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Nesting

I could say I always knew I didn’t want kids, but that’s not true. In fact, it wasn’t until my late twenties that it occurred to me that I might not go down the traditional “get married, have kids” route. I like kids (exhibits A & B: my adorable nephew and cousins). I love being an aunt. I think having kids can be an incredible experience. It’s just one that I’ve decided not to pursue. Like skydiving.

Which makes the last week even weirder for me. I’ve given up drinking, because I feel like my body should be ready to process all the stuff we’re about to throw at it. (I went out on the highest of high notes, though: a Humulus Nimbus Super Pale Ale from Seventh Son.) I had to give up playing indoor soccer (or trying, at least) because I had a port put in on Friday and over-30 beer league soccer definitely qualifies as a contact sport.

And, I swear to you: I’m nesting.

I remember when a friend’s wife was pregnant and even with multiple vacuums and dustings, they just could not get the nursery clean enough. That is how I feel. I lint-brushed the inside of my jewelry box. Hand to God.

The difference, of course, is that I’m getting ready for chemo, or “The Lumpy Offensive.” We start Tuesday with eight weeks of every-other-week treatment. This week was all about getting ready. I went to “chemo class”, the most terrifying freshman orientation of all time. Bring a notebook; we’re going to talk about vein toxicity.

In anticipation of losing my hair, I started looking up head scarf styles and bought some earrings and makeup that might go well with the Ms. Clean look. I argued with my friends about blonde wigs and thought frequently about Pretty Woman (“Do you think this makes me look like Carol Channing?”)

I had an echo cardiogram, a bone scan, a full body CT scan, another biopsy (they are still trying to determine my her2 status) and finally, they put in a port. This is basically my easy access panel – it’s a button the size of a nickel with a small reservoir on top and a little hose that connects to one of my arteries. It sits just under my skin near my clavicle and will allow for them to deliver the chemo drugs more easily and also do blood draws, etc. It’s the broadband connection to my circulatory system.

I’m still recovering from the placement, which feels like constantly wearing a seat belt that’s too tight. My spouse bruised his rib at soccer on Friday night (see? A contact sport). We spent most of yesterday trying not to make each other laugh. Neither of us can really move that well or breathe or lift anything, yet I’m still concerned because our medicine cabinet is just not organized right at all.

Its been so busy that some of the good news I received this week got swept up in all the appointments and hospital armbands. The scans all came back good, which means they’re not seeing any additional concerning areas. The biopsy was needed because my lymph nodes are not suspicious enough to get a sample (meaning: they are still small and squishy – that’s a medical term). So it appears that Lumpy is contained for the moment.

The chemo class was actually incredibly helpful, especially the information about the anti-nausea cocktail and how to treat side effects. And we continue to meet caring, smart individuals who work at The James.

We also continue to get great advice from survivors and families of survivors. There are not words to express how grateful I am to my family, my friends old and new, my mom’s friends and coworkers, my former coworkers and all the others who have reached out with helpful advice. I’m already using some of it (every feeling you have is valid; try to walk every day if you can) but I’m saving the conversation offers until I get further into treatment.

A friend shared a Viktor Frankl quote this week on Facebook that struck a chord with me: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

I’m trying to stay as positive as possible about the effects of chemo. I don’t want to Eeyore myself into a worse experience. I know a positive attitude is not everything – see Stuart Scott; see my cousins’ cousin who passed last week – but it is such a powerful weapon in the fight.

As is, apparently, a 3 year supply of Brita filters, a new filing system and an organized bathroom. There is a silver lining: while at the end of my nesting I have a fight to win, at least I don’t have to decide what to tell my kid about Santa Claus. #tovictory

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