August 2, 1997
I just passed my 4 month follow-up check up with another clean bill of health. My only complaint for the doctors was my lungs, for they feel as though they are wrapped in rubber bands whenever I do any heavy aerobic-type of exercise. And guess what, they kind of are, for they are full of scar tissue left over from all the radiation I had. So my job now is to keep running, cycling, skating and the like, so as the scarring will get stretched out. BTW, did anyone notice that I did not complain about my stomach? Well that is because I no longer, or rarely, need Tagament anymore. My stomach has just about fully recovered. I am amazed, for it would not obey for so long. So, you see, a little tightness in my lungs is no big deal, for I know it will get better too. Just wait and see!

Gosh, how could I forget? I almost forgot to mention that I am actually getting my PORT OUT! The insurance company is running around fixing everything in their own creative way, and part of the reason is because they finally realized that it was because of their own inane practices that I turned into such a severe case in the first place. It is possible that they even fear a law suit from me, and gee, I don't know where they would have got that idea. Anyway, let me say it again, my PORT IS COMING OUT! The final phase of my treatment has an ending, and that day is only six days away! I am going to ask the doctor if I can keep it. Is that sick? I am not sure.

August 9, 1997
It happened! It's done! I am 100% human again! My port is no longer in my body! I got it out the day before yesterday. That same day I also had dental work done, and I do not recommend doing those two back to back. Anyway, the teeth part was nothing new, but the port removal was semi-bizarre. I asked the doctor if I could keep it, but he said that it would be a health hazard because they could not really clean it properly. That wasn't the bizarre part. I asked the doctor if he could cut out the old scar and make a less visible one, and he told me he could, but that he could not promise anything about the results. He did not want to blame my body, but he said that everybody heals differently at different times. That still was not the bizarre part, and if you get grossed out by surgical images, then I suggest you proceed beyond the rest of this paragraph. The doctor injected me with a ton of lidocaine, he cut out the old scar, and then the bizarre part came. When he got down to where my port was he told me how my body, as all bodies do, had made my port a part of me. My tissue glommed itself onto my port and, yuck, the doctor had to slice it away with his scalpel. My port was lodged in my body like a bullet, and it was not going to just slip out like I had envisioned. The really bizarre part was just knowing that he was hacking away at the inside of my chest, and I just had to believe that I would not be mutilated at the end of it. I felt a little bit like a steak.

I almost forgot, I got to see my port. I got to see the thing that was living in my chest for 19 months. I always knew that my port made me feel like an alien, so I thought it was appropriate that the port looked like a small titanium flying saucer. I wish I could have kept it, but at least I am port-free. Now I get to wait a week or two for my chest wound to heal, and then I will get to see if my doctor is also an artist.

I just added a tribute to David Saltzman, one that I had prepared many months ago. He is the author of the book, "The Jester has Lost His Jingle," one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. I hope you have a chance to check out the tribute and better yet, read his book!

I also added a Snappy Answers section in honor of all the hoopla going on now about medicinal marijuana research. I was watching the Fox News Channel the other night, and I got mad when I heard an idiot of an ex-congressman give his pointless point of view about medicinal marijuana. So I called up and got on the air! I told them that I had smoked marijuana while going through chemo and radiation, and that it was the only way I could stop puking long enough to keep down my Zophran. One hit, and a few second later my upchuck-a-thon would end! Can I help it if I am a nauseous person? I would have gone on and on, but they cut me off.

August 20, 1997
I just got back from Marineworld, the last amusement park that I shall visit this summer. From Disneyland to Great America to Marineworld, I was the only person that I saw with a parasol. I will tell you that being a five foot three person with a parasol in a crowd takes some kind of skill to keep from clipping people, and I apoligize for all the people involved as I learned to navigate it. Nobody asked me why I had a parasol, but I did get a few comments like, "Now that's the way to be a lady," and "Hey, lady it's not raining." One thing I do know, I survived the summer with my parasol, and I will never feel safe in the sun without it. Call me paranoid, but then also call me melanoma-free. It's my life, and I am the one who really cares!

