Dark Clouds, Yes — But Don’t Overlook the Silver Lining

16 08 2011

Photo courtesy of: jittajack.blogspot.com

This is Week 2, Round 8 of chemo. That means I’ve now sat through 30 infusion days — and 120 total infusions — since chemo began Feb. 1, 2011.

Ugh. Yuck. Blech. Ewww. That’s how I feel after today’s chemo. I often have trouble with word retrieval in the hours following my infusions. My Chemo Buds notice this on Tuesdays — my hard chemo days — as the second infusion, Gemzar, makes me go pale and honestly, a little loopy. I sometimes slur my words and feel like a drunk who never had the pleasure of the cocktail — the chemo cocktail, yes, but not the Whiskey Sour that’s my standard order.

It feels like a bout of the flu coming on — headache, body aches, nausea. But I slept for a couple of hours this afternoon after I got home and it recharged me enough that I could eat a few slices of bread and a couple of peaches along with the antioxidant green tea that is super good for me and that I am drinking by the gallon daily. This little hiatis won’t last long — I need to hit the sack shortly. But first, some silver linings to share with you. A few of my favorites:

1. Support of Friends and Family. I keep waiting for chemo to be fun (I’m the eternal optimist), but so far, it’s disappointed me. I CAN say that it is really reassuring and supportive to have the many loving family and friends in my life who show up on time, drive me to chemo, sit there beside me, drive me home and tuck me into bed. Today, my Chemo Buddy was my bff Elaine Schultz. I enjoy the conversations with each of you and treasure you and your friendship. Not only that, studies PROVE that cancer survivors who are surrounded by a loving network of their peeps have much higher rates of long-term survival. Thank you.

2. Positive Test Results. My tumors have remained stable and/or shrunk every time since February that I’ve had a CT Scan. The latest one taken in the hospital mid-July showed the same results. That’s a LOT to be happy about!

If that isn’t enough, the way I FEEL is! The coughing linked to the tumors in my lungs stopped two months after chemo began; three months later, Don noticed that my stamina had dramatically improved, and honestly, I am feeling terrific. People have been noticing — people who haven’t seen me in two or three months. They’re surprised.

“You look really good,” they say.

I shrug it off and say, “Maybe it’s the tan?”

I mean, that seems like a reasonable explanation.

Nope. They’ve already taken that into account and they are sure I look better, healthier than just two or three months ago. Waaahhoooo!!!!!!!!

3. Amazing Blood Counts! This is a biggie. For the first time in many, many months, my blood counts were SO good today that I don’t have to do those awful, painful Neupogen (white blood cell booster shots) this round! They are worse than chemo, as I’ve said many a time. Very painful side effects in my bones (think rib bones that THROB) that last for 24 hours per shot, and the regimen calls for five days of shots. So, hooray for a small victory that is actually quite BIG!

My doctor attributed it partially to my changeover to a more healthy diet. It’s a slow but sure process, but I’ve already whacked most of the refined white sugar from my diet — replacing it with natural Blue Agave (available at most health food stores and quite good) that does not cause blood insulin levels to spike. I’ve got to keep my glycemic index in check. (For more on the glycemic index and cancer fighting foods, etc., see David Schreiber’s book, Anti-Cancer: A New Way of Life. I can’t recommend it highly enough.)

I’m also eating tons of fresh peaches now in season from our local orchard, raw veggies, whole grains, tomatoes and fresh green beans (raw) from my garden, and EEEK! I ate a mushroom yesterday. For those of you who know me, I’ve had a lifelong hate-relationship with mushrooms. They are one of the only foods I cannot stand to eat.

But.

But they are extremely beneficial cancer fighters — lots and lots of great, healthy properties. So, I’m gonna find a way to get them down. Eww. Ick. My close friend and Theo’s godfather Ken Bagnall tried to lessen the pain of my palate yesterday by covering a raw mushroom in spinach dip.

Still yuck. I nearly hurled. I compare it as being on equal footing with the one time I ate a huge, garlic and butter sauted escargot. That was 20 years ago and I swear, I need to bring it up in a counseling session sometime.

4. Back on Track. It is a victory in and of itself that I was finally able to get through a full round — four sessions — of chemo after all these weeks. I’d been off since the end of June due to low blood counts and the infection that hospitalized me. I am so grateful that I am back on my regimen. That really is a silver lining!

