Friendship Opiates

I haven't had much to write about lately because luckily nothing has tried to kill me or ruin my life in the last two weeks.  On the contrary, I've had a lot to smile about.  I've just completed 13(!) consecutive days of extraordinary friend hangouts.

I have always prided myself in maintaining abundantly magical friendships, but having cancer has truly solidified how many outstanding people I have on my team.  I've had visits from Kindergarten era BFFs, punk rock era HS BFFs, Anodyne Coffee BFFs, NYU BFFs, Waldorf School BFFs, and used-to-be-Dan's-now-all-mine BFFs.  I've frolicked by the lake, taken super long walks in the sunshine, posed in a rebel photo shoot, gone to the movies, eaten my weight in tacos and falafel and snacks, hung out with cute dogs and cats, gossiped, gone on field trips to the mall, giggled in 4-way FaceTime chats, learned how to weave, laughed my face off, and most notably, gained back 5 lbs of lost hospital weight after eating three NY bagels with butter and cream cheese in 24 hours (cinnamon raisin, everything, and multigrain oat).  I have my incredible friends to thank for these adventures.

In addition to all the visits I've received, I have also had an overwhelming amount of old friends reach out to me from afar via text, email, Facebook, and Instagram.  Like...in the most beautiful way possible.  Friends just asking if I'm doing all right or if I need anything, and just letting me know they are thinking about me.  This is the true blessing that comes with hardship--all the love you have shared with every person you have befriended, reflected back to you at one time.  It's like, whoa, damn, I guess I've lived a good life.  And then your heart explodes. But not literally this time.

What I'd like to conclude after these 13 days of shared experiences with the people I love the most, is that friendship (and warmth, and nature and sunshine) truly are the best forms of medicine.  It feels so fucking good to smile.  So. Good.  I had my second chemo session yesterday, which technically means I'm finishing my first "cycle" this week.  I definitely feel a little wonkier than I did the first round, but that could also have something to do with my extremely poor decision to pound an iced coffee while receiving chemo.  Hot tip: coffee and chemo and menstruation don't bode well for the tiny body.  I think you get my drift.

This is also the week I get to wait for my hair to fall out, which might be hellishly traumatic, I can't tell yet.  I have really enjoyed taking on this buzzcut rebel chick persona.  I'm trying not to go off the deep end, but when the hell else will I have a chance to be so justifiably wild?  I stopped wearing bras (mostly cuz they bother my incision, but we'll pretend it's cuz I burned them all).  I put up a "We Back the Vadge" sign in my yard in response to the neighbors' "We Back the Badge" signs that went up right after all the summertime killings of unarmed black men by the cops.  I have developed quite  a no-nonsense, GFY* attitude toward anything or anyone that isn't pure or true.  I even thought about piercing my septum again when I walked into Body Ritual with some friends last week.  Then I had flashbacks to all my Dutch classmates calling me "De Stier" (the bull) and I changed my mind.  This rebel still has feelings.  If I lose all my hair this week, you'll all just have to settle for my wig personas, which are slightly sweeter than bootstomping, skinhead DLynne.

*GFY is an acronym I'm really trying to make happen: Go F*ck Yourself.  As in, "Mr. President, kindly GFY."

The Upswing

Last week, the Universe kinda made me its bitch.  I wasn't really into it, but sometimes a gal needs a funky new perspective on life, I guess.  Near death experiences are one way to expedite that.

Once the ol' heart and lungs started functioning again last week, it was back to business.  Monday was booked solid:

1. blood test
2. oncologist appointment
3. first chemo session
4. haircut
5. ladies date   

Chemo was surprisingly chill.  I got to sit in a big recliner and sweet nurses brought me pillows and warm blankets.  I brought a million things to do and read, but instead spent the 5 hours passed out, drooling.  It was the best sleep I had had in many weeks.  I guess subconsciously I had this feeling of crossing the finish line once I finally made it to chemo.  As soon as I landed in that chair and got the drugs all plugged in my arm, I was donezo. 

I made it back home Monday evening with a little time to collect my thoughts and wigs before heading to my hair salon.  My beloved hairdresser, Josef, had arranged an after hours time slot for me to come in a get my head shaved in peace--just the two of us.  We banded up little ponies of hair all over my head, and off they came.  When all was said and done, Josef and I concurred that I had a pretty great head underneath all those silken tresses.  I looked in the mirror at my buzzed head and felt really fucking awesome.  I looked beautiful.  I looked tough.  I looked free.  I had expected to cry, but instead I was beaming. 

