The "C word"

No, not cancer.  (Not the other C-word you're thinking of Meaghan Burnes.....).

Chemo.  Chemo is the C-word.  This may sound weird, but the whole "cancer" thing isn't that scary to me - it's more of a journey, an adventure, a learning experience.  Chemo, though ... that shit's a Walker that's got you cornered with only a stuffed teddy bear to defend yourself with.  (Sorry all you TWD non-fans .... I couldn't help it).

It took me a long time to agree to even do the recommended chemo.  After living the last 20 years of my life as a super-healthy, organic-eating, vegetable-growing, all-natural non-toxic almost-hippie, the idea of willingly dumping that many toxic chemicals into my body just didn't make sense.  (It still doesn't).  I read stuff.  I Googled everything.  I talked to doctors.  I read too many blogs.  I meditated (yes, really).  I drank wine (oh sure, you believe that one, but you question the meditation????). Whatever it took to make sense of it.  And in the end, there were no good answers.  The oncologists couldn't tell me "if you take these toxic chemicals, your cancer won't come back".  They also couldn't tell me "if you don't take these toxic chemicals, your cancer will come back."  So its all odds - a roll of the dice.

What I do know for sure is that the type of cancer I have is the type that comes back.  And when (if?) it comes back, its already Stage IV and a painful death sentence.  I also know that the chemo drugs will do a number on my heart, my veins, my brain, and the nerves in my feet and hands.  So, I may not ever again knock out 46 4000-footers in a single summer.  I may not ever again ride a 24-hour mountain bike race.  I may not ever argue that brilliant case in front of SCOTUS.  And for a little while on this journey, that meant to me that if I couldn't do all of that, then I didn't want to live.  If I can't mountain bike all day long; if I can't hike big huge mountains for days on end; if I can't run and do all the physical things the Army requires me to do .... well, then I'd rather just get cancer again and die.

But then I thought about the everyday things that make me happy.  Sitting outside the RV with Doug, talking about whatever legal theory has us in a tizzy that day.  Watching the pups get so much enjoyment out of chasing squirrels up a tree.  Talking to my mom on the phone, listening to her reminisce about silly things we did with my Dad. Watching the Red Sox win the World Series (c'mon, we're due!).  Sitting at an outdoor brewery in the sun, enjoying a good Pale Ale.  Making homemade bread and my Dad's marinara sauce and watching the friends I feed enjoy every bite of what I've made for them.  Scoring those little victories in my work - those that literally change a client's life and reinforce what we all know to be justice.  Those are the REAL things that make me smile; those are the things that bring me joy.  Mountains and singletrack are awesome, but its those little things every goddamned day that make me want to roll those dice and do whatever it takes to live another day (or a whole bunch of days).

Whew.  That was intense.  Did y'all pour yourselves another drink yet?  Go ahead, I'll wait ........

OK, about the chemo:

It'll be a 3-drug cocktail (I wonder if they use the term "cocktail" with everyone or just me to make it more appealing??).  6 total infusions, every 21 days for a total of 18 weeks.  (1) Taxotere; (2) Carboplatin; (3) Herceptin.  After the 18 weeks, I'll continue the Herceptin infusions every 21 days until I reach one year, (January 2018).  Then, there will be Tamoxifen for either 5 or 10 years (but that's just a pill, so we can easily depart on our Epic Road Trip to End All Road Trips!!)

You can read about all the awful side effects (and greed-driven pharmaceutical company crimes) at each of those links.  Personally, I don't want to dwell on that. You all know me - you know I'll do everything I can to stay healthy and ward off all that evil stuff, and if all else fails, I'll make Doug pour a beer through my IV port.  The hardest part will be not being able to travel or go out in public for the first 21 weeks while my body is struggling to survive with all that toxicity.  (Don't feel sorry for me going through this - direct your pity toward Doug and the pups for having to keep me entertained during 21 long weeks confined to the RV!)

To sum:  an old boss used to tell me to just "chop the wood in front of you".  In other words, don't worry about what's going to happen in 2 weeks or 2 years, just focus on that big ol' pile of stuff in front of you.  And in approximately 36 hours, the big old pile of stuff in front of me will be a bunch of poison injected directly into my jugular.  The big old pile of stuff in front of me is also trying to keep some level of fitness, ensuring my few remaining clients get the justice they deserve, and keeping my pack as happy as can be without the big mountains and singletrack and beer.  I'm up for this challenge.  Bring it.