Day 260: power pants vs. cancer pants

Today I had my first rounds of immunizations, as I am “starting over” you could say, with my immune system and need all my shots again. I thought perhaps it was a cocktail shot with the few that I was scheduled to receive today. NOPE. Four separate shots, two in each arm. I hate shots. I hate needles. However, all the prodding and IVs and bone marrow biopsies and LPs that have happened to me have at least helped a little in the anxiety department. I know, rationally, that I will make it through the shot. So I focus on breathing and relaxing, and it also helps to tell the nurse to push it in slowly. Perhaps the worst part of shots is that icy cold WHOOSH of the stuff flying in. So, the slower the better; and if I can’t feel the needle, it’s not as bad. It also helps to have a heated massage (let’s not get carried away here, it vibrates on two levels) chair to sit in, which they have at Dana Farber. My arms are a little sore, but it’s not too bad. Immunizations round 1 complete! #boombaby In other news, my blood/kidney/liver numbers look great, and my chimerism (the percentage of my cells to percentage of donor cells) is holding at 100% donor. #BOOMBABY

Then on the way home from Boston, in true Friday the thirteenth fashion, my car died. It was the second time this week—and thankfully in the CVS drive-through (instead of THE ROAD), but still. Really though? After finagling and praying and scraping with a wire brush, the jumper cables finally worked and I drove straight to the mechanic and got a new battery. As I sat in the little waiting room at the auto place, masked and gloved, I spoke with a woman whose tire just blew up. We chuckled about car troubles. I explained that I had a stem cell transplant, which is why I was all covered up. It made me realize that I miss being in the world, meeting new people, and even those silly and seemingly meaningless brief conversations that let you peep for a second into a strangers’ life. My nurse told me today that I can go to the grocery store at low-traffic hours, and that in general, the strict rules are starting to relax: as long as I still stay away from crowds, dirt, and mildew-y basements. I guess this calls for 9:30pm ice cream runs. I’m glad to be able to start doing things again, mentally I’m trudging through. I feel I have lost so much of the strength I had to get through this. It’s just,…a long time. It’s a lot to ask of a person. I know it’s what I need to do in order to then live the rest of my life, but sometimes it doesn’t seem like the end is in sight. I feel alone. I’ve been searching for tools to help me mentally pull through. I’m trying to reach out to people. I’m starting a new theatre project with my company, and our website will be live in a few days. And thankfully, on cue today, a tool—however small, however silly—arrived in the mail.

After the mechanic, I came home to find a package that I’ve been waiting for. Meet my Power Pants, the foil to my Cancer Pants: helping me conquer each dreary day with their stripes, every lonely long hour with their stretchiness, and my sadness with their general badassery.

ONE PANT TO RULE THEM ALL. Cancer ain't got nothin on you…
As my mom said, "must be your donor showing" (the Knight may live in the UK)

pardon me while I go shake my Brit-striped booty to some Bey—

Day 247: surprise and thanks, for you and the Greek Goddess

The world is so beautiful, so new, and so full of surprise. I'm currently staying at my parents' place near the Cape, and even though the weather has been pretty windy and cool, it's warm in the sun. This morning, for the first time, I saw a baltimore oriole outside my window (the bird, not the sports team…). Anne of Green Gables may be right that each day is new with no mistakes in it; but it also is new with surprises. I'm not what you would call a bird watcher, but this beauty was fully worth my praise; a brilliant mac-n-cheese tummy flitting between leaves of the japanese maple. 

And more surprises. Over the past few months, a friend of mine has been organizing a fundraiser “Café2Café” bike ride on the North Shore. The 70+ mile ride was today. Last year the donated proceeds went to a women's house on the North Shore for survivors of human trafficking. This year, the money was raised for living expenses for my sister and me. They raised almost $1500. I am again, and again, and again, floored by the love of people. I have never felt incredibly great about accepting monetary gifts, so I try to see this as the outpouring of love that it is. People are beautiful, and so good. The right words are hard to find to thank you all for your support, of all kinds. This has been the hardest, most physically and emotionally challenging year of my life. There were times I wasn't sure I could make it through, or was convinced that I didn't want to. Meds talking or not, there have been really dark moments over this past year. I've seen the bottom of the pit; I've dwelt there and felt the effects of that place on my psyche. Any plans I thought I had were utterly disrupted or severely re-routed beyond recognition. I've watched my body wither away and change shapes and colors, aching every moment as the strongest poison washed away my immune system. The months that followed were spent fearful and weak; sleeping most of the days, waiting for my body to miraculously start healing itself. It didn't seem possible that I’d ever come out of it, that I’d make it through those long months.