After the buzzing, I tried on each of my wigs and Josef gave them each a little trim 'n' fluff.  When he asked which one I wanted to wear out, I said neither.  I am gonna flaunt this buzzcut til it starts to fall out.  It's too good to waste.  (Except on really cold days.)

Now might be a good time to retract some of the things I said in my previous post, Shit I Ban You From Saying to Me.  Buzzcut Danielle is beautiful and punk rock and suddenly into scarfs and shit.  But the ominous truth is that in a few weeks, I could look less like Eleven and more like Larry David.  So, I grant ye permission to inflate my ego for now, but once my shit starts getting patchy and I have to hide away under wigs, everyone's gotta STFU again.

XOXO,
Danielle Lynne     

Soda Pop Lung

So I head into the ER Monday night, trying to play as cool as one possibly can when she's checking herself in for emergency cardiac surgery.  I'm told I will be watched closely over night in the ICU, and will head to the OR at 6am to have a pericardial window procedure.  The surgeon will cut open part of the pericardium (the sac around my heart) and allow the fluid to drain through a chest tube, which will hang out of me for several surreal days.

Now as an extra bonus, my ER x-ray shows that nearly 3/4s of my right lung is also surrounded by fluid.  Thus, the surgeon recommends that after the pericardial window procedure, I would also need to undergo thoracentesis--a procedure which drains the fluid from the space between the lung and the chest wall through a catheter inserted into the patient's back.  Oh, AND I still needed that PICC line installed again.  Basically, I had four long days of mutilation ahead of me.

In moments like this one, I really start to question the purpose of my human existence.  We are souls that incarnate into this physical realm to express and experience.  But it's sort of bogus, right?  Sometimes I feel like my poor little etheric body is like, "I hate it here, just let me die already." And I'm all like, "No!  Society tells me I have to fight to stay alive and live life and maintain relationships and shit!"

When I came out of surgery on Tuesday morning, it was the closest I have ever felt to the threshold.  I felt so much pain that I wished I had just died during surgery.  I heard the nurses calling my family in and I just kept moaning, "No no no no no." You know how cats crawl under the porch to die, so they can be alone?  I needed a porch.  I wanted to be alone so I could just give up.

I spent Tuesday draining Kool-Aid out of my heart sac, and Wednesday I had the pleasure of getting my lung juiced.  Here is a visual aid:
  

                                                                           Before                                                                    After

They literally drained almost 1.5 liters of fluid from my right lung.  When they weighed me that night, I was 5 lbs lighter than the day before.  That's soda a lot.  I felt like I had been hit by a truck, but I could breathe again!

Tonight I am happily at home with my dudes, my cats and my own pillow.  The doctors are giving me the weekend to recuperate and allow my wounds to heal before starting chemo on Monday.  Last week at this time, chemo was the big scary thing on the horizon.  Tonight, it feels like anticipating a visit to the day spa.

If You Think That Hurts, Wait Til Tomorrow

On Monday morning, I began writing the above blog post, whining about how terrible my weekend had been.  I paused after a few paragraphs because I had to run to an appointment--my oncologist had ordered a Pulmonary Function (lung) test and Echo (heart ultrasound) to make sure that my organs were strong enough to endure the impending chemo.

I never got a chance to finish the post, or to mention that in addition to the pain I was experiencing from the blood clot, I was having very hard time breathing that weekend.  Truth be told, I had phoned the cancer center on Sunday, asking the after hours on-call doctor if I would survive until chemo began on Wednesday.  The doctor had assured me I would be all right, and could soon look forward to relief from swelling once the chemo began to shrink my lymph nodes.

Flash forward to Monday afternoon:  I had just arrived back home from my heart and lung tests and I was completely worn out.  I eagerly peeled off my jeans and shuffled to the couch, collapsing into the pillows.  The phone rang and it was Dr. Jeffreys, my oncologist. The cardiologist had just called her back with the results of my Echo.  It had revealed that I had a great deal of fluid around my heart, constricting the organ.  I would need to go to the ER immediately to have the fluid drained.  I gazed blankly at pattern on my pajama pants which I had just been so relieved to change into.  "Are they going to cut me open?" I squeaked at Dr. Jeffreys.  She paused, and I knew the answer.