We also discussed a small blood clot that I have in my jugular vein -- a likely result of having this port in my chest since October of 2010. Not a big deal re: the clot -- it's not in an especially dangerous place, it's small, I'm staying on Lovenox (of course) and Dr. Lenz isn't really concerned about it. I bet it's already resolved itself by now, but if it hasn't, it will soon. Bottom line is I get to work out just as I always have, so I'm a happy camper. 

Ok, back to the scan results.

Essentially, the tiny bits of disease in my intestines are still way too small for the CT scan to pick up – no shock there. The only suspicious stuff on my scan are some slightly enlarged lymph nodes, which are shrinking. So basically, there’s a little bit of disease just chillin’ in my belly, preparing for its eventual demise. A few punks who didn't get the memo last February. A few foolish cells that think they can outlast me. Not so, foolish cells. I'm coming for you, every second of every day. And I'm in no hurry. I'm stalking this disease like Michael Myers in a Halloween movie -- moving confidently and slowly, knowing that I'm going to make a killing in due time (yes, I just compared myself to Michael Myers). 

This round went smoothly, though I did sneak in a nap or two later in the week, probably because I was pretty active early in the week. On Monday night, I went to a movie (Cabin in the Woods – a scary movie, of course!) with my high school buddy Meghan, and on Tuesday, I went to the L.A. Sparks home opener with Will and Tim. I tried to keep yesterday and today especially low-key since I’ve got an early morning Foundation meeting at Norris/Keck tomorrow morning and I’ve gotta be 100% for that (I’m planning big things over here, if you hadn't guessed).

It’s hard to believe that I’ve been in treatment for over a year and a half, but as each day passes, I not only feel more grateful for the life I’ve been given, but more patient in my approach to beating this disease. In many ways, living the full, healthy, happy life that I’m living is beating the disease. Cancer hasn’t slowed me down and isn’t limiting the things I’m doing in my life. In fact, it has helped me broaden my horizons what with the Foundation, my cancer warrior t-shirt line, and my book.  Beating cancer isn't all about remission or a cure -- it's about not letting the disease get you down, stop you from enjoying your life, or crushing your spirit. Obviously, I want to “beat” it in the literal sense of going into long-term remission (as in, life-long remission), but I’m calm and collected about reaching that goal. No matter how long it takes, I’m enjoying the journey, and that’s the true victory.

These days, "I Believe" means even more to me. When I reflect on it, everything I've achieved in my life has been driven by one thing in particular: the fact that I've always believed in myself. 

I believe in the impossible

If I reach deep within my heart

Overcome any obstacle

Won't let this dream just fall apart

You see, I strive to be the very best

Shine my light for all to see

'Cause anything is possible

When you believe

When my first surgeon, Dr. Ramos, emerged from the operating room on September 19, 2010, he had tears in his eyes. He delivered the news about my diagnosis and prognosis that no loved one wants to hear. Like normal people, my family was devastated. There were tears. There was sadness. There was fear. Everyone felt like they had lost already.

Everyone except one person, that is. My mom.

My mom believed in me even when the chips were down – way down – and when there really wasn't a solid reason to think positively. My mom didn’t cry when she heard that news, that her only child was going to wither away and die within a year or two. She remembered our conversation from the night before, when she asked what I'd do if my disease was Stage IV and that I said that I'd beat it. She wrote down everything Dr. Ramos said, already thinking of who to call and how to get to the best plan of action in place. She delivered the news to my family and told them that if they wanted to cry or be sad, they shouldn’t come see me in the recovery room. She told them that I said I'd beat the disease and that I would, and to only approach me with confidence and positivity. She told my friends and colleagues that if they wanted to support me, they needed to do the same. They needed to believe in me like she did. And so, everyone did. Just like that, my mom became the leader and the backbone of the greatest and most loving support system ever created.

I credit my doctors for saving my life. I credit my diet and exercise regimen for saving my life. I credit myself -- my attitude and will to live -- for saving my life.

And I credit my mom with saving my life.

My mom didn’t just spring into action on my diagnosis day. She has been a hero – my living, breathing, day-in-and-day-out hero, from the moment I was born. Her strength, love, support, and unswerving belief in the fact that I was someone truly special in this world has made me the person I am today. Without my mom, I never would have gone to Duke or Stanford…I never would have become a lawyer…I never would have become WunderGlo.

Imagine having a person that you could call on, day or night (and at any hour of the night), for anything. To joke around, to reminisce about a memory, to brainstorm ideas about my non-profit, to talk about relationships, to make up a crazy song and sing it a few dozen times, to buy and bring me orange juice or my favorite vegan hot wings from the Thai place across town, or even to keep me company if I can’t sleep at night. That has been my mom for the last 30 years (and all of those examples are from this year, actually – special shout out for those hot wings during a chemo week when that was all I wanted to eat, you were exhausted and super busy with work, and Will and Dad didn’t want to get me them).

