Keeping Secrets

I tried not to mention it. I figured I'd ignore it and it would go away as quickly as it came back. I didn't want to bore you all and sound like the hypochondriac my cancer "survivor" status has forced me to become, but I made a promise when I started my original blog, and that was to be completely honest when I write. 

So I guess I need to talk about the new pains.

Right before I left for Europe in July the pain in my back that, after two MRIs a PET scan and a CT scan, was determined to be a fracture in my pelvic bone caused by radiation damage, finally started to feel better. By the time we boarded the plane for London it was no more than a horrible memory. I was able to walk miles through England and France, climbing to the top of every church, mountain and museum I faced. My bottle of pain pills remained closed the entire time and I thought my life was back on track. When I returned from my trip I started up my routine at the gym again. I handled my regular 45 minute, 5 mile trek on the elliptical with ease and booked time with my trainer, Wayne, to get back into weights. He took it easy on me to make sure I was ready to handle the workout. I felt great until we did some upper body exercises that reminded me of the strain on my rotator cuff that resulted when I fell down the stairs and pulled up on the bannister to save myself from landing on my already cracked pelvic bone. Yup, I'd had a rough month! "We need to stick to lower body next time," I told Wayne and he agreed. Two days later I was down on the mat working my sluggish abs, trying to find the definition I'd lost during my doctor-ordered hiatus. Legs and abs and butt, oh my! That was the routine for the day and I made my way around the circuit four times without complaint. I was thrilled to be getting back into shape since we'd be leaving a few weeks later for our last pre-baby, family vacation to Turks and Caicos. But that feeling was short-lived.

"Owww!" I whined as I got out of bed two days later. "What's wrong?" Jimmi asked, probably sick of hearing me bitch about my body slowly giving out on me. "My back hurts again," I told him as I reached around to massage the same spot on the right side of my pelvic bone that had supposedly healed. Jimmi looked at me with concern, "Really? Maybe it was too soon to go back to the gym," he said. I was a little annoyed, "The doctor cleared me to go back before we went to Europe and I waited almost three extra weeks!" I snapped. "And I didn't even do anything strenuous! Just some abs and legs. Maybe it was the ab exercises on my back?" I thought out loud. Whatever it was it sucked. Since it was basically the same location as my earlier fracture and it hurt slightly less, I didn't bother calling the doctor or announcing it in a post. "It'll go away," I thought. "I don't have time to deal with this now."

A week went by and the pain continued. It wasn't terrible but it was definitely there. My mom suggested I call the doctor, but with a week to go before our family vacation, I didn't have the time or the mental stamina to go through the same crap I went through last time. Besides, I had a follow-up CT scan and MRI scheduled for September 6th anyway. No harm in waiting a few weeks, right? Maybe it'll go away by then and I can save myself the stress of extra tests and appointments. But wait! Our embryo transfer is set up for August 30th. What if there IS something wrong and I don't find out until after Lyndsay is pregnant? Then what? Ok, I can't think about that. It went away before, it'll go away again. I just needed to get to Turks and Caicos and relax.

As our plane made its final approach over the aquamarine water on August 19th, I shifted my seat back to its full upright position. "Ouch!" I yelped as the familiar jolt shot through my lower back. Can't this just go away? When the doors opened, I stood up carefully and pretended to be fine as I hobbled out of of the aircraft into the island heat. Jimmi and the boys carried and wheeled the bags and I lagged behind, though I was walking as quickly as I could. I kept thinking to myself that the last time this happened I couldn't walk at all, so maybe it wasn't that bad. I tried to rationalize that since it was in pretty much the same location I must just have a weak spot in my bone that will be prone to injury from now on and that if it was cancer the doctors would've seen it in the 700 scans they performed in June. But then my mind wandered to the truth about Small Cell Carcinoma that no one wants to think about. It's incredibly common to have a clear scan one month and a body full of cancer the next. It's the nature of the disease. Ok, erase! Erase! You're on vacation!

