Last year, I celebrated New Year's Eve in the fetal position.
I could count pain in milligrams of drug sufficient enough to tranquilize a giant, but not enough to alleviate the pain of sitting upright or putting on pants.
My neighbors helped me safely navigate the 50-ft trek between our houses and strip off the leggings unable to accommodate a distended belly and overwhelmed stumps for legs.
In January I bought oversized clothes and met my at-home nurse who thought my 30-pound tumor lump was a baby.
In February I relived the fetal position on the floor of a Port Authority bathroom stall. My best friend came, found me an ambulance, and stayed with me while the morphine dripped over my first encounter with a lymphoma-related bowel obstruction.
In March I did extensive research on the topics of:
"what foods will make me vomit,"
"how to eat: sort of,"
"why won't you stay down, you are liquid, what"
and finally,
"chemo and the case of the tummy tumors: I would laugh but I'm so hungry"
In April I had my first (+ hopefully last) experience with the NG tube, TPN, and "abdominal cut-and-paste." However, I did get to share my hospital bed and apple juice with my best friends and some service puppies.
The morning after I got out of the hospital, I took myself to my first appointment for BMS-936558, now Nivolumab.
In May, newly treated, I went back to Philly as a skeleton in a wig and relearned how to eat.
In June I began the process of reorienting myself as a semi-independent person who eats and walks and talks and commutes every morning.
In July I was living.
In August I was living.
In September I was living.
In October, still living, I had a lung biopsy that resulted in a pause of treatment. Somehow, hearing the drug worked so well it caused inflammation made it OK.
In November, living, I started a big kid job that involves Nerf gun fights and field trips to Medieval Times.
In December I'm alive, well, sunkissed from a trip away from home not involving an IV, blood test, or inpatient stay.
What a year.