My mom is my partner in crime, my best friend, and my rock. There is only one human being on this Earth that I can trust without even a shred of hesitation and it's her. She comes through for me like no other, and I can feel that she truly enjoys and relishes being my mother. It is her love and unyielding support that I have been cradled in my whole life. When you have that type of grounding, you can do anything in this world. And that’s exactly why I have.

So Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You are the best person I’ve ever known. You are a champion, a leader, and the greatest there ever was. I’m blessed for many reasons, but I’m most blessed in this life to have you as my mom. I love you, I'm proud of you, and I'm honored to be your daughter.

And so Cancer LOLs was born.

I hope you like it.

http://cancerlols.tumblr.com/

In no way will Cancer LOLs take the place of the WunderGlo blog, so don't even stress. Just figured I'd add another thing to my plate. HA!

On Monday, I got behind the driver’s seat and cruised to Norris, eager to take a bite out of cancer during my 27^th round of chemo. Before my diagnosis, I probably could never have imagined this kind of bi-weekly routine becoming “normal,” but that’s exactly what it feels like now. 

My time at Norris went well – I knocked out my blood work last week, so I breezed into my appointment with Taline and Dr. Lenz, had some laughs and some hugs, and before I knew it, I was in my own private room and in my own private bed for chemo. I started infusing around 2pm, and I was all done and hooked up to my bag o’ chemo by 5pm. Easy as pie. Before Monday, I was a little skeptical at this whole “afternoon appointment” thing that Dr. Lenz wanted me to start doing (I am notoriously late for our morning appointments which wouldn’t be that bad in and of itself, but my fellow warriors are evidently super punctual because the day hospital is PACKED by about 10am), but I’m a believer now. This is much easier than showing up late and sleepy, then waiting for hours to get my treatment. Note to self: don’t question Dr. Lenz (most of the time, at least).

Unlike my post-Coachella Chemo Round 26, I kept myself fully hydrated before, during, and after treatment. As a result, everything went very well, especially in the poop department. I am a lucky woman to have had three surgeries where my bowels were either cut up, picked at, or seriously jostled, and live day to day with zero GI issues. To be on my 14th round of Irinotecan and to not even need an Immodium? Yeah…I’m very fortunate. And I’m very grateful. Great job, body of mine.

So now it’s Wednesday, which is typically my toughest day…but I’m feeling very good. I detached myself from my bag o’ around noon, caught up on emails, took a refreshing shower, and ate some delicious food (big shout out to the Veggie Grill for those yummy vegan hot wings). After watching lots of playoff hoops over the last couple of days, I’m itching to get to the gym tonight to get some shots up. That’s right -- I’m going to the gym on a “chemo Wednesday.” Definitely not a common occurrence but, hey, basketball is calling my name. I’ll throw in some weights while I’m there, just to ensure that I am indeed getting tougher and stronger by the day. A cancer warrior is always looking for ways to get the upper hand on the disease.

There’s no doubt about it: Chemo Round 27 went extremely well. The sun is shining, I’m loving life, and cancer is going down.

A couple of weeks ago, as you know, I went to the Coachella music festival with my cousin. Looking back on it, I can honestly say it was one of the best weekends of my life, and the music had a lot to do with it. Listening to Mazzy Star's dreamy set, then running over to another stage to see Flying Lotus tear it up with his incredible electronic DJ skills, then laying down in the grass and gazing at the stars while listening to Bon Iver's gorgeous music...it was powerful and beautiful and almost too good to be true but it was true.

I know I was in the minority as a cancer warrior festival-goer, and I might have been even more in the minority as a person who didn't drink or do any drugs, but man, you don't need booze or drugs when you've got music. Music is soul-filling and spirit-lifting enough. And enjoying too much music doesn't give you a hangover.

I've only hinted at the brilliance of Radiohead's set at Coachella. The minute they took the stage, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. The crowd went wild, and there they were: musical legends, right in front of me, about to play incredible music for two hours. While they played with otherworldly mastery, and while Thom Yorke sang as if directly communicating with my soul (yes, it was that deep), I said to myself and to my cousin: "It's moments like these that I'm so glad to be alive. It's moments like these that I'm so glad to be beating the sh*t out of this disease."

After the show, everyone was simply blown away -- huge smiles, big hugs, and cheers of joy erupted almost immediately. I overheard someone say to his friends, "We can now die peacefully. We have seen Radiohead live." That just about sums it up, actually. It was a once in a lifetime experience.

I didn't think anything could really top the excitement of the Radiohead show, but Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg came dangerously close. My cousin and I managed to snag a spot in the front row for their set, and it was a hip hop lover's dream. I rapped every word to every song, older than most of the kids in the front row so better educated on some of Dre and Snoop's older jams. They brought out some serious all-stars to join them onstage including Eminem, 50 Cent, and Warren G (and, of course, the Tupac hologram). I sang my heart out, danced my butt off, and lived out my hip hop dreams.

It's awesome how two very different types of music on two consecutive nights could fill me with so much joy. I won't lie and you won't be surprised -- I got tears in my eyes at both shows.