Anyway, as I wasn't saying, I love elephants! I wish that I could have one the size of a cat for a pet. I rode one at Marineworld, but I must say that I kind of felt sorry for it. The elephant trainers poke them with sticks that must be annoying, plus it is obvious that given a choice, an elephant would much rather be doing it's own elephant activities.

Being a survivor, I have noticed a few things about myself that have changed. I know that I have also aged a few years since my diagnosis and treatment, but I have become even more set in my ways than ever. Maybe I know that my time on this earth has a greater possibility of being shorter than it could have been, so I do not want to waste time on that which is irritating or unimportant. I have less tolerance for anything that makes me feel sick or might be unhealthy, such as being around anyone smoking or like the day that I got slimed by a snot-filled child who unintentionally wiped his nose all over my hand. I can't help but be semi-germ conscious, and it is not my fault that I have become somewhat claustrophobic. I think it also has to do with my diminished lung capacity, for I feel suffocated easily. I felt like I was suffocating when I went inside the hot and humid butterfly exhibit at Marineworld, and I had to keep myself from wacking my umbrella at the clogging crowds that stood in my path as I tried to find the exit. The truth is, I could easily be a hermit and live with just my computer, and maybe a small elephant. Sorry, but that is just the way I am!

As for my port update, rather my port scar update, I have found that daily doses of fresh aloe vera along with vitamin E oil, have made my scar into a decent looking thin line. Now when I look at it, I am reminded that I must keep living healthy, whereas before with my port intalled, my protruding port bump was a big reminder that I has been sick. For that I am grateful!

August 30, 1997
Being a survivor, I am now fully engaged in the outside world, and to the outsider, my HD is completely in my past. As I see it, although my treatment is in my past, my life will never be the same. I will never believe that anyone can understand how I feel right now unless they have gone through what I have, or unless they are some sort of doctor or nurse. Nobody can really understand what it is like to have a possible time bomb living in their body, unless they have the threat of a life-threatening illness hovering over them. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think about a relapse or dying too young, and all I can do is tell myself that I am going to be one of the people who never see cancer again. I walk around everyday knowing how short my life might be, and it really does change the way I look at everything. I am never bored, of course I never was, but now if I am doing something as mundane as sitting in a waiting room, I can enjoy the time by thinking about how glad I am to be alive that very minute. I like to slow time down and enjoy the tiniest of things, so I guess one could say that I have won some sort of jackpot. I got to have cancer and live to enjoy the aftermath.

I was reminded of the boomerang quality of HD, when I heard on the news this week that Brandon Tartikoff (NBC TV mogul) died of complications of Hodgkin's disease. He first got HD when he was 23, and he relapsed twice, the last one ending his life at 48 years old. When I heard the news report, I was at least glad that they said what kind of cancer he had, because usually the reporter just mentions that the person died of cancer. For those of us who had had cancer, and maybe others, we want to know what kind of cancer and as many details as we can get. The media loves to dissect such stories as the OJ trial, but when it comes to death by cancer or some other less sensational manner, they shorten the story to "died of cancer." Part of the reason for that is most likely that nobody wants to think about cancer any more than they have to. Little do they know that they could possibly enjoy the fruits of the cancer perspective, by facing cancer without actually having it.

And now back to my visualizations, or shall I say, images for my survival. I have a new visualization where I picture my entire body being flushed, I see myself as standing still with my arms and legs straight as water flies out of my skin. Any HD cells that try to form in my body are flushed out by the water. It is like being hosed off from the inside. I also think about all the bad cells leaving my body when I am sweating on my stationary bike, and when I am done, I take a shower and wash all the expelled cells down the drain. Sounds yucky, but not as yucky as letting even one HD cell hide in my body. I bet that one day everyone will realize that there is a visual place in their brain, where they can create images that can help them control their body. The wise thing would be to incorporate visualizations in a preventive manner, for that would beat figuring out one's hidden powers while being hooked up to a hefty chemo drip.