But it's happening. Right now. The distance traversed is gigantic. I'm not as dependent on pain pills anymore, I don't sleep nearly as much (though still a lot). I feel energy coming back to me, slowly--but nonetheless, returning. There were so many days and hours I felt I would never reach this point; and I can't believe I'm saying this. I am here. In this place, at this time, alive. Growing, healing, transforming. 

Lately I’ve been feeling negative towards my body for its lack of muscle and flexibility, and for general flabbiness. I am still blotchy, and I still have dark circles around my eyes, baby hair, and scars on my chest. But I am reminded today to look past these trifling problems, and pay homage to the great strength that my body has shown through the tribulations it has endured. My body has served me well, and I need to celebrate it. You done good, body! You've shielded me from many side effects, you've been beaten down: first by cancer and then by the near-lethal treatment--and remained even still. You’ve travelled noxious ground victoriously, voyaged dangerously close to death and pulled through, you Greek Goddess! You are worthy of praise and adoration! I will constantly fight the negative feelings and hold you in awe.

In those moments of doubt, as I’m sure they won’t ever leave me for good: when I’m not sure I want to do this anymore, struggle longer, wait for an elusive end to the trial—I must recall these moments of true surprise. I’ve found myself almost nine months out from my transplant, and a year out from the beginning of this saga. What surprise! I wasn’t sure how I could do it, how I could survive even another day of the solitude and depression and fear. But I am here. Here, almost nine months out. Only four months left of this quarantine. I’ve gone so far into the forest that I’m now on my way out the other side. Eyes on the (sur)prize!

So, thank you to everyone who rode in the Café to Café ride, and to Patrick for organizing the whole event. You guys confound me in the best way. And thank you to the Greek Goddess. I literally wouldn’t be here, right here, without you.

Day 240: one year, and a letter

To my dearest kin, my Knight,

It has been a full year since this began, somehow. 365 days. The earth has gone all the way around the sun while I have puttered and pillaged through another year of my confusing comedy of a life. I am now in remission. I am over 200 days out from my lifesaving transplant. I am here because of you.

And, I don't know you; in the sense of how one knows another person. And yet you are my nearest kin, my blood brother. We are so close, so connected. I have your blood in my veins. I now have your blood type, your immune system. Because of you, I am alive.

I don't feel that I have the words to say to you. Nothing sounds right. Nothing is enough, or fulfills my feeling about you and your choice to save me from dying. I don't even know if you think of me still. But I think of you every day. I love you, strangely and bizarrely. In a way I will not love anyone else, because I can't. I am in awe of you. I am proud of you. I am indebted to you.

It is strange to me that we may never meet. Though, I don't know what I would say, should the moment arise that we do. "Thank you" is so simple, stupidly simple; we say it when we take our coffee from the counter. We say thank you when someone holds the door. We say thank you when someone saves our life. Language fails. It is not enough.

So thank you for this beautiful day, the sun warming my back as I write this. For allowing me to see today. Thank you for this great book I'm reading. Thank you for my neighbors' dog running around outside, and the birds in the bushes. For music, for dance. For playing on the grass, sitting on the beach. For pretzels. For my hair that's growing in. For coffee in the mornings, for flowers. For my family, my sisters, my dear friends. For every feeling, all my tears, laughter, even anger. Thank you. I would have none of these things without you.

truly yours,

Bekah

Day 235: rejoice, rejoice

In an effort to not make excuses of why its been so long since I've posted an update, I'll just launch into the updates.

I don't think I've yet reported that we have begun slowly lowering my anti-rejection drug; with the goal of getting off of it completely. With any other type of transplant, this would not be possible-- other transplant patients are on immuno-suppressants for the rest of their lives. The immuno-suppressants keep their home-immune system from attacking and "rejecting" the transplanted organ. But because my transplant was essentially of the immune system, there's a chance that I'll be able to get off the anti-rejection (there's a chance I won't as well, just have to wait and see). We lowered my dosage a little bit a few months back-- and I presented with some mild (but painful) GvHD in my joints and hands. This flare-up is expected somewhat, a little GvHD is actually a good sign (shows that the immune system is working). So we kept my anti-rejection where it was and I went back on some steroids (hooray). I'm now almost weened off the steroids (about 3-4 weeks left--they do it very slowly when we're dealing with GvH), and then we will begin to lower the anti-rejection again.