It is not lost on me how lucky I am to be alive. It is not lost on me what a fun and fulfilling life I live. And it is certainly not lost on me how music has played a major role in helping me survive and thrive.

RIP MCA.

I blew it off at the time, repeating that yes, I actually felt great and everything was going great, but that got me to thinking. Do people think that I'm sugarcoating my cancer experience? Do people think that somehow, some of the things I say on this blog and in real life are not the total and absolute truth?

Let me break it down for you.

Every word I've written on this blog is the truth. I have no desire to sugarcoat my cancer experience or make it palatable for a larger audience of people who haven't battled the disease. I have no desire to make myself seem superhuman or not affected by chemo or surgery in an attempt to pump myself up or fake myself out about the severity of what I am going through. This blog started out and has continued to be a place where I can speak directly from the heart. That's why these posts of mine, even the long ones, take me about 10 or 15 minutes to write. There isn't any editing or tweaking going on here, folks. This stuff comes directly from my brain/heart and goes directly to the blog.

The bottom line is what I write is true. What I say is true. And yes, I feel great. 

You know what, though? I'll get a little down and dirty, just for full disclosure purposes. The last round of chemo made me a little constipated. There you go. The ugly truth about my last round of chemo. I was undoubtedly dehydrated from Coachella and then chemo drugs finished the job of depriving my bowels of their requisite fluid. So for about a day (probably less than 24 hours but let's just round up for anti-sugarcoating purposes), pooping wasn't fun. But when I finally did poop, it was better than all the past 20 poops combined. It was a true joy. I literally did a little dance when I emerged from the bathroom.

Another truth? My CEA didn't go down this week. It actually went up .4, a figure that Dr. Lenz promises is utterly insignificant. Did I want my CEA to go from an 8.8 to a 6.8 or something sweet like that? Of course. Am I upset that it went to a 9.2? Not really. Slow and steady wins the race. I'll knock the CEA down some more with this next round of chemo. I've got no doubt about that.

So yes, everything is great. Actually great. Literally great. This week, I ate delicious, nutritious food. I went to the gym every day but today (a little break for Friday but back at it tomorrow) and I shredded my muscles and built them back up. I did the leg press at 215 pounds. I played pick-up basketball games all week and shot the lights out. I DJed O'Melveny's Cinco de Mayo party for 3 hours. I worked, I planned Foundation events, and I made progress on my t-shirt line. I slept like a baby. I sang in the shower and in the car. I laughed until I cried. I smiled at the sun and I lived each moment in utter gratitude.

Actually great. Literally great. 

Maybe it's the conception that chemo means sickness and frailty and cancer means the end of fun and death itself. Maybe it's that I seem too happy or strong or content to be a Stage IV colon cancer patient.

But it's all true. WunderGlo would never lie to you...or me.

I am grateful for it. I'm a better person, living a happier and richer life, and helping more people as a result of this diagnosis. I was always a brave person, but to live each day in a courageous way is an invigorating way to be. I was always a happy person, but to experience each moment with unadulterated gratitude for that moment is true joy. I always had a love for life, but now my zest for living -- and surviving -- is hard to even describe.

So no, I wouldn't wish cancer away. I'd embrace it and I do embrace it. Cancer -- and facing death -- taught me how to truly live.  I wouldn't wish my diagnosis on anyone, of course, but it was just what I needed to grow, learn, and live my life in a richer, more beautiful way. 

Now don't get me wrong: I am more devoted and focused than ever at extinguishing every last bit of cancer in these bowels of mine. But to be truly honest, I'm actually pretty happy that the disease found its way into my body.

Now if that doesn't terrify the hell out of cancer, I don't know what will. Ha!!

But there’s no rest for the weary in the land of WunderGlo.  Several hours later, I was back to killing cancer with my buddies Avastin and FOLFIRI.

All in all, this round went well. It wasn’t quite as easy as the ones that came before (I did a good bit of napping this time around), and I’m going to attribute that to my exhausting but amazing weekend that immediately preceded it.  Now that it’s Thursday, I’m feeling almost at 100%, which I’ll definitely get to by tomorrow morning when I’m heading into the office.

As always, I’m impressed and blessed by what my body can do. Sometimes, people say I’m “lucky” that I’m young and dealing with this disease. I’m not sure that being diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer at the age of 28 can really be characterized as “lucky,” but I get what they’re saying.  Part of my resiliency is, no doubt, attributable to my age. But that’s definitely not the whole story. My diet, my fitness regimen, and all the other things I do to make myself as strong and formidable an opponent against cancer is all part of why I’m doing so well in this fistfight of mine. There are no excuses, no complaints, and no regrets in this journey. I work as hard as I can to help myself and others, I embrace all the challenges of cancer treatment, and I savor each moment of life.  

I don’t concern myself with statistics of survival. I don’t flinch at the idea that my odds of long-term survival aren’t good.  In fact, I actually don’t even believe that. I think my odds of living a long, long time are actually pretty fantastic. 

I’m living, I’m thriving, and I’m enjoying every minute of it. 

And that sends a cold shiver down cancer’s backbone.