I popped an anti-inflammatory pill as soon as we got to our room and then we headed out to explore the beauty that surrounded us. "Wait for me!" I had to call out numerous times as my family disappeared on the path in front of me while I tried helplessly to catch up. I pushed through the pain and joined the boys in the pool and the ocean, but I made sure I avoided the water slides. The kids understood but I could still see the disappointment in their eyes. And then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. "Does anyone wanna go parasailing?" I asked. Justin and Jimmi shook their heads in horror but Dylan answered, "Yeah!" And that was it. For as long as I could remember I'd always wanted to try soaring over the ocean, pulled by a motorboat, but I'd never actually done it. If cancer taught me anything, it's to always try new things once. Dylan and I boarded the boat without a second thought and out to sea we went. I didn't really get nervous until I signed our lives away on the consent form and we were being strapped into the harnesses, which were no more than a few canvas straps around our thighs that connected to a life vest that hooked onto the parachute. Wait...we don't actually have a chair?! Seriously? I'm allowing my 12 year-old to do this? I got ahold of myself and realized that if I freaked out, Dylan would freak out, and the last thing I wanted was to instill fear into my boy. And then the parachute started to lift us up over the boat. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Ok, this isn't so bad. I can handle this. Wait. Why do they keep letting out more rope? There's so much slack. Holy SHIT we're going up higher? "Are you ok?" I asked Dylan while trying to answer the same question myself. "Yeah, are you?" Dylan responded. I nodded my head and hoped he wouldn't know I was lying. I was absolutely terrified. "Do you want to cross your legs?" Dylan asked, referring to the signal we were told to give if we wanted to come down before our 18 minute-long ride of death was over. Yes. YES I DO!! But, "No, I'm fine! Do you?" came out instead. Dylan shook his head and seemed to take his cue to stay calm from me. If he only knew how NOT calm I actually was. Oh my GOD I want to get down! Shit! The wind is picking up! We jolted from side to side and I could hear the buckles clanking against each other. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that one wrong move could send either of us plunging into the shark-infested water below. I can't believe I put my kid in danger like this! Should I cross my legs? No! Hold strong and teach the boy how to be confident and strong! We slowly started to drift down a little lower and I could feel the blood start to flow into my hands again as my fingers began to ease their grip on the harness. I barely had time to release the breath I'd been holding when another gust of wind shot us right back up where we'd been moments before. All I could hear was the wind around me. I needed to see if Dylan was alright but fear wouldn't allow me to turn my head. I forced the words out, "You ok, Bud?" I barely heard the response, "Yup." "We're really high!" I announced, as if he didn't already know that. I scanned the ocean below for the bodies of those who'd ridden before us, but saw nothing. That was a good sign, right? Has it been 18 minutes yet? Each time the wind shifted the chute jerked and jolted and I had to resist the urge to give the "GET US DOWN!!" sign. Truthfully, I'm not even sure I would've been able to cross my legs to give the sign since my body was pretty much paralyzed by fear. After what felt like hours, we were finally lowered back down to the boat. The tension in my body began to release as we were unhooked and able to walk back to our seats. "That was so cool!" I lied to my kid as I forced myself not to kiss the floor of the boat and hug the crew for getting us down safely. "How high did we go?" I asked, not expecting the answer I received. "Five-hundred feet," I was told. I was silent for a minute. Almost speechless. "Wow. Glad I didn't know that before we went up." When we got back to the beach Jimmi was smiling and showing me the pictures he'd taken of us in the air. "How was it?" he asked. I looked around to make sure both boys were out of earshot, "It was absolutely terrifying and I will NEVER do it again!" 