5. The End of Chemo is Near. Nope. I’m not holding out on you. I still don’t know when the end of chemo will come. No one but God knows that. But I do know that getting back on schedule means that I’mmmm bacccckkkk and heading in the right direction, AKA The Finish Line.

Let’s get this chemo thing over and done with ASAP so I can return to my regularly-scheduled life, shall we?

Copyright 2011 Amy Rauch Neilson





Status Update: Back to Chemo

9 08 2011

I’m just now back from a day of chemo. Tuesdays are always the long day of the week, with three back-to-back-to-back infusions. My blood counts were well within range, no fever, all vital signs were good. Whew!

I’m so very pleased that I was able to return to my chemo regimen and get back on my schedule of fighting and beating this beast. I’ve been off/unable to have chemo since the end of June. We are back on track!

My bff Jennifer Amprim Wolf just dropped me off at home. She sat beside me all day and I shared a new-found secret with her: there’s a room in the chemo infusion center with heat/massage chairs…today was a “slow” day, so we were able to snag that room — and the chairs! Score!

Jennifer is walking the Susan G. Komen Three-Day for the first time this weekend in my honor as well as for others who have fought or are currently fighting the breast cancer battle. Go Jennifer! She has trained long and hard for this weekend. Please send prayers of sustanance and good fellowship her way. What a trooper!

Someday very soon, I hope to be at a place where I can do the Three-Day alongside her and my many other friends who take on this challenge every year. I will be touching base with Jennifer over the weekend to see if I can pop in and walk beside her for a short distance. Seeing a sea of pink is always uplifting and inspiring, if not downright euphoric!

But until then, it’s off to bed for me so I can recover from today. If I get a few hours in, I may feel well enough to spend some time with Don and Theo this evening. Low-key time. Maybe Theo and I will be able to watch the second half of Scoobie Doo and the Lake Monster, which we began watching last night.

Thursday’s chemo will also knock me down, but not quite as hard. Rest, as difficult as that concept is for me, is what I must do now.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Could the Future be NOW?

2 06 2011

Me, modeling the DNA-themed Art Bra I created along with my mother-in-law, at the Bras for a Cause event, Royal Oak Music Theatre, September 18, 2010. The PARP Inhibitor has proven to be particularly effective in BRCA gene carriers like me. Photo by Trish Baden MacDonald.

I’ve got Google Crawler working for me day and night, when I’m working, sleeping, at the infusion center, hoping to catch a ball at a Tiger’s game, making fruit-kabobs for my kid’s kindergarten class.

When GC finds something related to the BRCA 1 or BRCA 2 genes, the PARP Inhibitor — or any of the related key words I’ve sent it out into cyberspace to fetch, I get an alert in my e-mail box. I’m particularly excited about the one that came through today.

From the article:
“This drug is a very potent PARP inhibitor. It has already demonstrated very encouraging activity as an IV formulation and now we know that the oral formulation is also active. This potentially opens up many exciting opportunities for long-term treatment for cancer patients,” said Professor Hilary Calvert, Director of Cancer Drug Discovery and Development at University College London, UK, and a pioneer in the field of human cancer therapy with PARP inhibitors. “We know that PARP inhibitors are active in germline BRCA-mutant (gBRCA) tumors, and that this activity extends beyond this group of tumors into broader patient populations in ovarian cancer and may do so in other cancers as well.

“PF-01367338 is currently in a Phase 1 clinical trial examining the maximum tolerated dose of oral PF-01367338 that can be combined with intravenous platinum chemotherapy (the kind of chemotherapy that I am on) in the treatment of solid tumors. This program is supplemented by two ongoing trials, currently using the IV formulation: a Phase 1/2 study in gBRCA breast and ovarian cancer and a Phase 2 study in the adjuvant treatment of triple negative breast cancer (the kind of breast cancer that I have). Clovis Oncology intends to replace the IV formulation with the oral formulation in these studies.”

Now, some backstory.

One of the most miraculous phrases my oncologist uses in describing the war on breast cancer and how close we are to the end is her belief that breast cancer is already a long-term manageable disease, much like, in her opinion, diabetes and hypertension.

There are so many different breast cancer treatments out there right now that if one doesn’t work, there’s another go-to drug. And while you are holding the disease at bay with one drug, others are coming online. Not over the course of years, she’s explained to me, but in days, weeks, months. In fact, the PARP Inhibitor that is part of my current treatment — and has demonstrated to be particularly effective in patients who carry one of the breast cancer genes, as I do — only came online 14 months ago!

