made for an exhausting run up the hills and the stairs when I overslept for my Spanish final.
-->Lesson #35 of college: Life is tough. Suck it up.
Okay, so I've known this to be true for a while, but things happened in college to reinforce this message.
-->Lesson #39 of college: DC is an amazing city. 
No details needed.

-->Lesson #41 of college: A lot can happen on a Pepperdine cruise.
Hiking waterfalls, dancing, swollen ankles, singing "Sweet Caroline,"continuing to dance with a tennis-ball-sized ankle.

-->Lesson #47 of college: When asked how much pain you are in, always say 10.
I said my pain was a 3, and I hung out in an ER waiting room for over an hour and also then in an actual patient room for at least 1 more. Once the doctor saw me, she never left me alone. The following scale is completely inaccurate (yet it's what I use):
1-I feel fine!
5-I feel awful, someone has ripped off my arm.
7-I feel terrible, someone has ripped off my other arm.
10-I am limbless. Please help me.
-->Lesson #52 of college: It's not normal to make a to-do list after a cancer diagnosis...
but I'm not normal.
-->Lesson #53 of college: A cheerful heart is good medicine. 
Proverbs 17:22
-->Lesson #54 of college: Losing your hair sucks. That said, make-up will make things a little better.

-->Lesson #58 of college: Should giant fires occur on your college campus, run...
but don't forget your wallet.

-->Lesson #75 of college: I have the best friends and family in the world.
It's unreal how much I love them.

From Malibu, I ventured up to San Jose. Oh teaching. It seems like it's been forever since I began teaching, but really, it's only been 4 years, and it's been a blur. Things have been so busy, and I wish I could post photos of all my students, but I'm not allowed to. So I will just say, teaching has been an ADVENTURE. It has been a challenge, but at the end of the day, my students have made every single day a joyful one for me. I do not even have words to express how much I love each student I have had, and I am so excited for their futures. They are going to change the world. Watch out.

When I chose to move down to LA, I remember thinking: "I know that likely my mom is going to die in the next six months to a year. Where can I be where I will be supported?" Comienza was and is that place. The same day I came down to interview at KCCP (and turned my 1-day trip into a weekend visit), I found out my mom had cancer. Treating the cancer was not worth it for her; she was DNR, and so we would treat the symptoms and pain but not the cancer itself.

I remember another teacher at my school telling me, "Alex, if ever a life needed a pause button, yours does." Things happened quicker than I ever imagined. I remember getting a phone call from my dad on a Friday night letting me know about my mom...or maybe it was a Thursday. I don't remember it all too clearly, but I do remember going and buying a pint of ice cream as I processed the fact that my mom had started refusing liquids.

...and then I remember getting a call early one morning the next week. My dad was calling to tell me my mom had taken her last few breaths on October 3rd, 2011. I somewhat deliriously went into work and taught all day and at some point booked a flight home.

I still remember getting on my flight headed to Florida, and an older man had taken my seat. I showed him my ticket, and said, "I think you're in my seat. My ticket says 25C, what does yours say?"
The man: Oh, I traded with someone else for this seat.
Me: Um, but the person you traded with, it wasn't his seat to trade. It's actually my seat.
The man: Well, I need this aisle seat.
Me: Sir, who did you trade with? Maybe I can talk to him?
The man: Oh I'm not sure, but he was sitting here, so I asked him for his seat, and he said, "Of course!"
Me: Well that was very nice of him, but he gave you my seat. What does your ticket say? Maybe I can just sit in your seat...

...and I did. I sat in his aisle seat after someone else TRADED AWAY my seat.

I spent a week and a half at home. It was so good to be with family, to tell crazy stories about my mom, because she was so amazing.

A lot has happened in the past 8 years.
18: Graduated from high school. Led a summer service trip back to West Virginia. Moved to California. Learned how to make my bed (thanks, Chris). Pepperdine. Sunburn. Sick. Often. That damn "stomach flu."
19: Still sick. Often. Nursing homes. DC. Cruise. Surgery. Fun.
20: Chemo. GREAT news...end of chemo. Health. Saw Matthew Perry in Ralph's. Got a MINI. Never knew how many options and choices there are when buying a car.
21: A pretty tame year. Some Tri Delt drama, but let's be honest, life has been worse (see 20th birthday). Ooh, I also went trapezing. That was fun...and I got a dog.

22: Graduating from college. Learning how to teach kindergarteners. Moving all by myself. Vandalism to my car. Finances.
23: Finished my first year of teaching and my first year of grad school. Harassment. Lead kindergarten teacher-ness. Moved again.

24: Moved to LA. Started a new job. Mom passed away.

25: A relatively tame year as well. Busy-ness but all good things! Began grad school. Again. Chris and B got engaged!

26: My stupid dog who I love immensely got hit by a car. No bueno. As my dad said, "Alex, I feel like this is God's way of reminding you that life is tough. I mean things were going pretty well for you. It was almost a warning." Thanks, Dad.

The best photo of Chloe. Ever. Chloe soup.

...and so on to Chicago I go. It feels like the right time to transition back. Life is as normal as it's ever going to be, and I can't wait to see what the city brings. A lot has changed since I was 18. Hopefully I won't be napping in bars there as well...but hopefully I will find some amazing friends like the ones I have here. I'm going to miss this city, the beach, these people.

Come visit me. Come be my friend in Chicago. Let's go to some Cubs games. Let's take more awkward family photos.

Here. We. Go.

♥a

P.S. There was A in the Bay. Then A in LA. What in Chicago rhymes with A??