On day three of our vacation a new ailment struck my broken body. When I walked I noticed what felt like a pulled muscle in...how should I put this? My anus? Well, it was next to my anus. Like bordering it. It hurt when I bent over to pick something up or lifted my leg. What now? I haven't don't anything that would've caused this! And to make things more interesting, the new pain was to the left, while the older pain was on the right. I e-mailed my mom to let her know I was continuing to fall apart and she suggested I take Tylenol to see if it helped. A few days later the pain trifecta commenced with a feeling of pressure right up in my butthole. Sorry for being blunt, I'm just telling it like it was. I attempted to release the buildup in the bathroom but nothing happened. A few more tries during and after breakfast resulted in a couple of rabbit pellets and the feeling that I still had to go. I made the mistake of Googling "rectal cancer," because, well, that's what cancer "survivors" do:

Symptoms of rectal cancer include changes in bowel habits, such as diarrhea or constipation and a feeling of not being able to completely empty the bowel.

AWESOME! I totally have rectal cancer!

I finished up in the bathroom as much as I could, and headed back to where my family was sitting, waiting for our catamaran cruise. "I think the cancer is back in my ass," I said nonchalantly to Jimmi, who looked at me like I had a horn growing out the top of my head. I explained my symptoms and followed with, "What if Lyndsay gets pregnant and then I find out I have cancer again?" He clearly didn't want to think about that possibility, but suggested I switch my scan week with the transfer week, which I'd actually wanted to do from the beginning but couldn't get all the appointments to line up correctly. "I can't!" I whimpered. "She's already taking all the medicines and I don't want to! I just want everything to be ok so we can have a baby and I can be there to watch her grow up!" As much as the reality of the recurrence rate of Small Cell Carcinoma of the Cervix had been drilled into my head, the bliss of denial still took over and urged me to keep my scan appointment where it was, the week after our embryos are transferred into Lyndsay's uterus. But is that fair? What if I'm sick again and she gets pregnant? What will happen next? Will we allow the pregnancy to continue and risk having babies who will never know their mommy? Will we ask her to abort? What a horrible, terrible, unbearable decision we'd all be facing. Why can't the awful part of my life just be over already? Why does it have to keep popping up over and over again, especially when something so amazing is about to happen? 

"First shot complete" was the text I received from Lyndsay that night. Yes, she's been giving herself shots for a few weeks now, but this one was different. Since this is transfer week a new shot has been added that will continue into her eighth week of pregnancy. It's so real now. I wish I could be more excited, I thought to myself as my bowels ached, the side of my anus throbbed and my pelvic bone pinched. This blows. We exchanged a few messages and I let her in on my little secret, though I didn't want to scare her. Maybe it'll be better tomorrow.

With two days left of our trip, things seemed to become a bit more regular in the bowel department. The dull ache to the left of my anus was intermittent and I tried to convince myself that it might be a hemorrhoid rather than cancer. I honestly never thought I'd wish for hemorrhoids as much as I have this week. The pelvic bone pain, while still present, felt slightly better and I enjoyed some snorkeling with Jimmi. Well, I enjoyed it until I came face to face with a barracuda with very large teeth that scared the bejeezus out of me! We finished off our vacation with family photos on the beach at sunset and I was able to sit and move in every awkward position the photographer requested - even the one where Jimmi was belly down in the sand and we all piled on top of him. I wasn't too sure about that one, and even Dylan was concerned, "Are you sure Justin and I should get on your back, Mom?" I nodded knowing that my mom would be screaming at me if she knew I was allowing almost 200 lbs. of tween boys to plunk down on top of me. Luckily I didn't come out any worse than I went into it. 

And now we're home and it's TRANSFER WEEK! I wish I could say I'm back to feeling 100%, but I don't want to lie. It's not the worst it's been but it's not the best either. I'm thinking positively and attributing the pelvic pain to re-injuring a weak spot in my bone by going back to the gym too soon, the left anus pain to a pulled muscle and the bowel issues to hemorrhoids or radiation damage, which could cause poop drama forever. Lyndsay and her mom will be here on Thursday and my mom and I will take them to New York City again. This time we'll see "Wicked," which we should have seen last time. Then, on Friday, Jimmi and I will watch as our little microscopic bundles of joy are placed into Lyndsay's uterus for safe-keeping until around May 23, 2014. I refuse to think about my scans exactly one week later. This is baby week! We need to think sticky thoughts so those little buggers implant and stay put! Sticky thoughts! Sticky thoughts! Sticky thoughts! Everyone...