I will soon (in 2 months!) also start to get my first vaccinations. Because I'm starting over with a new immune system (right now I have less of an immune system than even a baby. A baby is protected by their mother's immune system for a little while after they are born) I have to get all vaccinations over again. Cheers to Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Chicken Pox, Hepatitis A, C, Polio, Influenza, Diptheria, Tetenus, Rotavirus, etc. Nice not knowing you.

Finally I mustered up the courage to ask my doctor about the timeline, as it stands now, if it's changed, etc. As far as I knew, we were in a wait-and-see stage, with the possibility of being able to join the world again around my 9 month mark/June/July. I thought I had a chance of getting back into the world this summer, but it is not to be. The 12 month quarantine is still in place, so I won't be able to go back to work or go to public places until October. This was a letdown for me, I think I had started planning a life for this summer--one that I did not see spent still in my apartment. I am trying to stay positive. I am trying to accept. I knew this was a possibility. But I have to say, I was really disappointed. Apparently my doctor is one of the more cautious transplant doctors, and I am thankful for that in many ways. I've probably avoided many more aggravations and complications due to his caution and my intense quarantine. But my mind can hardy take it anymore. This is really really hard. When people ask how I'm doing, I give some emotionless and detached answer that does not even begin to tap into what this has been like. The other day I was reading an article about a man who went through cancer (with both radiation and chemo treatments) and all through it he kept a journal: mostly pictures, some words. It is now published, and looking through it, he kept a sense of humor about the whole thing; but was also very raw and honest. In the article he says he's glad he kept the journal, because

“If you asked me now what it was like I would say, ‘oh, it was tough but I got through it okay.’ Something simple and dismissive like that.  Or I suppose I could go into something equally detached from my actual experience, an operatic flight of fancy about the existential anguish I experienced every day in treatment."

This makes complete and utter sense to me. It is exactly how I feel. And I'm not even through it yet. It's trivializing, to try to explain in a sentence or two what this has been like. But I find myself trying, all the time. Any attempt to explain it turns into a simplistic joke "oh its hard but the sun is making it better" "Wahoo, Spring""Just grappling with my plague of existential questions LOL!!!11" "i luv TV!"

I guess most of the time I don't even now how I feel, or I'm confused, or I'm just shutting off mental switches so I can physically make it through the day. I'm not sure. Probably all of those things. I think prolonged traumatic situations force you to shut off parts of your emotions, in an effort to self-preserve. I'm trying to be aware of this phenomenon in my own life; accept all of how I'm feeling, trying to not turn off. But in some ways, I think it's unavoidable.

That appointment with my doctor wasn't a total wash. He did give me the green light to go to other people's houses, which is a big step. So, can't go out in public yet--but I can venture to places other than my apartment, the car, and Dana Farber: which is all I've seen in the past 8 or 9 months. As long as you don't have a mold problem, I can visit! I've ventured a few, and am looking forward to getting out of here; small victory by small victory.

In other news, my theatre company has started a new project. I had to ask my doctor/nurse about being involved with our new show--if this was a feasible idea or not, and how involved I could be. They seem to think that as long as I'm careful and our rehearsal spaces are clean, I should be okay. If anyone's not feeling 100%, I'll just wear a mask. This was a huge relief, especially coming right after the news of my continued quarantine. I need this so much. I need something I can focus on, pour into, love and nurture and watch grow.

Over the past few months, "the trifecta" (the three of us goons) have been meeting and working on a script for a new project. Last week we held auditions to much success, and we have cast the show. Meeting, writing, running auditions, moving my body: it has been the most normal activity of the past year. I felt, normal. I could forget for a couple hours all this shit. And it has been life-giving. I am so excited to jump into this. It is one place where I can take risks, be daring, explore, make choices, decide. Almost no where else in my life has this been the case this past year. I feel like myself again, finally, when I'm doing theatre.

