Nuthin'

I realize there has been a dearth of updates lately, mainly it's because I've been feeling pretty good lately and haven't felt much like dwelling on the mundane details of the whole cancer thing. Also Jenny's been sick so we've been focusing on her health issues for a change, which has been refreshing.

Chemo round two comes this Monday, after which I'll have several days of lying around feeling like hell, and hopefully a bit more prolific. There are also several pictures I intend to share shortly, including my personal photo diary from my trip to the fertility clinic (a.k.a. the Spank Bank), so don't give up on Timphoma just yet.

Charlie sent me this, by the way, I was one of the lucky 7,000 to receive the errant emails mentioned in the story. Charlie thinks I should sue.

Ow

Today I seemed to have picked up some kind of virus, which is doing very little except giving me a splitting headache. Dr. G (my oncologist) says it's no big deal, I've had two blood tests in two days, both of which revealed I have 'perfect' blood (the Doc's words), so I should just take it easy and wait for it to go away. In the meantime I've taken four tylenol and two codeine, which did exactly nothing. I'm switching to Advil.

Dr. G pointed out the hilarious irony that while we can treat, and probably cure, lymphoma, we can do nothing to cure the pesky virus that is trying to split my skull in half.

Still, it's nice to know I have perfect blood to go along with my marathon-runner's heart. Before I got cancer I had no idea I was so healthy.

Drugs Part II

As I said, treatment consists of a handful of cancer drugs, and a larger handful of drugs to counter the cancer drugs. At the outset they give you a long and alarming shpiel about the litany of side effects you can expect with chemo and a list of stuff to keep on hand to keep yourself functioning. Some aren't all that exciting, but here's the rundown:

1. Allopurinol -- this was the first drug I started taking, basically it keeps the kidneys chugging along. Cancer cells release uric acid as they die, Allopurinol prevents the acid from causing gout. I don't really know what gout is, except I don't think many 20-somethings get it. I think I read Benjamin Franklin might have had it.

2. Prilosec -- pretty basic, chemo kills good protective cells in the digestive tracts, this stuff keeps stomach acid from burning a hole in my tummy.

3. Neulasta -- definitely one of my favorites. I'm going to kill damn near every one of my white blood cells during this ordeal, and Neulasta is a tiny (4cc) shot I take 24 hours after a chemo treatment which, as I understand it, makes my white blood cell production go into overdrive. Two things I especially like about this drug: one, I get to inject it myself, and that just sounds fun. I plan to do stirring recreations of great self-injection moments from the silver screen (The Rock and Trainspotting spring to mind). Second, each shot costs something like $3,200.00, and I just like the idea of spending that much on myself.

Oh -- and Neulasta is made by a great company with very generous employees. I like to think I'm giving back.

4. Tylenol, with and without Codeine -- I get both kinds, just in case. One of the drawbacks of the Neulasta is that it makes your bone marrow expand as it works overtime to create white blood cells, and that pretty much feels like your bone marrow is expanding. I especially feel it in my spine. This is where codeine comes in handy.

5. Biotene -- this stuff is awful. It's a special mouthwash to keep things healthy and clean once the good cells on the inside of my mouth get wiped out, and I guess it works, but it tastes and feels exactly like saccharin flavored saliva.

I'm told I should expect to get mouth ulcers, which sound super. At that point I'll get a prescription for another special mouthwash that has lidocaine in it, which should numb things enough so I can gum my foods in peace. If that stuff tastes worse than the Biotene I may give up and start rinsing with black tar heroin.

6. Benadryl -- I don't really get this one. It's not for allergies (they take care of that with the full liter you give on chemo day), instead it's recommended as a sleep aid, because us cancer patients need our rest. Can't really argue with that, I sleep like a baby on Benadryl. It's not like I have the sauce anymore. Thanks again Pfizer!