All of this is amazing news that gives breast cancer patients, even those in Stage 4 like me, a lot of hope that long-term survival — and a good quality of life during that survival — is not a pipe dream, but a reality. My doctor has told me numerous times that while she of course has no crystal ball, she believes I will live for years. We are not looking at a prognosis of just three, six, twelve months left to live. Even at Stage 4.

I’m thrilled that I was offered the opportunity for the PARP Inhibitor to be a part of my chemotherapy regimen, along with Carboplatin and Gemzar. The PARP Inhibitor is currently a Phase 3 clinical trial drug, one that Royal Oak Beaumont worked hard to be able to offer. One I am so very blessed to get.

Right now, the PARP Inhibitor is an IV-drug only; its oral form has not yet been proven safe. During the two out of every three weeks that I receive chemo, I receive a dose of the PARP Inhibitor on both Tuesday and Thursday. But my doc has known all along that its oral equivalent was in the works — and she’s kept me updated.

Today, the article that Google Crawler flagged for me details, among other things, another huge leap in the development of an oral form of the PARP Inhibitor. What makes this so exciting is that it means the future my oncologist sees could soon be upon us.

She told me a few months ago that someday, not too far down the road, patients like me will be going to the pharmacy with an Rx for the oral version of the PARP Inhibitor, and going home with pills to take it as part of our daily meds the way a patient with high blood pressure does now.

Imagine the change in my life, in the lives of other people with breast cancer, when drugs like the PARP prove not only effective, but become available in a pill form. Breast cancer is kept at bay, my life does not revolve around trips to the infusion center and days of nausea and fatigue. We reach yet another milestone in the war against breast cancer — and continue to rachet up the quality-of-life factor.

Even better, it seems there is a whole family of PARP Inhibitors coming online that give new hope for a better future not just for breast cancer patients, but prostate and other cancer patients as well.

I am certainly not a medical doctor by any means, but I keep myself a well-informed layperson. Check out the article. The future could be upon us.

My job is to hang in there — even on days like last Thursday, when I was sobbing as I waited for my ride to chemo, because I simply did not want to go. I did not want the infusion or the sickness that follows, that I already know all too well.

But my job is to go and keep on going, no matter what. To take advantage of the very best science and medicine has to offer while I await the next best. Until someday, my disease is in full remission and I’m able to keep it that way.

As I was walking to the ballpark Tuesday evening with my friend Jodi, I said, “You know, Jodi, even if this was the best we could do, the best we could ever do — two weeks on, one week off — I still have a darned good quality of life in between infusions and I’d take this gladly over the alternative, any day of the week.”

But my bet is, I won’t have to.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Begging for Chemo?

22 02 2011

Theo insisted we "picnic" on my bedroom floor before I left for the hospital yesterday.

Mondays are blood draw days. The docs need to check my counts to make sure my body can tolerate the chemotherapy treatment. I offer up my arm, they take the sample, and within a few minutes, they’ve got their answer.

Yesterday, everything looked good. Except.

Except one of my blood counts, which was at 1.2. It needs to be at least 1.5, or I can’t have the Carboplatin & Gemzar component of my chemotherapy today.

You’d think I’d be happy to be able to duck out of it. After all, I got a taste of the good life last week — my week off chemo — and, hey, I could get used to that. Real quick. Not to mention my worst side-effects come from the C&G. The PARP is mild in comparison.

The C & G drugs are part of my Tuesday trio — Carboplatin, Gemzar, and the PARP Inhibitor. Whatever my counts, I can still get the PARP.

But I’m a glutton. I want all three.

I was sitting on the edge of my seat — OK, make that the edge of the examining table — when Cynthia Kresge, the Physician’s Assistant from my team, came in with the run down.

“One-point-two is too low,” she said as she skimmed the stats, zeroing in on the single outlier.

My heart began racing, my mind churning with possibilities of how I could get around that number and get my full dose.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” she said. “We’ve found that exercise — like a brisk 15 minute walk — can boost this count enough to get it to where it needs to be.”

“I’m so there,” I said, already visualizing myself doing laps around the hospital corridors before offering up my arm once again Tuesday morning.

Then, I realized how strange it sounded, this begging for a chemo treatment thing that I was doing.