It is important for me to take a moment every day and look at how far I've come. From cancer trying to kill me, to weeks spent so drugged that I can't even remember them, to myriad unexplained pain and complications, to not being able to swallow or eat for two weeks, to waking up every morning stiff with bone aches, to sleeping all day and crying for the hours I was awake. To now when I can wake up and make breakfast without having to sit down and rest between stirring the oatmeal, go for a walk, write, host brunches, plan rehearsals, play bananagrams. It is day 235. In just a few days, it will be one whole year since this began. I have come a long way. And I need that reminder, again and again. And again. Rejoice, Rejoice.

up, up, and away---

Day 185: the curtain is up

Yesterday Dana Farber held a Young Adult Cancer Conference that Rie and I attended, to mixed reviews. It is a difficult situation. It’s a conference; we are all there concerning a common cause. It’s a single day of new people meetings and speaker workshops. But the reason of our gathering is not “we all have brown hair” or “we all have dogs” or even “we all want to grow gardens.” Nope, it’s “we all have cancer.” By nature, this is not a light topic. And a conference by nature is a brief experience with morning and afternoon sessions in which you learn something informative. A conference differs from a support group—a support group is something you commit to, and through repeat visits you grow relationships and authenticity is organic. At a conference it’s hard to launch into a safe space in the amount of time available, and deftly handling a delicate topic like cancer just seems like an impossible task. I appreciate the enormous amount of work and organization on their part, and I think for some people it was a chance to feel like someone gets it. Marie found the caregiver workshop to be encouraging. I usually do not struggle with being honest—even in a public setting—but for some reason I could not engage. This is a problem that starts with me: I’m putting on the brakes because this is a club I never wanted to be a part of. I’m struggling with how defining it is of who I am now, the cancer girl. I guarantee it is the first thing people associate with me, and honestly it has been so life altering that it’s how I see myself too. So I don’t blame anyone for this; it’s not 'wrong', it’s just the reality of the moment. This is when I remind myself that it is not all bad, that I will continue to change and grow for the rest of my life, that this is just a swatch (albeit a large one) in the grand picture of my life and who I am.

There was one unexpected moment—one phrase—that struck me yesterday. In the opening session, someone read a short piece of writing about a part of her experience with cancer; among other things she said the following: “Cancer did not just disrupt my life, it disrupted my imagination.” And though the speaker did not take this thought to the conclusion that I was expecting, this phrase still resonates with me so much. I feel an absurd interruption of who I am as a person—my personality appears to me stunted and dried up, my capacity for entertaining joy in my life feels wounded. I feel lost, as in, gone away to sea. My dearest hope is that she’s in there, somewhere still. 

For the final session of the day, I had signed up for the creative arts expression workshop, and amongst the cray-pas and magazine clippings I found myself drawing what looked to be a colorful curtain, reminiscent of a circus tent, halfway pulled up the page. And it just sort of occurred to me: this is life. The curtain is up. As in, life is exposed, in progress, all hidden compartments and inner workings are being revealed with big bright lights, and the show must go on. And I’m in the middle of some creepy dance number that I haven’t practiced, and maybe I am also naked.  Real life is being revealed to me: sort of ugly and hard—whereas without cancer this may have taken longer to uncover, or perhaps never at all in this way. I don’t think this means I am happy that cancer happened, it’s not a joyous thing to be caught naked in front of an audience and a mirror. But I am trying to see it for what it gives me, gift or not. It’s hard to know if I’m pleased with the big reveal, right now it’s too close and I’m still trying to move my way through the finale of this segment. I had hoped that this time bubble would prove to be instructive and constructive for my person, and maybe it is and I maybe I just can’t see it. Right now it feels like I’m just barely scraping by with a dance that looks like sitting on the couch and making eggs.

I did learn some things about myself yesterday: one being that conferences aren't really my thing. I'm glad I tried it, something new: my first real excursion into the wild since being confined to the spaceship coupe. Perhaps in a few years, when this is more past than present, I will feel differently. Until then, bopping along my merry way...

Day 181: this is water

Something deeply embarrassing occurred yesterday, and for some reason I can’t stop thinking about it, so here we go. I don’t get embarrassed easily, so I find this experience to be unique and therefore worthy of conscious mulling over. I am afraid to write about it. But I am striving to be honest with myself, and I see this as a teachable moment. 

So self, listen up.