THINK STICKY THOUGHTS!!!

 

Starting Over

"First shot complete."

That was the text I received from Lyndsay five days ago that literally made my my eyes sting with salt-water.

I held my phone under Jimmi's nose so he was forced to read the same three words. "Oh, Jeez," he joked. "My life is officially over!" After I punched my husband playfully in the arm and told him he'd better be ready for all the changes a baby, or babies, will bring, I actually started to think about those changes myself. And that's when my heart started pounding faster and my palms began to sweat.

What's going on? I thought. I've done it all before...twice! Yes, it's been ten years since the last time I had a newborn, but I'm sure it'll come back to me pretty quickly. They cry, you change them or feed them or burp them or rock them or some combination of those options. No big deal, right? I've been doing this parenting thing for almost 13 years now. I'm an expert! Well, as much of an expert as any mom can be. I'm sure it won't be that difficult to start over.

Oh my GOD!!

I have to start over?! But I've come so far!

Honestly, with the exception of some serious attitude every now and then, my boys are SO easy! They dress themselves and feed themselves and wipe themselves and entertain themselves. They can even stay home alone for a few hours while I run errands BY MYSELF! And if I do need to take them somewhere it's as easy as, "Dylan, Justin! Get your shoes on! Let's go!" And we're out the door. They grab iPods or iPads or phones or whatever electronic device will keep them happy at the store of choice and off we go. My boys can tell me if they're hungry or sick or sad without it becoming a stressful guessing game. They can read books on their own and work the TV and the DVD player. They even make their own Pop-Tarts when they wake up on weekends so I can sleep.

SLEEP!

Oh no! Sleep. Oh, wonderful and blissful sleep! Jimmi and I are basically nocturnal. If allowed, we'll stay up until the wee hours of the morning and sleep until noon. When the boys wake up on Saturday and Sunday mornings, usually around 10:00 AM, they head downstairs to the Xbox or the playroom and they don't bother us at all. If they don't feel like making cereal or toast, they'll wait until I roll out of bed and make them pancakes at 11:00!

Thoughts flooded my head of packing diaper bags with not only diapers and wipes, but also four different outfits (for multiple puking or pooping emergencies), 17 pacifiers (because the first 16 will inevitably be thrown on the mall floor within the first five minutes of a shopping excursion), six bottles of purified water with six Ziplock bags of carefully measured out, powdered formula to mix as needed, 80 jars of assorted mashed food of various colors, disposable changing pads for the lovely public bathroom changing tables that have never ever seen a can of Lysol, three pairs of extra socks for the moments you look down and realize the Sock Monster has clearly visited your car and stolen the foot coverings right off your sweet, innocent little angel since there is no other explanation for where they possibly could've gone in the thirty-second period when you were not staring intently at the child, 20 different musical, educational or texturally satisfying toys that can stick to or clip on to any surface, a cloth cover for the nasty, germy grocery store shopping carts or restaurant high chairs, plastic, stick-on covers for the restaurant tables that will be instantly peeled off so the baby can quickly lick the table before you have a chance to grab her, 15 tupperware bowls filled with soft and nutritious snacks that will most likely end up in your hair or down your shirt rather than in the kid's mouth and 2 "spill-proof" sippy cups that will leak sticky juice all over the car as soon as the precious munchkin gets bored and decides to whip them across the backseat.

And that's just the prep work that comes before you actually try to get the baby ready to leave the house!