“Bet you don’t get that much,” I said.

“Actually, we get it all the time,” Cynthia said. “People want their treatments.”

So do I.

Send up some prayers to heaven today that my count is up and over the top by the time I get to the hospital.

I’ll get back to you later on that.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow? Maybe, Maybe Not.

18 02 2011

Me, hairless and happy, at Alpenfest, Gaylord, Mich., July 2006

Two days ago, I called and made an appointment for an up-do. We have a family wedding this weekend and I love to have my hair done up for special occasions.

That call was actually quite ballsy, quite brazen of me.

That’s because, by the time my appointment rolls around on Saturday afternoon, I might not have any hair to “do.” At which point I’ll have to call my hair stylist and say, “Yeah, about that appointment…I need to cancel. My hair fell out overnight.”

Overnight?!

Yes, that’s a realistic time frame for how it happens. It not only happens quickly, it happens on schedule.

During my last go-round with breast cancer and chemo in the summer of 2006, it was exactly as my doctors predicted. Seventeen days after my first treatment, my hair began falling out. Within 24 hours, I was bald.

We were at a family reunion in the mountains of northern Georgia at the time, camping out in a pull-behind when I lost the first patch. I had just showered and blown my hair dry. I was standing in front of the mirror over the tiny bathroom sink when it happened. I ran a comb from my scalp to the ends of a section of hair. I felt an odd “release,” and when I looked at the comb, I saw that my blonde tresses were enmeshed in the teeth.

I remember thinking, “Oh geez. Here it comes, and there it goes.”

I tried to salvage it as best I could, but by the next morning, most of it lay on my pillow. I
acknowledged that it was a lost cause and I shaved my head. Even is better than patchy. Trust me on that.

When it comes to chemo and hair loss, it is literally hair today, gone tomorrow.

But this time could be all together different.

Yes, it is possible to go through chemotherapy treatments and not lose your hair in the year 2011. Though not even five years have passed since I last went through chemo, it’s a whole new ballgame. A paradigm shift, if you will.

In 2006, I was on a chemo regimen of Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Probability of hair loss: 99 percent.

This time, I’m on a regimen of Gemzar, Carboplatin and BSI-201 — the PARP Inhibitor. Probability of hair loss, according to the Clinical Trials nurse, Robin, about one in six. If you do the math, that means I have about an 83 percent chance I won’t lose my hair this time.

Why is that so important at a time like this? Lots of reasons, the least of which is vanity.

Last time, my son was an infant. He didn’t know the difference. This time, he’s a bright, five-year-old little boy. He’ll know the difference. And I want to shelter him from the blow of my illness as much as I can.

Last time, as a Stage 1, I only had to do two months of chemo, and then my hair began growing back. I had a short ‘do by Thanksgiving. This time, as a Stage 4, I’m looking at about nine months of chemo. I’d be bald a long, long time.

Last time, every time I was out and about sans wig, people stared. Sometimes, they looked on with pity. Other times, they stopped me and asked questions.

I don’t have to tell you that I don’t mind talking about what I’m going through. But I don’t want to talk about it all the time. Keeping my hair means I can go out into public, a cancer patient incognito, if you will, and enjoy being with my friends and family. No stares. No looks of pity. No questions from strangers.

So, when will I know? According to my doctors’ calculations, if I’m going to lose my hair this go-round, it ought to happen any day now. But, if it doesn’t happen by Tuesday, I very well could be…home free!

Last night, we had dinner at my bff Tabitha’s house. After we finished off the spaghetti and piled our plates in the sink, we were sitting on the couch when she noticed. In the last few days, I’ve taken to twirling a lock of hair around my fingers, and then giving it a gentle, almost imperceptible tug. Most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Tabitha knows me too well. She did.

“Honey,” she said. “Try not to get your hopes up too high. I don’t want you to be devastated if it does fall out.”

“It’s not going to,” I said. And I made her reach over and do “the tug.”

My Dad used to say, “If I were a betting man…”

Well, I am a betting woman.

And I’m betting that this time, I keep it.

By Tuesday, I’ll know. And I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, please “root” me on. Pun fully intended.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Life, Unscripted: Beyond Chemo

9 02 2011

Theo puts the finishing touches on his Valentine's Day Card Box for school.