7. Immodium -- chemo screws with your digestive system. Let's leave it at that.

8. Metamucil -- then again, sometimes it just shuts it down.

9. Desenex and Gold Bond -- when you have no white blood cells, infections can be a bitch. These help ward off jungle rot, and sprinkling Gold Bond around gives a fun tingly feeling.

10. Eucerin -- skin cells divide quickly, and as such they get walloped in this process too.

11. Tucks Medicated Pads -- too offensive to link to. You know what they do. Just think for a moment how awful an infection in that area would be.

I may have forgotten some, but those are the basic contents of my personalized chemo kit. I also got an expensive electric razor, since I guess I'm less likely to cut myself with it. Not sure that one was worth it or not.

Drugs Part I

Here's where I'm going to go over my therapy and try to broadly explain what's going to happen. As all of you ought to know, I am no Doctor, and I don't understand much about the medical aspects of what's happening to me. I know a lot of people would probably want to become amateur oncologists after getting their diagnosis, but in my case, I'm just not that interested in every last detail. I trust my Doctors, the broad information I've found has assured me my prognosis is great, and reading more into the what-if scenarios and percentages would probably just drive me nuts.

So, as you're reading this, just bear in mind I'm a complete amateur. I guarantee I will make lots of mistakes and screw up several details.

What I've come to vaguely understand is that having cancer means my own body, or stupid parts of it, are trying to kill me. To put an end to that, I'm undergoing chemotherapy, or, injesting gallons of cutting-edge biochemicals that are going to (hopefully) seek out and kill the stupid cancer cells. In doing so, they are going to kill a sh*tload of cells I'm actually quite fond of, like those responsible for my hair, digestion, immunity and fertility, to name a few. To deal with that, I am going to take dozens of additional drugs to counter the drugs trying to kill the cells trying to kill me. I think it breaks down to something like 5 actual cancer drugs and 25 drugs to combat the cancer drugs. Hooray for 21st Century medicine.

Anyway, here's how I'm going to get better:

Several people (myself included, at first) figured my tumors would be removed surgically, with some followup chemo or radiation therapy to kill the leftover cells. That's not happening in my case, as far as I know because chemo is nowadays just that kickass at killing lymphoma on its own. I think in some extreme cases (like if the tumor was choking off my windpipe) surgery might be called for, but mine isn't that dire.

So, chemo it is, and in my case, I'm undergoing CHOP-R chemotherapy, which I'm told is pretty much the standard treatment for non-Hodgkins lymphoma these days. I have no idea where they came up with the name "CHOP-R", I figured it was an acronym, but "CHOP-R" doesn't really correspond to the drugs I'm taking. Weird.

It works like this: every three weeks I go to the cancer center, plop myself down in a barcalounger, have an IV started and spend 8-9 hours sucking fluids out of various IV bags, which a nurse changes now and then as they run dry. The first dose is a bag (a full half-liter, I think) of Benadryl, which feels exactly like main-lining a half a liter of Benadryl. This is to counteract any possible allergic reactions to the cancer drugs, specifically the mice protein they use to make the drugs. I guess if I had a mouse allergy it could be problematic.

Yes, the whole mouse protein thing is unsettling, another reason why I don't read too much into this stuff.

So, after taking enough Benadryl to lull me into a comfortable coma, they begin the heavy stuff, the actual CHOP-R drugs, which are: Rituxan, Cyclophosphamide, Adriamycin and Vincristine. In between all those I have a few rounds of saline to flush everything though, and after I take Predisone (steroids) for five days.

I couldn't tell you what exactly each of these do, but the links I've included probably do. All I was told is that they each target and kill cancer cells in different stages of production. Rituxan is the new one, and by all accounts the wonderdrug that has revolutionized lymphoma treatment (thanks Genentech!). Also, Adriamycin is red, and it turns your pee red. I found that hilarious. And Prednisone I thought would give me all kinds of sweet roid rage, but mainly I was just tired.

