Now that I'm back to every-three-week-chemotherapy infusions, getting through the "holiday" season becomes very tricky. One week delay due to unacceptable lab results can have a cascade effect on one's ability to spread any cheer. And given that I'm scheduled to be infused rather aggressively, a direct result of tumor growth indicated on my most recent CT scan, delaying an infusion to accommodate my non-chemotherapy schedule seems like a non starter. After all, we're trying to keep me alive here.
I was a busy suburban working mom putting my energy into my job, my family, my friends, and trying to lead a healthy lifestyle. I exercised routinely. I never smoked. I drank a glass of wine now and then.
In 2016, I started a new job as an attorney at Expedia. I was delighted with the interesting workload and my amazing new coworkers. I was learning about travel. I was learning a new job. I started to cough.
With apologies to Simon and Garfunkel: burping, hiccuping, coughing, "expectorating," wheezing, sneezing, sniffling, nose running, nose bleeding, nose blowing, "gassing," gurgling and "nauseating." If this were football, I'd likely receive a penalty for piling on: too much not of a good thing. For me, it's just another day in cancer's side-effect paradise. For my wife, Dina, however, it's more difficult; caught in the crossfire, so to speak. Aside from how cancer makes you look and feel, there is also an element of how it makes you sound.
By Lacey Woodring, Team LUNGevity Runner, November 6, 2018
I chose to join Team LUNGevity in honor of my mother. My mom was diagnosed with stage I lung cancer in 2010. She was never much of a smoker, maybe recreational when we were younger. They said her cancer may have been caused by environmental factors, such as inhaling aerosols in the shop where she worked.
As I sit and attempt to write next week's column, I do so on Saturday, October 27. Aside from being my close friend, Cheryl's, birthday, and the day before my brother, Richard's, birthday, it is a date (the 27th), to invoke our 32nd President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, that "will live in infamy." It is the date that Team Lourie, such as it is: my wife, Dina; my brother, Richard; and yours truly, met my oncologist for the first time to learn what my previous week's "malignant" biopsy actually meant. What it meant was that I was officially a cancer patient.
Not "to the east side" and not "to a deluxe apartment in the sky," but if fictional New York City cleaning business icon George Jefferson had been diagnosed with lung cancer as I was, I would bet he'd be happy making progress: the feeling of moving forward. And that's exactly what I feel now. With the "news" of last week's column, progress/movement is at hand.
Stay the course. Meaning, to write short a long story: same three week chemotherapy interval, same medicine/dosage, same quarterly scan to be followed up by usual and customary same post-scan appointment nine days later with my same diagnosis-to-date oncologist.
By Mary Ann Laverty, Survivor , September 26, 2018
Like so many others, my lung cancer diagnosis came as a huge shock for me and my family. In December of 2016, I was a healthy, active flight attendant who loved to travel. I had recently won third place in the Masters National Bodybuilding Championships in the over 45 bikini category, and I was excited to rev up my training after the holidays. Then, in March, an incident on a flight to New York changed my life. A passenger’s suitcase hit me on the head when he was trying to retrieve it from the overhead compartment. It knocked me out, and I was taken to the E.R.
Now that I've spent the last two publishing weeks moaning and groaning about my potentially life-changing CT scan results from my upcoming September 26 scan, I think it's time to buck up, don't you? I mean, how long can I continue to drone on before I bore even myself? Talk about putting the cart before the horse, I'm putting myself before the cart.