Well, I could not BELIEVE the people in front of me. So unaware of what’s going on around them; the other people who are waiting in line and possibly now late to an appointment, perhaps? Here I was, finally I had arrived fifteen minutes early; FINALLY early after weeks of being late for my massage appointments, and all the embarrassment that goes along with being that person who is always late and pushes everything late and late late late late. I was so happy to be early, to check in downstairs, pay the money, grab the receipt, get upstairs, check in again, get vitals done and then finally get to the massage. There are two women in front of me at the register where I have to check in. They’re talking to each other about the money, talking to the woman at the register, how much is it—oh really? Wow okay. How should we pay for it, oh it’s $246.50 with the discount? What about insurance, I think insurance is supposed to pay for it—well we need to submit it to the insurance for reimbursement, well is it better to pay with check or a card to submit it to the insurance company? I’m not sure if the insurance company will pay for it, what is the insurance? Well let’s submit it anyway, does the receipt say what it is on there? Can we have two copies of the receipt?—And would you like the dark blue bag or one of the other colors?—Oh, what are the other colors, yes can we see them all? And the tissue paper colors. Do you like the dark green with the blue? Maybe the white. Also do you want the light colored cap or the darker one? Do you have a box?

Starting to breathe heavily beneath my mask, I was able to hide most of my displeasure and annoyance. I just wanted to be on time for once in my life is it too much to ask? I felt the anger rising, so quickly it actually surprised me. I did the work, I got here early, shouldn't I be able to reap the benefit of doing it right for once? It took almost a full ten minutes for me to realize that these two ladies were in fact buying a WIG FOR A PERSON WITH CANCER, and what the hell is wrong with me? Why was I getting so upset?

Only five days prior I had just re-watched David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech that he gave in 2005 at Kenyon College called ‘This is Water’*. In the beginning of the speech, Wallace uses an illustration: there are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to pass an older fish going the other way. The older fish calls out to them, “Morning boys. How’s the water?” A little while later, one of the younger fish turns to the other and goes, “What the hell is water?” He goes on to say that, like these young fish who have no concept of what their world is made of, our human default setting is to put ourselves in the center of the universe: our hunger, our frustration, our needs are of the utmost importance; and look at how fat, stupid, lazy and inconsiderate everyone else in THE CHECKOUT LINE is (I know, it’s so specific; this is the height of my embarrassment), and can’t they see what they’re doing to me? Wallace challenges this unconscious ‘default setting’ of placing ourselves at the heart of our worship with the freedom that an education gives you to choose how to see the world. And this is hard, because what adult life is really made up of most of the time are long days, monotonous tasks, difficult and harrowing experiences, small pleasures, and little comfort. Dealing with this reality is the genuine challenge of life. To have an education is to have the chance—the freedom—to choose how to experience the world: is this a world in which I am the perpetual underdog, a world where the baddies are out to get me and ruin my chance at happiness? Or is it a world that is filled with people trying their best in demanding and intricate situations? Wallace offers an example in his speech: it is not impossible that the woman in front of you in the checkout line who just screamed at her whiny kid is over-worked, exhausted from staying up late hours with her husband who is dying of cancer, and who is now trying to pay for groceries with the food stamps that are stuck in the recesses of her wallet. It is not impossible. In fact, it is nearly the EXACT situation in which I found myself yesterday. Even as I was standing there, thinking, “this is water. This is water.” I was boiling. I knew FOR A FACT that the women in front of me are so intimately close with someone who is going through cancer that they are paying for her wig. And yet. I boil.

And it was this bizarre meta-experience (oh existential crises) in which I found myself divided. On one side, I am trying to be honest about situations and experiences, and truthfully living out my feelings. And I was feeling frustrated and angry that these women were literally talking about tissue paper shades for fifteen minutes while I missed my appointment. And yet, I heard the little voice inside me ‘this is water. This is water, Bekah.’ And I had to let that be the prevailing voice in my body. I had to let the anger go. Manually, if that’s what it came to (and it did): Unclench your teeth, soften your eyes, breathe out. The honest truth is I have no idea if the woman in front of me was barely hanging on to herself, maybe she was just managing to hold back tears, like I was, trying to pick out the damn tissue paper. She probably knew how stupid it all sounded but somehow it was still a monumental decision. And I have to accept that. We are all going through the trenches; albeit at different speeds and abilities and at diverse points over our lives: but it is the universal experience. I want to choose to see that we are all a part of the same scheme, all our own little cog in the capital G Grind that holds us all in a balance.