Next I'll get into the drugs that counter the chemo drugs --

Mike Cracks Me Up

This was one of the first messages of support (?) I got, from Mike. Mike decided to share some words of inspiration from a Martin Short film:

I suppose you could say that everyone has an El Guapo. For some, shyness may be an El Guapo. For others, lack of education may be an El Guapo. But for us, El Guapo is a large ugly tumor who wants to kill us! We won't let him.

Hopefully at least some of you get the reference. I feel better already.

MUGA Fucka

As you might imagine, the last few weeks have brought a steady barrage of tests to determine the size and scope of my illness. Here's a rundown of the tests I've had, in order:

1. MRI. Not bad at all, you lay in a plastic tube and listen to the radio, if you can hear it over the pounding din of the machine, which sounds like really bad house music. I fell right asleep. The MRI gave us our first image of Terri (the tumor), which looked like a warped golfball.

2. Fine Needle Aspiration (FNA) with biopsy. This sucked. It involved checking into the hospital (technically it's outpatient surgery, although the actual procedure only takes about 20 minutes), taking a complete history, hearing my options about living wills and do-not-resuscitate procedures (seriously) and putting on a ridiculous hospital gown, complete with booties and a "PROPERTY OF SIBLEY HOSPITAL" stencil. Then I get carted off to the cat-scan room, where my neck was injected with an anesthesia that I swear to God felt like gasoline mixed with lemon juice under my skin. THEN the fun begins with a needle being injected into the largest of my lumps, wiggled around a minute while making some really objectionable noises (imagine a meat thermometer in a piece of gristle), taped in place and left there for 5-10 minutes while the cat scan takes a bunch of pictures to make sure it's in the right place. After all that, the Dr. pushes a button and extracts a tiny bit of tissue through the needle to be biopsied. They make you lie around for an hour or so to make sure nothing goes terribly wrong (the lump they injected was basically underneath my carotid artery, so I guess bleeding profusely was a legitimate concern. I was mainly bored.) Ultimately the FNA confirmed my diagnosis, so the next tests were to prepare me for treatment and determine how far the disease has spread.

3. Which brings us to the MUGA, or "Multigated acquisition scan." This was maybe the most aggravating part of the whole experience, and the inspiration for this posting's title. The MUGA is fairly non-invasive, it's just a heart scan to confirm your heart is strong enough to undergo treatment, and give the Dr's a baseline to determine if there's any damage following chemo. By all indications this one should have been cake, but in my case, I had a guy who I can only assume was the night janitor performing the procedure. Christopher was present for this one and was emailing Jenny with an excellent blow-by-blow, which I'm copying below:

2:26

So I'm sitting here watching this procedure... Thought I'd keep a running commentary going.

Tim has his blackberry on but he doesn't feel like writing at the moment on account of the catheter sticking out of his arm.

The technician who just "stuck him" bore a striking resemblance in appearance and behavior to the lawyer character on Scrubs -- which didn't exactly inspire confidence in his medical abilities. Neither did the fact that the first words out of his mouth were "I hope I'll only have to stick you once, but sometimes, you know, I miss."

Turns out he didn't miss the vein on the first try, but did manage to wiggle the needle around enough to cause tim some serious discomfort. Really, it looked like the guy was trying to scrape the cholesterol off the inside to tims vein using the needle -- he was jerking it around wildly. All the while tim’s eyes bulged in his sockets.

Then there was an issue of choking off the catheter after he had drawn some blood. He injected some saline to clean the tube, but before he was able to clamp it off, Tim's blood went shooting up the catheter. The tech says "uh-oh" in an odd deadpan as he runs out of the room for more saline.

Needless to say, Jennifer, you would have really enjoyed this.

At the moment tim's blood is being blended with some toxic waste so that in a few minutes it can be injected back into his system and photographed with a Geiger counter. It may sound like the back-story of a Marvel Comic series, but no, it's actually just a MUGA exam.

I'll send an update after the next stage.


2:45

Our favorite lab tech is still at it. Removing the catheter he somehow managed to cause more pain than when he put it in. Tim is cracking up the whole time he's pulling it out, just because it's so absurdly painful.

