One journey ends, Countless more begin

Wow, I really thought I posted something in March... I definitely did not. I owe you all an update!! Let me start by saying the reason I've been quiet is that I finished treatment in March, and life has moved FAST ever since. In the last 6 months, I finished treatment, got promoted into a new product line in a management role, took a vacation with K to Vietnam, lost 20 lbs, and just generally have been LIVING. The picture to the left is me now, doing just that.

It's been so fast paced, and so joyful, that I've been hesitant to revisit the journey I undertook over this last year, but now I find myself with enough time past, enough new energy and new life, that I feel it's time to finish this chapter. So without further ado, let's rewind a bit and pick up where we left off.

When last we spoke...

Last time I wrote, it was February. I had just had my PET scan that indicated that the cancer was responding to the treatment exactly how we wanted it to. There was a great sense of anxiety at that time, but also hopeful energy. Remember the analogy I made about "rounding the bend?" It was a turning point, but I still had a few rounds of treatment ahead. Just to give you the "last time, on Garry's chemo journey," my medical team ordered 4 full rounds of R-CHOP, the full chemo regimen, and two additional cycles of Rituxan, the immunotherapy that specifically targets the lymphocytes.

The fourth round of Chemo was relatively uneventful, if you're just coming to this blog and would like a description of what the infusions are like, I've written extensively about the previous few, and you can find those descriptions in previous posts that are still hosted on this site. There were some notable things though - first of all by this point I had become friends with almost all of the oncology nurses (and weirdly, 6 months on from that time, I miss them!), and we started to speak more candidly with each other, which was kind of lovely. Just felt like friends helping me out. Secondly, this was my last full infusion, so the emotions I was feeling were different than the previous few. I felt relieved mostly, finally "through" this, but I'd be lying if I told you that relief wasn't tinged with anxiety. The decision to only give me four full doses of chemo comes from a study that both Dr. E and Dr. A cited, that basically says people in my age/physical bracket will respond well enough to the treatment to achieve remission and ultimately cure, with the reduced amount of cycles. I trust them, I trust the science, but damn if a part of me doesn't want to go the "kill it with fire" route and just do the full 6. Part of me. Not enough of me to ask for it though, I wanted to be done.

The next two visits to the Dana Farber center were much shorter, just enough time to get the bloodwork done, consult with either the PA I mentioned before (who was recovering well from his own treatment by the way, remember he was also dealing with lymphoma while I was receiving treatment), or meet with Dr. E, and then have one of my nurse-friends do the sub-cutaneous injection of the Rituxan. Quick, easy, relatively painless. On my last day, one of the nurses shared something with me that made me proud enough that I'm going to include it here. This particular nurse was a veteran, she'd been working in the oncology ward for close to 40 years. She told me that the regimen I was treated with is normally very, very hard on people. It lays them out for days, maybe even weeks. I was back at work at most 24 hours after my infusions, the entire time. Feeling strong has always been important to me, and in this moment, I felt stronger than I ever have in my life. Here I was, on the other side of chemo, I had continued to be productive and contribute meaningfully at work, I never once vomited from the side effects, I had made peace with my physical appearance, and now I had the rest of my life to look forward to, knowing that even a challenge as existential as cancer was one I could meet. I'll be carrying that with me forever, thank you very much. For what it's worth, K and I had been pretty consistently lifting at our local gym for about 6 years before all this went down. Neither of us looks like a weight lifter, we've focused on functional strength, and we both enjoy burritos, but both of us are physically strong and my doctors agreed that this foundation of strength was a key element in the chemo not being as hard on me as it could be. Big plug for picking up heavy things on the regular.

Next steps

Once the last infusion was done, we entered a new phase. One I've been calling "oh I guess I'm just always worried now." The next scheduled appointment was 3 months on, another PET scan and a readout with Dr. E. Both went well, but oof - the lead up to that readout was ROUGH. You know how in the Summertime, sometimes you get a fly or a bee or a mosquito that just won't leave you alone? You keep swatting it away but somehow it's just stuck on you? That's how the anxiety felt. "What if it's come back already," SWAT "what if they didn't get it all" SWAT, "What if you need to get back on the chemo, your hair just started to grow back." SWAT. Endless variations on the theme, percolating in my brain for weeks leading up to that appointment.