Part of my life, for now and the forseeable future, is scripted. The chemo regimen I’m on is not forgiving. I need to be at the hospital each Monday for blood draws and labs. These results ensure that I’m healthy enough to receive chemo. Once I leap that hurdle with flying colors (as I did this week!), I have two rounds of chemo — one on Tuesday, the other on Friday.

I’m on what’s called a Day1-Day4-Day8-Day11 regimen — with a one week break in between, and then it starts again. I’m on the schedule for a minimum of 24 treatments (12 weeks), before the doctors will consider (after a clean PET Scan) stopping or curtailing the regimen. In contrast, when I was a Stage 1 in 2005, I went through four rounds of chemo, period. Done.

Tuesday’s round is the longest and most brutal. I’m in the chemo chair (think recliner with footstool — it’s pretty comfy). The IV goes into the port on the right side of my chest. First I receive a bag of fluids that contains anti-nausea drugs. Anti-nausea drugs have come a long way in the world of chemo. These babies stay in my system and work for about three days — just long enough to get me over the hump.

Next comes the Gemzar (Gemcitabine) and Carboplatin, followed by the one I refer to as the “Magic Elixir” — The PARP Inhibitor, AKA BSI-201. Together, the three infusions take about 4 hours to travel from the IV drip into my body. While I’m waiting, I can do most anything — eat, talk to my chemo buddy/driver, blog, take part in a conference call, visit with somone who stops by (yesterday, it was a surprise visit from Molly MacDonald at The Pink Fund!)

The way home can get a bit dicey. Royal Oak Beaumont is a good distance from our house. It’s a 45 minute drive without traffic, but nine times out of 10, there is traffic and it takes over an hour (or 2 1/2 hours, as it did a few weeks back when I was with my cousin Christine!) The car ride gives me a touch of motion sickness most times, meaning only that I’ve got an upset stomach and don’t eat much when I get home.

Getting chemo means you often feel like you’re coming down with the flu — the body aches, pains, mild nausea. Very rarely do I ever vomit, thanks to the anti-nausea drugs. For that, I am so grateful. So, while I’m not Amy at Full Speed (this is a sight to see, I’ve been told!), I can — and do — spend time with my family before heading off to a pretty early bedtime.

Wednesdays are my worst days, Thursdays about 50 percent better, Fridays pretty good, though I go back for chemo treatment on Friday. That’s the PARP Inhibitor all by itself, so the infusion is much shorter — maybe an hour to an hour and a half. And the side-effects much less brutal. Saturday I won’t be feeling stellar, but I will be feeling pretty good.

But life goes on, despite breast cancer treatments. That’s the key. You can live a fairly normal life during treatment, albeit a slower version where I have to make careful choices of what I can and can’t schedule on the calendar. I’ve got to protect my energy levels, and make sure that I’m not in a crowd very often. I can’t afford to be around sick people, as getting sick would be reason to cancel or postpone my treatment.

But that’s not bad news. We get a lot of one-on-one family time these days, truly relishing in life’s simplest pleasures. Helping Theo decorate his Valentine’s Day Collection Box for school. Running pell-mell with him throughout the house, decorating the windows with Valentine’s Day vinyl clings. Sliding down the sled hill out back and skidding across the lake — whoomp! — into a snow bank. And then doing it again.

There is life beyond chemo — unscripted — and plenty of it.

This week is Amphibian Week at Theo’s school and he’s been invited to bring his American Toad and dwarf frogs to school tomorrow — “For the whole day, Mommy!” he announced after school on Monday.

Then his teacher called and asked if I might be up to coming to school Friday morning for just a few minutes to talk to his classmates about our frog and toad hobby, caring for and keeping them healthy, learning all there is to know about them. I’ll be there. I’ll also be at his school’s Elementary School Round-up later this week and a family bridal shower on Saturday. In between, I will be doing a lot of resting, eating healthy, refilling my empty tank. I’ll be blogging and working on a smaller scale than usual. Who knows? I might even throw a load or two of laundry into the washer.

I’ll be looking forward to my week off next week like a kid counting the days til summer vacation. That said, it’s important to note that life during cancer treatment isn’t black or white. It falls into the gray area of what you have to do, and what you then choose to do.

It’s not “I went from a happy, full life to nothing.”

It’s, “I went from a happy, full life to a life where I am still very happy, have to incorporate regular treatments for a while, but in between, can still do most everything I love and, most importantly, be with those I love.”