But because tim is laughing it takes about twice as long to get it out. Part of the problem is that the lab tech thinks that Tim's laughing at some colored gauze that he's about to apply. This causes the tech to stop halfway through the removal to demonstrate the stretchiness and adhesiveness of the gauze, meanwhile still hanging onto the end of the catheter while he's gesturing.

Finally, we're ready for the scan. Presumably this part will go smoother. doesn’t look promising.


3:05

Tim is strapped onto a gurney with some EKG leads sticking out of him like he’s in the matrix. And a giant Geiger counter is mounted to the left side of his body, poised to photograph the radiologic waste coursing through his heart. However, something’s not working. the machine can’t synch up with his heart beat. Another lab tech enters to see if she can help.

Through all this the EKG shows his heart rate steady at 59 BPM.

3:13

The two techs can’t seem to get a clean reading on the MUGA, mostly it seems, because they can’t get it to match up with tim’s heartbeat. Tim at this point begins to panic. He askes (casually at first, but it is getting more direct and insistent) “is there something wrong with my heart?”

No direct answer to this question. Tech number 2 says something about a possibility of it being an arrhythmia, but clearly has no evidence to support this possibility. Behind her, and out of Tim’s view, I can clearly see tech 1 struggling with a frozen computer.

However the EKG monitor, which only I can see, is registering Tim’s concern. Heart Rate:75 BPM.


3:25

They find an EKG technician to look at the placement of the leads. She feels tim up in a way that makes me feel jealous, and then decides that techs 1 and 2 have no clue what they’re talking about. She finds that Tim’s heart rate is regular (around 80 BPM when she had her hands on him), and that it must have been a computer problem that was reading irregular heart beats. This should come as no surprise, as Tech 1 is still slamming the mouse around in about the same way he placed the catheter in tim’s arm.

3:45

Tim is now on another machine. Accepting the obvious, the techs concede the fact that the first machine just isn’t working right. The new one seems much better.

The first two readings are clear and Tim’s free to go.

Before releasing us, the Technician tells tim that he has the pulse of a world class athlete, specifically Bjorn Borg. Well not exactly it turns out -- Bjorn’s pulse was more like 40 BPM.

but needless to say, Tim’s pulse did kick ass and wear headbands in the 70s. So they had that much in common.

That's pretty much how it went down. I would only say, in my defense, that I have been diagnosed with CANCER in the last couple weeks, leading me to believe that some horrible heart defect was not outside the realm of possibility. Obviously I should have realized I was in the hands of complete idiots, but what can I say, I've been a bit punchy the last couple days.

Oh, and the pain caused by the removal of the catheter was in large part due to the 40 pieces of tape the guy put on it to hold it in place while he twisted it back and forth in an effort to hit EVERY last nerve in my arm. He decided to pull the tape off one hair at a time. I don't know why that made me laugh so hard.

The EKG lab tech was cute. Calmed me right down.

4. PET C/T. This was the last of the barrage, the one which tells us how far the malignant cells have spread. Lymphoma is a systemic disease; it stands to reason if you have a lump in one lymph node, you'll have it in others. To find out they pump you with radiation and see what glows under a cat scan. It's fairly interesting actually, you fast for 8 hours or so, during which time your tumor(s) become starved for sugar, so they mix up a sugar solution and pump something radioactive in it, and then inject it into a vein. The fun part is watching them inject it. Since it's radioactive the syringe is incased in a massive lead canister. It looks quite dramatic. Then, you're left to lie on a barcalounger in a dark room in a general state of sensory deprivation. The trick here is to keep your brain from getting too excited, lest it steal too much of the radioactive sugar goop. I thought soothing thoughts.

