Health Blog 
I am going to start with the truth: I am a little behind in my training for the Seattle Rock n’ Roll Half Marathon. Finding the time for training and fighting minor illnesses means I am a couple miles behind in my training schedule. As I expressed concerns that I might not be ready in time for the big race, my fiancé said to me “You know, you don’t have to do it.” For a moment I was tempted. I thought, “Who would really care if I dropped out of the race anyway?” I never ran a race before cancer, so who would expect me to run one after? And then I thought of Chelsea, a 24-year-old mother who was diagnosed with bone cancer while she was in college, who is trying to raise a 2-year-old through chemo and radiation. I remembered 27-year-old My Tam, who I never saw without a smile through months of treatment for lymphoma. Then there’s Janna, who fought and beat breast cancer in her 30’s, while raising two kids. Tracy has kicked cancer’s butt three times in her early 30’s and raised thousands of dollars for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. One of the friendliest people I have ever met, Katie, is facing this disease with more strength and humor than I could ever imagine. And Austen, perhaps the most beautiful cancer patient to ever live, is facing lymphoma for the second time at 25 years old and trying to help other survivors feel better about the way they look. Most recently Lynette, who became my dear friend in one 30 minute conversation, is joyfully using cancer as an excuse to get that pink Mohawk she’s always wanted. And I could go on, and on, and on. The truth is, running this race will not cure my friends with cancer. It will not make their chemotherapy less painful or their radiation less exhausting. But I will still run for them. I will run for every survivor I know who cannot join me in this race to show them that someday, very soon, I hope, they will be running again too. When you’re diagnosed with cancer there is no way to know if you will ever be “the same” again. I am running to show that we can be greater. And we can never stop fighting. 
Today is the one year anniversary of the day my doctor told me I might have cancer. Though it took several weeks to diagnose me stage IV B-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Lymphoma, this was the first time I heard the scary “C” word. It was the day my life changed forever. For a couple weeks now, I knew today would be a milestone in my life. Now that the anniversary is here, I am experiencing a kaleidoscope of emotions. It seems this anniversary is nearly as difficult for me to comprehend as my cancer diagnosis was one year ago. May 11, 2011 started relatively normal. It was a Wednesday, a typical workday except for the fact that I would have to leave the office a bit early. I’d had an MRI that Monday to address months of back pain and my primary care doctor called that morning to ask if I would come in at 2 p.m. to discuss the results. If there was any discernable emotion in his voice I didn’t notice. While I drove to the doctor, I wasn’t worried. Rather, I was eager to hear the results. I remember thinking, “I hope they find something, so we can address the problem and fix it.” I was sure I had a slipped disk or some similar injury. I just wanted an explanation for my pain. I never imagined that the explanation would be cancer. Read more »
Only .05 percent of people my age were diagnosed with cancer from 2005 to 2009. Of that group, only 6 percent had non-hodgkins lymphoma and less than 10 percent of non-hodgkins patients had my disease - acute lymphoblastic lymphoma (National Cancer Institute). Considering the odds of my getting this disease at this age, it might seem strange to call myself lucky. But in my heart I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Because he wants to marry me. If your heart can actually stop from shock, mine most certainly did the moment Angel opened that velvet box. We had collapsed onto the bed of our Maui condo, exhausted from the day of traveling. "I think this is going to be the best vacation yet," Angel said. "Yeah? I asked. "Me too." Read more »
Sunday morning, as I prepared for my weekly run with the American Cancer Society's "Team DetermiNation," one of the coaches asked me to share my cancer story with the group. I'm not a very good public speaker, especially when I am caught off-guard. So I quickly explained how I had been diagnosed with stage IV Acute Lymphoblastic Lymphoma almost one year ago. I mentioned my 6 months of chemotherapy and happily reported that today, I am cancer free. I told the group that the fundraising they were doing to support patients like me meant so much to me, and that the Seattle Rock and Roll half marathon would be my first race ever. I said all of this quickly, without much emphasis or detail, because I am a writer, not a public speaker. How could I possibly explain to the group all that I had been through in a couple short minutes? More importantly, how could I explain to them how much it means to me to see a group of healthy people every Sunday morning, working hard to support cancer patients they have never even meant. I will attempt to make up for my poor speaking skills in this blog. Read more » 
Sometimes pressure seems to fall like a monsoon trying to wash away all of the peace that cancer left me with. While I was in treatment I made a list of things I was going to do after. I needed motivation to push through. And it worked! I made it out of the dark, scary chemo place! I came out of cancer hungry to take on the world. I didn't just want to do big things, I wanted to do a dozen big things all at once! I put a lot of pressure on myself. I signed up for more dance classes than I've taken in 7 years. I'm starting a non-profit. I'm began training for a half-marathon! All the while a teeny-tiny, snotty, devilish version of myself was sitting on my shoulder whispering evil messages like: “You can't jump as high as her,” “Your non-profit isn't as successful as theirs” and “You're going to be the last one across the finish line.” One minute I was getting ready for a going away party, feeling sexy in my new skinny jeans a loving my inch-plus hair, and the next I was out at the bar, feeling self-conscious and envious of girls with long, flowing hair. That jealous little devil that plagues so many of us still sits on my shoulder, but cancer has taught me to answer it differently. Read more »
December 29, 2011 was one of the most incredible days of my life. It was the day my doctor told me I was in complete remission. I had been diagnosed with stage IV Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, completed 6 months of incredibly toxic chemotherapy and there was no longer any evidence of disease. Finally, I felt like I could breathe. I made it! I was alive! Cancer had started the fight, but I finished it. But, actually, my fight is not over. Cancer has changed me forever, inside and out. It has inspired me to live the greatest life possible and, for me, that means being as healthy as possible. So I am making some changes and taking on a major challenge: Seattle’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon. Read more »
That is the expectation.