And perhaps it will start to transform: from little cogs to a big picture system that will somehow never cease to humble and amaze. I want to soften my focus to allow the peripheral to be just as influential. To do that work. To allow people to affect and change my life, to allow splendor to exist in the mundane, to let everything happen to me: beauty and terror.

“The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.”

—David Foster Wallace, This is Water

* This speech was published as a book in 2009 under the same title, and here’s a link to a little video that uses an excerpt from the speech (and is so worth watching) http://dotsub.com/view/6b8cc93f-3b53-486b-a1ce-025ffe6c9c52

Day 145: tv marathons and/or self-care

Rie and I have had our work cut out for us. We've been charged with watching as many crappy movies and food network shows as possible. Boy are we succeeding, big time.

Other than that, life is still pretty slow. And no matter what I do I always have dark circles around my eyes. But I've been doing a lot better mentally, which is wonderful. I think the combination of coming down off the steroids (remember when I said it didn't seem to be having any side-effects? ha. ha.) and upping the Remeron (a drug that I'm taking for a few different reasons, but one use is for anti-depression) helped level out my mood swings and general sad feeling. Also, the days are getting longer, and I've been exercising daily on our new exercise bike. In addition, Marie and I are registering for a Young Adult Cancer Conference at the end of March at Dana Farber. So, that should be interesting/insightful/encouraging/hopefully.

As far as updates go, at my next appointment (Feb 28), it will have been my first whole month without any trips to the hospital! (so here's to hoping that I don't get sick before then!) My doctor said that at our next appointment we may be able to start tapering my anti-rejection meds. This means we'll begin to allow the transplanted immune system work on its own in my body, hoping that we've given it enough time to become adjusted to its new home. We'll lower it just a little at first, and go from there. What we'll be looking for is any signs of GvH (graft-versus-host disease: the immune system attacking my body), which can show itself in various ways. Strangely enough, studies seem to show that having a little GvH may actually be a good thing; that cases in which the patient presented signs of GvH seemed to be more successful than those without. It shows that the immune system is strong and fighting, and cancer is less likely to return.

So, I have mixed emotions about it. We don't want too much GvH, because 1) it can be very dangerous (attacking vital organs), and 2) it can mean the mismatched transplant is a failure. I don't even know what we'd do then... (The HLA match that the registry found for me was a 5/6 match, so technically 'mismatched'- but my doctors felt it was enough to proceed with the transplant) I'm trying to not get too worried about it, but I am nervous because it is something that I cannot control in the least. Most people have a some understanding of how their immune system works: the ways in which they get sick, how long they're usually sick for, how to treat themselves. I have no idea about my immune system. I just hope it doesn't start attacking the rest of my body. I don't know if I'll be more sickly now than I ever was before I was diagnosed. It's likely that I'll need to take some form of anti-rejection drug for the rest of my life. A lot will depend on how I react to tapering the drugs. If GvH flares up, we'll have to raise the anti-rejection prescription again and, I guess, wait longer.

I've been thinking about the year that led up to my diagnosis. I got sick a few times that year, and I mean, really sick. Sick in ways I had never experienced: full body aches so terrible that I had to slowly crawl across the floor to my bed and sleep for days. I remember at the time thinking it was strange, and I even talked to my roommates about how my symptoms were so much more intense than I had ever experienced, that something was different, off. Of course, I never did anything about it. But it was my body telling me that there was something wrong. I think I knew inside that there was something off. When I was diagnosed, the doctor told me it was likely that I had had leukemia for a year already. I don't think it would have changed the outcome had it been discovered earlier: because of the type of leukemia, I would have needed a stem cell transplant anyway--but still I wonder. So I encourage all of you to take notice of yourself, and listen to your body. I'm not encouraging hypochondria, just rational and important caring of ones' self. If something seems not quite right: a lump here, persistent rash there, you're getting sick more often or noticeably more severely, night sweats (especially night sweats! That is, waking up so drenched in sweat that you have to change your clothes and/or sheets. It can be a sign of a serious underlying disease)… get it checked out. Get a blood test. A chance blood test is what saved me.

Well, back to the Chopped! marathon for me...

Here's a picture of Marie crying at a commercial. She's emotional.