After 45 minutes of lying in the dark you're taken to the cat scan machine, for 45 minutes of shooshing back and forth through the plastic tube, lying very still. Not too bad. Very dull. The end brings a little excitement, they inject you with some stuff to get a "contrast" image, which they warn you, feels a bit warm once it starts flowing. And how. It feels like hot tea is being poured directly in your veins. Not painful, but weird. And -- they specifically warn you that when it hits your, er, bathing suit area, it feels remarkably like you've just completely soiled yourself. And believe me, it does. They tell you this so that you expect it, and don't actually begin to soil yourself when the feeling starts. Again, not unpleasant, kinda strange.

The good news is that all these tests showed that, except for a little cancer, I'm pretty healthy overall. Like Chris wrote, I have the heart of a marathon runner, which as you all know, is ridiculous. And, the PET/CT revealed that my lymphoma is confined to the lumps in my neck, nothing else anywhere whatsoever, which is great news. Based on that, my Dr. feels my cancer is a Stage 2, on the universal cancer scale of 1 (not bad) to 5 (bad). He even said some Drs. might consider it a 1-E. I don't know what that means.

Next up: Drugs.

Opinion #1

I warned you, here is one of the several radical views I'm known to spout off from time to time: the President doesn't think I need to be cured.

Well, not me personally (I think), but myself and millions of fellow sufferers. How do I know this? Because he wants to cut funding for the National Cancer Institute by $40 million, or, to put it in technical terms, about 8 seconds in Iraq.

Now now, I know HE doesn't want to do this, policy is all about good stewardship of American tax dollars, and we certainly don't want to be wasteful or irresponsible, and if those high rollers at the NCI are using $100 bills to light their bunsen burners, then to hell with their funding. We're at war, we're facing the highest deficit ever, spending cuts are inevitable.

But, in fact, that's all crap. The everyday advancements made by NCI are astounding -- these geniuses are literally on their way to CURING CANCER. And not just for me, I have pathetic cancer, my cancer will be no problem in 6 months. But, children with leukemia? Mothers with breast cancer? Gone.

Of course, at that point we'll face another catastrophe figuring out how to pay for all these people, but in the meantime, we are saying we should make less progress curing cancer, less progress on international HIV/AIDS, heart disease, premature birth, etc. because taxes are (were?) too high.

Awesome, I love that attitude. But then again I have a tumor in my head.

Cancer hopes it doesn't get this woman

There are literally hundreds of people keeping me alive (which is nice), and I'm certain I won't name them all, but everyone adores Jenny, so here she is. Jenny is my special lady, and suddenly my live-in nurse, a role she is, by all indications, loving. All of the sudden I am medically required to listen to her when she orders me to generally stop behaving like an ass. Giving up my ability to be an idiot is something I'm not used to, but Jenny seems pretty comfortable with it. If the cutting-edge biotechnology I'm consuming liters of doesn't kill the cancer, I'm confident Jenny will with pure sass.

I can't remember if we had the diagnosis yet or not when we took this picture, but you can kinda see my lovely lumpiness in it. How adorable.

[Update: Jenny has since pointed out that the date of 1/21/06 printed on the photo should give a clear indication that this was taken exactly 10 days before my diagnosis. Thankyou very much Ms. Smartypants.]

Jenny has been keeping most of our friends and family updated with her epic emails, which are highly informative and excellently written, so I'm going to copy two of them here. They cover most our bases.

Here's the first, which she sent to friends and family on my birthday:

Dear Friends and Family-

First off, thank you all so much for your thoughts and prayers and well-wishes. You have no idea how much your support means to Tim (and me). I apologize in advance for the mass email, but we we wanted to get information to each of you quickly, and this seemed the best way.

We just got back from Tim's first Oncologist appointment, and it went very well. Tim has been diagnosed with "diffuse large cell lymphoma," a very common and treatable/curable type of lymphoma, and is believed to be a Stage 2. The doctor believes the cancer is localized to the lymph glands in the neck, but because lymphoma by definition is a systemic disease, they need to run some additional tests be be sure it hasn't spread. Tim will have the same treatment (chemotherapy) regardless of staging-- although if it's found to be a Stage 3 or 4, his treatment will occur more frequently and continue over a longer period of time, but consist of the same drugs. At this point, we expect him to start his treatments within 7-10 days, and the whole process should take about 3-5 months. He's almost definitely going to lose his hair, so he's happy to shave anyone's head who wants to do so in a sign of solidarity. (Hat shopping, anyone?) He likes and trusts his doctors so far, which is a great thing. We had a lot of questions, and the doctor took the time to answer each one, so we feel he's in very good hands. Tim is extremely positive after meeting with the doctor, and is looking forward to getting treatment and being healthy again by summer time.