Not necessarily from others, but from myself. I should be all better now. Better than I was those during 6 months when they pumped poison into my veins. Better than I was when I could barely climb off the couch. Better than when I had spinal taps and bone marrow biopsies.
But that’s not all. I expect myself to be better than I was before I got sick. I should be able to climb a mountain while winning a Pulitzer Prize and curing cancer. Because if cancer doesn’t make me better than I was before, then I just had a terrible disease. And that’s it. End of story. I’ve come out of it with nothing.
And that is not acceptable.
Oh, I am my own worst enemy.
It has been 7 months and 18 days since I first learned that I had lymphoma. In that time, my head has never stopped spinning, until today. Because today, I am cancer free. After an MRI, spinal taps, a bone marrow test and a PET Scan, doctors can no longer find any evidence of cancer in my body. I have been saved! I am in “the after." Read more »
Almond butter and bananas.
The craving came simply and surprisingly. But it almost brought me to tears.
Before I started chemotherapy I used to love this bizarre snack. Whenever I'd get a sweet craving and wanted to resist less nutritious treats, I'd slice up a banana onto a salad plate, plop a scoop of almond butter on there are enjoy each slice on the end of a fork in the perfect banana to butter ratio.
When I started chemotherapy, I stopped enjoying my old, faithful snack. My appetite completely changed thanks to drugs flowing through me. It didn't really bother me, I had plenty else to worry about. Nonetheless, the jars of almond butter grew stale and bananas became a rarity around my condo.
Today, I am just about a week out of chemotherapy. And suddenly, I am starting to crave almond butter and bananas again.
It's like a little piece of me has come back to life.
Read more »
Cancer is like crowd surfing. You depend on others to hold you up and if they fail, you're going down. I spent my high school and college years going to more concerts than most people attend in a lifetime. And despite all the hours I racked up at El Corazon, I have never actually crowd surfed. I could never put that much trust in a group of strangers.
Until my life depended on it.
It started with a bone marrow test. I was sitting in the oncology unit of Highline Medical Center when I first realized this disease could kill me. Our oncologist was staring at his shoes while he told me that there were cancer cells in my bone marrow, my spinal fluid and a tumor on my spinal vertebrae. I had stage IV Acute Lymphoblastic Lymphoma. There is no stage V.
Sitting on the exam table my body began to shake but I tried to keep it together. “What do we do next?” I asked.
His only recommendation was that we go to Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (SCCA).
I will forever be grateful that he did.
Read more » 
“What are you thinking?” “That's a terrible idea!” “Are you sure you can handle that?” These things were all said to me when I made me recent decision to expand my family – with a new kitten. Cancer affects everyone differently, but for me it was clarifying. After I was diagnosed, I quickly realized what was most important to me: My family, my boyfriend, my friends, dance, yoga, traveling, art. Suddenly, I was dying to do things that I had been hesitant towards before, like buying a house or returning to Hawaii. And there was one more thing. “When you get better, we will adopt a second cat” my boyfriend promised me. Read more » |
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About Rose Egge
Rose Egge is a community reporter living and working in West Seattle. At age 25, doctors discovered a tumor on her spine and diagnosed her with acute lymphoblastic lymphoma, a rare type of blood cancer. While she is undergoing treatment, Rose will write about her fight against cancer and reporting in the local community. 
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