You need to be somewhere at 11:00 AM? Ok, no problem! You'll start getting ready at 9:00. Feed, burp, change. Shit. Change again. Wipe spit-up. Sniff baby's shirt to see if she smells like sour milk. Change shirt. Pack bag. Put baby's shoes and coat on. Remove outer layer and change again. Feed again. Burp again. Put baby in carseat and hope she falls asleep. Grab diaper bag, purse, phone and baby in carseat. Get everything into the car, click carseat into base, settle into the driver's seat. Where are the keys? Go back into the house and find keys. Realize you're still wearing pajamas and never bothered to brush your hair or your teeth. You'll look and see it's already 10:45 so you'll sigh, shrug, throw a hoodie over your PJs and and a stick of gum into your mouth, run your fingers through your hair and head back to the car. The baby wakes up screaming at the sound of the slamming car door and, as you pull out of your driveway, you start to belt out every song you know from The Wiggles' catalog hoping one of them will soothe the little bugger enough that you won't lose your mind. Of course you'll arrive 15 minutes late for whatever appointment you had at 11:00, only to be told you're a day early and should come back tomorrow.

And what about date nights? Romantic vacations? Oh no! We're gonna need to find a whole new crop of babysitters! The ones I used for my kids are all grown-ups with real lives now! And then another thought came to me. I texted my ex-husband, "So, do you think you'll be able to take the new baby on your days with Dylan and Justin, too?" He wrote back, "Lol! Nope! No more days off for you!" Yes, obviously I was joking when I asked the question, but his response was exactly what I was really thinking.

NO MORE DAYS OFF!!

Ok, I know it sounds awful, but divorce isn't necessarily a bad thing. When the parents can manage to get along and everyone shares custody, it can actually be a very satisfying arrangement. My ex and I live five minutes from each other and we each have the kids two days during the week and every other weekend. When they aren't with us we can still stop by or call them or go to their games or school activities, but at the same time we have a few nights to relax and decompress. What parent doesn't need a few hours of stress-free, alone time every now and then? Well, that's about to change too.

Seriously, what am I thinking?!

Oh! I know! I'm thinking about seeing Jimmi's eyes staring back at me when I look at my precious baby. I'm thinking about how it will feel when she first learns to give a hug and it's more like a head drop on the shoulder that says, "I know you. You make me feel safe." I'm thinking of the smell of baby lotion and brushing her soft, newborn hair with my hand. I'm thinking of the excitement of watching as she accomplishes each new milestone. I'm thinking of the first time I'll hear the words, "Mama" or "I love you." I'm thinking of the smile behind her pacifier when I walk into her room as she's waking up from her nap. I'm thinking of the running leap into my arms after I return from a trip to the grocery store. But mostly, I'm thinking of sharing it all again with Jimmi, my soulmate. I can't wait to see him with our daughter. She's gonna have him wrapped so tightly around her little finger he won't know how to unwind himself. And, quite honestly, I don't think he'll mind one bit.

Yup. Here I go again! Starting over and I really can't wait!

Just make sure you send lots of coffee and please accept my advanced apologies for exhaustion-induced bitchiness.

Let's do this!

Crossing the Street

Ring! Ring!

"Hi Suzanne, I'm calling from the fertility clinic to remind you of your follow-up appointment with Dr. D tomorrow at 10:30," said the voice on the other end of the line. Appointment? What appointment? Oh yeah! "Thanks for reminding me. I had totally forgotten." I hung up the phone and quickly scanned the calendar in my head for the time of the appointment I actually remembered I had, the one with Dr. G, my medical oncologist. That's "chemo doctor" for the less cancer-experienced readers. Ok, 1:40 PM for Dr. G and 10:30 AM for Dr. D, who is habitually late. But it shouldn't be a problem since the offices are literally on the same road, just a matter of turning left or right off the highway exit.

I woke up the next morning, August 1st, and got ready to meet Dr. D. I still couldn't figure out why he needed to see me since my part in the baby-making was done two years ago. All the shots to stimulate my now non-existant ovaries to produce eggs are in the past. Jimmi's trips to the little room of porn to make his baby batter deposits are finished. It's all about Lyndsay now. What could he possibly need to say that hadn't been said by the nurse, the social worker and the finance specialist during our all-day clinic visit last month? Oh well. It's protocol, I guess.