Since I know most of you have been scouring the Internet for information over the past few days, I wanted to share a few sites with you this time that may help you to learn more about this disease.
Lymphoma Research Foundation: www.lymphoma.org/
Lymphoma Information Network: www.lymphomainfo.net/
Leukemia and Lymphoma Society: www.leukemia-lymphoma.org/
Lymphoma.com: www.lymphoma.com/

Thank you again for your love, support and concern. If you have any further questions about his diagnosis, treatment, etc. feel free to ask. I'll also keep you posted as his treatment progresses.

On a side note-- Today is Tim's 27th birthday! Here's to a happy and healthy year :)

Much love,
Jenny and Tim

I told you they were epic. Here's the second, which she sent to coworkers last week. Most of it is repetitive, but still entertaining (I think):

Dear friends-

As you're all now aware, Tim has recently received some bad news: he has cancer. K indicated in a chat with me yesterday that some of you might be feeling starved for more information, so here is the full scoop, whether you want it or not! We apologize in advance for not getting detailed information to you sooner, but after numerous tests and doctor appointments, he finally has a definite diagnosis, an excellent prognosis, and some information he asked me to share with you. But before I get into that, he wanted me to let you all know how much he appreciates your thoughts and prayers and well-wishes. So please keep them coming!


Diagnosis: Tim has been diagnosed with "diffuse large B-cell lymphoma," a very common and treatable/curable type of lymphoma, and is believed to be a Stage 2. (Cancer stages indicate the severity of the disease, on a scale from 1 (least severe) to 5 (bad news)). At this time, the doctors believe the cancer is localized to the lymph nodes in his neck, but because lymphoma by definition is a systemic disease, they will need to run one more test (a PET-CT scan, which he will have this Friday, 2/10) which will assist the doctors in determining whether the cancer has spread, and where it might have spread to. This will confirm staging, and will also be useful to the doctors if radiation therapy is determined to be necessary.


Treatment: Tim's lymphoma is an "aggressive" form of cancer, which means the cancer cells are dividing and spreading quickly, and will require immediate treatment. The good news is that in most cases, aggressive cancers respond better to treatment because the drugs used to treat cancer target fast-growing and rapidly dividing cells. So the faster the cells turn over, the better the drugs can work. Tim will have the same treatment (chemotherapy) regardless of staging--although if it's found to be a Stage 3 or 4, his treatment will occur more frequently and continue over a longer period of time, but consist of the same drugs. (If you're interested in the list of drugs, let me know.) Radiation therapy may also be given after the conclusion of chemotherapy, although at this point the doctors aren't sure whether radiation is necessary.


Symptoms and Side Effects: Tim has very few symptoms at this time, although the tumor in his tonsil has ulcerated and is causing severe pain. (When Tim asked "is there anything I can do to treat this tonsil?" the doctor responded "Chemo!" - and gave him a prescription for codeine.) The tumor in his neck is also large enough that he can't button the collar of his dress shirts. (Nice excuse Tim- and we all just thought he was sloppy!) There are many potential side-effects of chemotherapy (the list is long and details are gory), and in Tim's case it is likely that the side-effects of treatment will be more severe than the symptoms of his cancer. He will also soon be completely bald, and has been amusing himself trying to see how many people he can guilt into shaving their heads in solidarity. (So far Josh is the only sucker. J, S? A? Any takers??)