There’s a scripted part of my life during treatment, yes. But there’s also the unscripted. And, thank God, plenty of it.

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





And I’m Off and Running! (Chemo, the Day After)

2 02 2011

OK, maybe more like running, collapsing on the bed, sleeping, getting back up, running some more. Running just my natural state of being, so that’s actually good news. It’s my “normal.”

Yesterday’s round of chemo was, in keeping with the racing theme here, a trifecta. Gemzar and Carboplatin were first, followed by that magic elixir, the PARP Inhibitor BSI-201.

Tuesday is my longer day. It was about a 4 1/2 hour infusion. Friday I will get my second dose of the PARP Inhibitor, and that will take only about 1 1/2 hours. Chemo will continue on a Tuesday/Friday regimen, with labs drawn on Mondays, for two weeks. Then I’ll be off a week, repeat.

No one knows for how long I’ll be undergoing chemo. It’s different for everyone. Right now, it looks like it will be about four to six months. But, I will go through body scans at regular intervals to see how effective these medicines are. Hopefully, they will put me into remission very quickly.

I got the call about my lung biopsy results from my oncologist, Dr. Dana Zakalik, about 10:15 yesterday morning. I was scurrying about the house, trying to help my sister Julie get her luggage packed and grabbing my iPad and a blanket for chemo, when the phone rang.

My gut told me that the biopsy results would just confirm what we already suspected — that the breast cancer had spread to my lung. The results were positive; that IS indeed breast cancer in my lung. Looks right now like it’s just my right lung, and that it has affected two of the lobes. And yes, this takes me to a Stage 4.

My next step was to find my sister, who was in the shower, and tell her, “I need you now!”

She shut off the water, still covered in soap lather, wrapped herself in a towel, and threw her arms around me.

I couldn’t speak. My body was vibrating from the wracking sobs.

“Is it what we thought, baby?” she whispered as she rocked me back and forth.

I nodded. We moved to the edge of the bed in the guestroom and sat down. When I was able to compose myself well enough to speak, I said, “You can’t let people forget me when I’m gone. Pleeassseee don’t let people forget me. People always say they’ll never forget you, but then their lives get busy, and then…”

I told her my wish would be that she and our other sister Lisa, my nieces Natalie and Emily, all of our family and friends who wanted to, would find a way to use my name and my journey and battle to further the cause, to move ever closer to the day when this disease will be eradicated. When it would no longer be allowed to run about, pell-mell, wreaking havoc and wrecking lifes. I said, “Something like Susan G. Komen’s sister promised Susan — and then carried out.”

I never have been one to do anything in a small way. As my Dad always told me, “Shoot for the moon, Aim. And even if you don’t reach it, you’ll still be among the stars.”

Julie promised me. She promised me that they would work together to come up with the perfect idea — the one that would help the greatest number of people, in my name. So, I wouldn’t be forgotten, and I could contribute to this cause long after I’m gone.

But that is a conversation that can be tabled for a while. Months. Maybe even years. The PARP Inhibitor could not only melt away the cancer cells that are present, but would put and keep me in remission. And there’s a very good chance that this is exactly what’s going to happen. Maybe, in this best-case scenario, I’ll be around to lead this project, whatever it turns out to be, whenever it’s my turn to carry the torch for this cause.

So, how does yesterday’s news change things? It doesn’t. Not, at least, in terms of my treatment protocol. It did pull me down mentally for a little while, an hour, maybe two. But I picked myself back up and was off to my chemo treatment. Happy. Happy to have the chance to get the drugs that may save my life.

Does it change my prognosis? Probably not in any way that’s worth measuring. This new invader, afterall, announced its intentions from the get-go. Now, I’m voicing mine. I will live. For many, many, many years. I will be by my husband’s side to raise our five-year-old son into adulthood, and beyond. I will lobby for this cause from the depths of my very being, in every way that God asks me to, in every direction He leads me.

I made a new friend in the chemo chair next to me. Her name is Alicia, and like me, she is the mother of a young child. She’s brave and I know she’s going to make it. We’re now also on facebook together, and might I shamelessly add, she’s a new subscriber to my blog. PR for this cause, afterall, is a 24-7 job. Cancer never sleeps.

I feel OK today. A little nauseous, dizzy, fatigued. Not too bad for the day after chemo. I was just going to post a short update and here I am, 892 words later. I’m tired. Back to bed for me.

– Amy Rauch Neilson








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