I drove the familiar route down all the same roads that had brought me to numerous scan appointments and chemo cycles and radiation treatments. With each street sign and each turn that leads me closer to the exit I would normally become more and more anxious with a feeling of psychosomatic nausea growing in my stomach. But this time was different. This trip was taking me one step closer to holding a baby in my arms. Yes, I'd need to visit Cancerland when my first appointment was done, but this time it would only be for bloodwork and a chat, not the dreaded scan results that usually accompany my appointments with Dr. G. Since I'd had that crazy back pain in June my regular three-month CT scan had been moved up about six weeks, but the chemo doctor follow-up hadn't changed. I tried to move it to September when my next CT is scheduled but I was told, in no uncertain terms, I needed to leave today's visit where it was. 

I made a left off the highway exit to the much less traveled, happy side of the street and parked my car in front of the baby engineering office. I headed up to the second floor, checked in and waited for my name to be called. Thirty minutes after my scheduled appointment time I heard, "Susan?" I chose the second of my stock responses to the mispronunciation of my name which meant, instead of screaming at the erroneous nurse, I just ignored her. After all, my name is NOT Susan so why should I answer? "Susan?" she asked again as she scanned the room for the woman who would surely jump out of her seat and anxiously follow her to the promised land of lab-made babies. It was time for phase two of my little game. Casually I looked up at the nurse-in-waiting and innocently asked (corrected), "Do you mean Suzanne?" She looked down at her chart and replied, "Oh, yeah. Sorry." Yeah, yeah. Don't let it happen again, Missy!

I followed the scrub-clad assistant through a maze of hallways and exam rooms until we finally made it to Dr. D's office. She knocked on the door and showed me in, introducing me as "Suzanne." Good girl! And that's when it happened. As I set my eyes on Dr. D for the first time in over two years I immediately remembered something my friend, also a patient of his, had told me before our first meeting. "When you see him, don't laugh. He looks exactly like the scientist from The Muppets. You know, the one who experiments on Beaker?" And he DOES! I couldn't look directly at him for fear of erupting into uncontrollable giggles. I have a knack for explosions of inappropriate laughter. It's a bad habit. "Hello!" Dr. D greeted me with a giant smile that made his eyes squint so much they seemed to disappear. Yup, it's the scientist guy! "I'm so happy to see you here, alive and well and in a much better place than the last time we met." You're telling me, Dude! "It was a very difficult time for you, two years ago. But now it's time to finish what we started and get those embryos into Lyndsay's lovely uterus so you can have a baby!" I couldn't keep the corners of my mouth from turning up with excitement. He continued, "I must say, Lyndsay is just wonderful. You couldn't have asked for a better person to carry for you. She's sweet and emotionally stable and her uterus is really beautiful. I mean, she could have the biggest heart in the world, but if her uterus didn't look good, we'd have to tell her thanks but no thanks. You've really lucked out!" 

Hooray for Lyndsay's reproductive organs! Woohoo!