Schedule: Chemotherapy will begin next week (Monday, Feb. 13) and will continue over the course of 3-5 months. Administering one round of chemo takes an entire day, and the doctors recommend that patients stay home and rest on the day following chemotherapy- so at a minimum, Tim expects to be away from the office at least 2 days out of every two to three week period. There will also be follow-up appointments and likely some sick days in that time as well.


Chemotherapy is also very devastating to the immune system- the cells that assist in immunity are fast-dividing cells, and the drugs don't know the difference between healthy and abnormal fast-growing, rapidly dividing cells. This means that Tim will be very prone to illness and infections, and has been given strict guidelines about things and people he can't be exposed to. Some of these things and people include: certain foods, public transportation, crowded spaces (e.g. grocery stores, shopping malls), pets, small children, babies (especially those that have recently received immunizations, e.g. [wee J]!), airplane travel, people who have recently traveled by air (e.g. constituents from California), and anyone with a cold or flu. Tim is committed to continuing to work throughout his treatment, and will be utilizing the DC staff laptop when he needs to work from home. On days that he is able to come to the office, please don't sneeze on him :) And WASH YOUR HANDS!!


Finally, the Cancer Center where Tim will be receiving chemotherapy has strict rules about the use of wireless and electronic devices, since they can interfere with the Center's equipment and also be a nuisance to the other patients. This may mean that Tim is totally inaccessible on days he receives chemotherapy. Please keep this in mind when preparing back-up for A, or when dealing with emergencies as they arise.


Tim's state of mind: He's extremely positive! Seriously. He really likes and trusts his doctors, and is eager to begin treatment so he can make a full recovery by summertime. He may have some bad days now and then, so please don't hesitate to drop him an email if you feel like it. They'll help keep his spirits sky high.


Learn more: Here are a few Internet sites that may help you to learn more about this disease.
Leukemia and Lymphoma Society: www.leukemia-lymphoma.org/
Lymphoma Information Network: www.lymphomainfo.net/
Lymphoma Research Foundation: www.lymphoma.org/
Lymphoma.com: www.lymphoma.com/

If you have any further questions about his diagnosis, treatment, etc. feel free to ask. I'll also keep you posted as his treatment progresses.


On a side note-- Tim's 27th birthday was on Thursday, February 2nd! Here's to a happy and healthy year :)

Jenny and Tim

There you have it, and yes, I edited a few names. I don't know the rules for publishing people's names, the ones you see are friends who I think won't mind, but if they do, oh well, I have cancer. How mad can they get.

Diffuse Large B-cell Lymphoma

Sometimes a swollen gland is more than a swollen gland. In my case, for example, my swollen gland is really a handful of small tumors, dividing like rabbits and creating a weird bulge in my neck, and grossly distorting one of my tonsils (it's pretty nasty).

Chances are if you're reading this you know me, and you probably know that a short while ago ago, on January 31, I was diagnosed with cancer, specifically a non-Hodgkins lymphoma, or to be more specific, a diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. A couple days later, on February 2, I turned 27, and had my first appointment with my oncologist. Good times.

Having cancer has been great, you have no idea how much sympathy and attention it brings. I am, and have been, completely overwhemled by the good wishes I've gotten from friends, family, coworkers, neighbors.....pretty much anytime you tell anyone you have cancer they pledge to do whatever possible to contribute to your general comfort and care. I am a big fan of that reaction. I haven't picked up a tab since my diagnosis.

I started this blog to keep everyone informed on the day-to-day happenings and share updates on my treatment, further prognosis and generally what's going on. In no way do I promise to be interesting, although I will try my best to heed Alison's advice and not make this an endless string of woe-is-me-chemo-makes-me-feel-crappy lamentations (and so far I haven't felt crappy at all, so no trouble there).

Hopefully you all will enjoy the result, and please feel free to post your comments and questions. FAIR WARNING: I am known to have opinions, and a bit of a potty mouth at times (or as I prefer it, a malignant mouth. Literally!). If I start ranting too much about my fiercely-held neoconservative views, just blame the tumor(s).