"Good Hodgkin's"
#livelaughlymphoma
Prior to August 17, 2019, I was a relatively normal, boring, upper middle class white girl with a penchant for sarcasm and a minor online shopping addiction. But after one foggy summer morning, when I drove on a whim to the University of Michigan ER to remedy an uncomfortably large bulge in my throat, everything was different (large bulge ha ha do u get it? o boy). That day, I had intended to return to my hometown in the northernish suburbs of Chicago for a much needed break before the advent of the 2019 school year, but ended up staring at the ceiling of a triage room trying not to shed tears after a merry go round of doctors had leaned forward in the squeaking revolving chair, clasped their hands, and tentatively explained it sounded like “we” were “dealing with something that looked a lot like Lymphoma”.
Of course, the idea of “cancer” seems pretty ridiculous when you’re 25 although I had frequently imagined what it might be liked to be diagnosed with a serious or terminal instance. I had joked every so often “What if I just tell them I have cancer?” to finagle myself out of situations ranging from missed appointments to paste due rentals. And then it actually happened. The first thought that creeped into my mind was that perhaps I had jinxed myself—perhaps my luck had finally run out after the last few years of narrowly avoiding consequences. I had been a smoker as part of my persona as a sad, cynical, down for anything, cool chick. Of course I smoked only “real” tobacco consisting primarily of Organic American Spirit Yellows (organic? who was I kidding…), Nat Sherman’s, and British cigarettes. I had been UV tanning ever since I scammed my father into sponsoring an account at a local shop when I was 17. And I spent the greater part of my first few years at college licking powder residue off of the back of public toilets. I wanted to be Lindsay, Cat Marnell, Corey Kennedy, Jessa Johansson. I thought I was bohemian and mature when I was really just stupid and obnoxious. To me, it seemed that karma had finally caught up with me after years of drunkenly stumbling through young adulthood and somehow managing to always land on my feet (except for that one time I did land on my face in the slippery entryway of a local bar).
I was immediately crestfallen, having only recently begun toying with the idea of mature, restrained adulthood in the past few months, being currently sober and working a program. I had a steady job. I was managing two verifiably insane dogs, seeing my therapist weekly, consistently taking my meds, going to and finishing class. I walked several miles a day and ate like a rabbit (when I could find the time between all of the shit I had to do). But, in the words of the immortal Miss Clavel, “something was not right”. I was overwhelmingly tired, anemic, and had shat diarrhea basically every day for the last four months. Earlier that summer I had spent a few weeks back home undergoing extensive medical testing, and while my numbers were off, they just couldn’t seem to pinpoint the source of the problem. I thought I was crazy, constantly texting my GP in the middle of the night with each seemingly unrelated bizarre symptom as I sweat through my sheets each night and spent hours in front of the mirror trying to assess the invisible lump in my throat like a paranoid meth head. My second feeling was vindication, because I was fucking right. I was not the delicate hypochondriac everyone had assumed I was, there was something genuinely wrong with me. I was relieved. I had assumed that I would spend the rest of my life tired and in pain with my legs falling asleep as I spent hours on the toilet. And then, with an electric jolt of realization, my mind shifted to the superficial . I was never going to graduate. I would have to move home and surrender my treasured independence. And I was definitely going to have to lose my hair.
I spent the next week cocooned in the hospital’s Pulmonary Unit (they had found inflamed lymph nodes and a few suspicious granules in my lungs), leaving my room only when my parents returned with restaurant takeout so we could eat in the hospital courtyard. The IV they had placed in the ER began to worm its way into my arm, suffocated by the irritated flesh surrounding it. I felt the same, like I was being swallowed by the putrid plasma of disease. I was poked and prodded, bruised like an IV addict, painfully alert during a rather disturbing core biopsy experience (you try watching
“...it seemed that karma had finally caught up with me after years of drunkenly stumbling through young adulthood and somehow managing to always land on my feet.”
an 8”+ needle going into your neck), and already exhausted by the prospect of the innumerable appointments and procedures I assumed I would have to endure over the next few months. I didn’t even get the definitive results of my second biopsy (the first was inconclusive) until I made a point of calling the Hospital to speak with my doctor to check on the progress of my pathological report once I was back home. He was off duty, but the doctor on shift unceremoniously replied “Oh yeah. Looks like Hodgkin’s,” and that was it. I 100%, without a doubt had cancer.
I’m about nine days or so from starting treatment (six months of ABVD chemotherapy) and two days out from the implantation of my port. I have no significant fear of death—as I put it when the ER doctor asked if I wanted a DNR, “I’ve had a good enough life. There isn’t much I feel I’m looking forward to”. He panickedly tried to persuade me that it was a real waste for someone as young and healthy as I was to just “give up like that”, even if I thought I was going to be a vegetable for the rest of my life. Anyways, I got lucky. As a young woman, my prospects for remission are very good. Lymphoma (and I don’t mean to minimize anyone else’s experience but) is kind of like PG cancer. There’s no frantic sense of urgency or real uncertainty regarding whether I’ll make it or not. But, like I said, I’ve been unlucky before.
The hardest part about being an ill person is just that, you feel as though you have lost your sense of self and agency in your new identity as an ill person. My body doesn’t perform the way I want or expect it to. I feel lazy because I can’t climb a flight of stairs without losing my breath. I feel stunted because I now live at home with my parents without the esteem of a steady job or a college workload. I’m tired, I’m itchy, I’m sore; I spend the hours between 2 and 9PM sleeping, and the hours of 12-3AM retching my guts out and staring at my Etsy favorites. And I don’t know if it’s going to get better or worse. What I do know is I’m incredibly grateful for my medical insurance (it’s my Dad’s lol) and the professionals I have in my corner. Hey, even my family has been surprisingly accommodating ( * removes silver spoon * is it a surprise though?).
I promised myself I’d finally use this dumb domain I’ve already spent too much money on. So whether you follow along for reasons of concern or morbid curiosity, welcome to my world. And I know, it’s just #AnotherStupidBlog but this one has the added flavor of cancer porn—at least that’s how I justify it to myself.