"So," Dr. D went on, "last time we met you had just been diagnosed with cancer and had a hysterectomy scheduled. Did you end up having any chemotherapy or radiation?" I shuddered at the memories. "Yes," I answered. "I had to have both." His head shifted to the sympathetic tilt I'd seen so many times before. I explained further, "I didn't have the typical kind of cervical cancer. Mine was called Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix." Before all the words had left my lips he was nodding with both understanding and surprise, "I know it well," he said. "My good friend's daughter had exactly the same diagnosis. Unfortunately, it got the best of her and she passed away." Ugh, I hate hearing that! "But look at you!" he continued. "For you to be here now is nothing short of a miracle. That type of cancer is tough because it doesn't behave as we'd expect it to. It doesn't play by the rules. The fact that you're here two years later and doing so well shows how strong you are. It's just great. And I'm so impressed that you had the determination at the beginning of your diagnosis to know you wanted to harvest your eggs. Then you had the focus and wherewithal to do what you needed to get it done, even when faced with everything that was being thrown at you." I nodded as he spoke, "And then to end up with so many eggs and TWELVE viable embryos is absolutely amazing!" I felt like giving myself a pat on the back. At least my faulty equipment was able to do something right in the midst of its death rattle. "So it looks like you have an even mix of males and females here," Dr. D broke me out of my self-congratualtory state. I smiled. "So will we be transferring one of each or do you want to just leave the decision up to the embryologist? Or you could flip a coin. It's totally up to you. All of your embryos are such great quality we shouldn't have a problem with anything you decide." I shifted in my seat and hoped he wouldn't judge me by what I said next, "We really want girls." I saw Dr. D's eyes squint into disappearance and I knew that meant he was smiling. "I figured you'd probably want to balance out all the Y chromosomes in your family. And I don't see why we can't help you get that little girl you deserve after everything you've been through." Thoughts of pink blankets and pink bedsheets and pink dresses danced through my mind until his next words shook me into reality, "You know you have a very high chance of twins, right?" I nodded. Obviously, since we're transferring two embryos, there's always a chance. "Normally we say there's about a forty percent chance of twins, but in your case, I'd say it's closer to sixty percent. Maybe even higher." I guess seeing my jaw detach from my face and fall to the floor was a clear indication that further explanation was required. "As I've said, your embryos are very high quality. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that you've never actually had any fertility problems. I can't give you a hundred percent certainty that Lyndsay will get pregnant at all on the first try, but if I had to guess, I'd say the chance of at least a singleton is well into the nineties. But twins are a very real possibility." A mischievous grin took over my face, "Jimmi's gonna have a heart attack." I announced. Dr. D laughed, "Tell him he needs to prepare himself now." We talked a bit more about the process and after every few sentences he always went back to telling me how happy he is that I'm here and healthy and about to compete the journey we started two years ago. Normally it bothers me when people talk about me beating the odds because, truthfully, I still feel like my health is so fragile that a new tumor could pop up at any minute and take me out. But, for some reason, Dr. D's words of praise were encouraging and positive. For a few minutes I actually believed I'd completely beaten the beast and was free to move on to the next phase of my life.

When the meeting was over Dr. D led me back down the hall to talk to the same nurse I'd met during Clinic Day in case I had any new questions. As soon as she saw me she blurted out, "Oh my GOD! I had NO IDEA how sick you were! I'm seriously so glad you're ok." Wait, what? "When Dr. D told me what kind of cancer you had I was totally shocked. You know he had a friend whose daughter died from the same thing, right?" Well, that was delicate. Thanks. "Yeah, he just told me," I managed as my brain was snapped out of visions of pink and back into Hell. I tried to clear out the cancer thoughts since I didn't want them sharing space with the baby thoughts so I quickly changed the subject to get the nurse back on track. A few minutes later I was back in the car and off to meet my mom for lunch next door before crossing the street into Cancerland.

It's really amazing how much one side of a street can differ from another. Turning left off the exit brings hope and new life. Turning right off the exit brings sickness and death. I wish I could always turn left.

But I had to turn right.