Fortunately, everything looked the way we wanted it to. The cancer was continuing to recede, almost imperceptible at that point.

And so, dear friends, it was declared that I was in remission.

Remission.

Remission.

Just typing it still feels good.

I have a friend/acquaintance who has been fighting her own battle for years, and remission has come and gone for her many times, (and she continues to fight on valiantly, she's truly inspiring). Her type of cancer is very different than mine, but I am keenly aware that remission doesn't mean cure. There will always be the specter of relapse. Even so, the relief I feel even just writing about being in remission now is palpable.

So now, my next appointment is to finally have the chemo port removed, in a few weeks here (August 15th, but who's counting), and have another Follow-Up with Dr. E. Looking forward to seeing him, as my health has been ascendant ever since finishing the treatment, and I look and feel like myself again.

Closing the curtain

So here we are. The journey, for now and hopefully for good, has ended. I have learned so much from my encounter with the ever present specter we all fear. I've learned about my own strength. I've seen in action my wife's strength and compassion that I was aware of, but until now in our life together, hadn't needed to be the recipient of in such a direct way. I've learned just how broad my community is, and how deeply connected I am to each and every one of you who reads this, who reaches out, who takes the time to let me know you care. I've learned about gratitude, vulnerability, kindness, the universality of the human condition.

At the risk of sounding a bit dramatic, I've come face to face with death for the first time in my life. Now, no, it was never that dire. I only for a moment at the beginning of it all wondered whether I'd survive this or not, once I was in regular communication with my doctors not surviving became a non-concern. That said, this is the first thing in my life that, left untreated, could have killed me, and so I say I met death for the first time. What I learned from that encounter is that I am not afraid. I am not afraid of death, and I will walk through her valleys and shadows until the time comes that I take her hand willingly, at the end of my journey, whenever that may be. Between now and then though, I am going to live. I am going to grow. I am going to learn. I am going to influence people for good. I am going to fight. I am going to fail. I am going to try again. I am going to succeed. I am going to climb, to fall, to rise again and climb higher.

I'm going to get the most out of my journeys around the sun.

I'm not a particularly religious man, but I do believe in the human spirit, and the power of connection. So many of you shared your spirit with me during this journey in so many ways. You will always have my gratitude.

What's next?

From this point forward, I will always carry a little fear, a little anxiety that it could come back. That voice, though, is drowned out by how much I see ahead. In the time between finishing treatment and now, I have made new connections at work that have lead to a new, exciting branch of my career path. I've explored a beautiful country I've always wanted to visit (Vietnam) with my favorite travel partner. I even got a new tattoo to commemorate the journey. So from here, I keep moving. K and I would like to have a child, so that's a journey we will embark on together. I want to continue making change and shaping the company I love to work for, influencing people to grow into their best, most fully realized self. I look forward to new travel adventures, more time with my family, a holiday not impacted by chemo. All of this I will write about, so I invite you to continue reading.

I have some thoughts that maybe one day will become a book. They center around the power of vulnerability and candor, and around developing people and helping them find the best path to self-actualization. I'll probably write a bit about that in this space.

I have so enjoyed having you all as readers, and I hope you'll continue to click into my humble little corner of the internet. If I write about the Lymphoma again, it'll hopefully just be a quick update on future check ins with my doctor, but the next thing I need to spend time writing about is Vietnam. That country was so beautiful, people, food, scenery, everything. I can't wait to share it with you.

Alright. That brings us to the end. Anthony Bourdain once said "all great stories should end on a beach," so I'll leave you with a picture of K and I enjoying our first full breath, on a small private beach in Hoi An. I love you all, thank you for walking with me on this journey. Til next time my friends.