livingcured

I've been pretty lame about posting, I know. First, I was frustrated that no one was reading my blog, as measured by the nifty 'Google Analytics' system that I installed. Or so I thought. But allegedly people do visit, despite the fact that Google has given me a big goose egg. Not wanting to let my immeasurable audience down, I'm back and posting.

April 15 was the two year anniversary of my diagnosis, and given the type of cancer that I had, marks the end (knock-wood) of my highest risk of recurrence period. I'm not out of the woods, but I'm slowly making my way out of it. Whereas two years ago I was dropped in the middle of the forest (think the scary trees from Wizard of Oz) with only a change of underwear and a can-opener, I now have a map, fresh water and the wind at my back.

So why did April suck? On April 14 I went to a funeral for a wonderful family friend. Olivia was diagnosed after I was, but with the Stage IV, hormonally negative version of Her2+ breast cancer. As you might imagine, our shared circumstances brought us closer. For all the wonderful Her2 drugs that have entered the clinic, and the pipeline full of even more hope, none of this worked for Olivia. It broke my heart in so many ways.

Up to the time of Olivia's death, I had been feeling very sorry for myself given the recent development of lymphedema in my right arm. For those who don't know, lymphedema is a relatively common side-effect of cancer treatment, and results from having lymph nodes removed and parts of the axilla radiated. It is a chronic, incurrable condition, and in my case, results in a swelled forearm. There is nothing good about lymphedema, but I'm no longer feeling sorry for myself.