All of the warm fuzzies I'd gotten from the morning's visit instantly left my body as soon as I set foot into the cold, sterile environment at the cancer center. The smell of latex gloves, hand sanitizer and chemo drugs immediately hit my nose and caused a sensory overload that brought me right back to the days when I'd sit in that building for hours as the poison made its way to every one of my cells, healthy or not. "I hate the smell in here," I mumbled to my mom, who'd heard me say it many times before. "I know you do. But if that smell is what kept you alive, I'll take it." Yeah, yeah. Way to be an optimist, Mom. Up to the third, and my least favorite, floor we went. I tried not to notice all the sickly-looking patients in wheelchairs waiting for their chemo treatments. I kept my eyes on the floor, only looking up while checking in with the receptionist. I filled out the usual form, checking all the boxes that applied to my current mental and physical state and handed the clipboard back to the woman behind the desk. I sat back down and turned to my mom, "I have to pee," I whined like a potty-training toddler. My mom understood the look of concern in my eyes. I hate using the bathrooms at the cancer center, mainly because the smell of the soap reminds me of being there for long and torturous hours of chemo. But I didn't have a choice. I got up and found my way around the corner to the bathroom right outside the door that leads to the small cubicles where at least 30 people at a time are being infused with life-saving poison. I stepped into the lavatory and my brain immediately recognized the odor of expelled chemo toxins in the air. Did you know chemo drugs smell as they leave the body? When I was going through treatments I felt like it wasn't possible to wash the scent away from my skin. I peed that smell, I sweat that smell, I lived that smell. And here it was again. I quickly grabbed the counter by the sink to steady myself as the dizziness began. Then the nausea kicked in and I felt the color draining from my face. I finished up my business as quickly as I could, rinsed my hands with just water and hurried back to join my mom in the waiting room. I plopped down into the chair next to her, reached into my bag for some Purell and waited for my name to be called.

"Suzanne?" said an unfamiliar nurse and I hopped up to follow her to the tiny room where she'd take my weight, blood pressure and blood. It was like the movie Groundhog Day. The same routine each time. After my vitals were recorded I walked the rest of the way down the hall to the next waiting room where my mom was sitting. I was pretty calm this time since I wasn't minutes away from learning scan results that could change my fate in an instant. I just wanted to be done already so I could go home and think about babies! That's when the next nurse, who looked like she was about to give birth at any second, came to take us to the exam room. "Wow!" I exclaimed when I saw her. "When did that happen?" She giggled, "About nine months ago. Tomorrow is my last day of work and then I'm out for maternity leave." A few months ago, just looking at a glowing pregnant woman would've caused me to leave the room in tears. But not this time. I knew it would only be a matter of months before I'd be in the exact same position. Well, not exactly...but close enough.

Dr. G entered the room and we chatted about my trip to Europe and impending baby plans, then she listened to my lungs and pressed on my stomach a bit. "I tried to move this appointment to September so we'd be on schedule with scans again but they wouldn't let me," I explained. She nodded, "I know. We're a bit screwed with our timing now. But I think it's ok for me to stretch out our appointments a little bit now. Let's say I'll see you in six months instead of three. If you need me before then, we can always get you in." I assume she could tell what was going on in my head because she added, "We will need to make your appointments farther apart at some point. It's been two years now. I think it's time." I always knew this day would come but I didn't expect to feel so dependent on my three-month check-ups. "I'm scared," I said quietly. Dr. G was understanding, "I know. You'll see Dr. L next month and talk to him about it to see if he feels comfortable going longer in between appointments. But I think it's ok to only see me every six months unless you need me." "No offense," I broke in, "but I really don't want to see you before then." She nodded in agreement. "I just want you to know I'm here for you." After wishing each other a wonderful last month of summer, my mom and I put our imaginary blinders on and rushed through the waiting room full of people who looked like I did two years ago. We descended the three flights of stairs and I waved to the receptionist at the main door, "See you in a month!" I called to her as we headed out of the building.

I left Cancerland and crossed the street, heading back in the direction of Baby Central. I like that side so much better. Luckily I'll be able to stay to the left of the exit for a little while before crossing back over again. I am thrilled to announce that, as of one hour ago, our contract with Lyndsay has officially been signed! That means she is cleared to begin her ovary shut-off and uterus prepping medication NEXT WEEK! Then, in exactly 27 days, our little girls will make their way into Lyndsay's nice, warm oven where, hopefully, they'll set up camp for the next nine months until they're ready to break free.

Holy COW! It's really happening!!!