Unnecessary Excitement

It wouldn’t be a true Jess Sultaire day at Women and Infants hospital if I didn’t cause a little bit of trouble.

Today began as your average weekly chemo day would. Day 1 of another 3 week cycle: steroid, Pepcid, Benadryl, 1 hour of Taxol, and 3 hours of Carboplatin.

A little background surrounding Carbo. There is a risk of allergic reaction therefore you are required to take 20 mg of steroids the night before and the morning of chemo on the Carbo days. I was pretty confident that I wouldn’t have a reaction. I still took the steroids as a precaution but mostly because I’m a rule follower.

Even so, I was confident that if I was going to react to Carbo, it would have happened already.

Fast forward to the beginning of hour 3 of 3 for Carboplatin.

Amparo, our medical assistant, happened to walk by my room. It was nearing the end of the day so she popped her head in to say goodbye. Mid-sentence she interrupted herself to say: “you are all red!”. A look of concern came over her face. Of course, not realizing how I actually looked, I responded (perhaps a little too casually): “Nahh. I’m fine, it’s just hot in here.”


With growing concern in her voice she called in the first infusion nurse she could find.

It turns out it was a potentially far more serious situation than I knew. All of the sudden EVERY chemo nurse had surrounded my bed. I’m not joking- there were 8 medical professionals crammed into this room. Everything happened so fast. I was having a reaction to the Carbo and the protocol is to act quickly.

*I should clarify before you get too concerned that luckily my only symptom of this reaction was turning Heinz ketchup red from head to toe. My airway was not restricted and I did not experience itchy palms.*

They swiftly hooked me up to the blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter to continually monitor my blood pressure, pulse, and blood oxygen. I they pushed a dose of steroid and Benadryl directly into tubing to reverse the effects of the reaction.

Even though I was physically okay. Something happened, in my mind I was triggered.

The sudden rush of nurses and their collective looks of concerns tapped into a buried trauma. It was so reminiscent of the fear and confusion I felt when I went into septic shock earlier this past summer. I didn’t have a visual “flashback” but I very intensely tapped into that deep seeded fear and confusion where I didn’t know what this all meant. I began to experience an involuntary physical reaction to that fear- increased heart rate, shortness of breath, tears.I can’t be sure because I don’t believe I have had one before, but I think this could be classified as an anxiety attack. They placed oxygen under my nose to help me catch my breath while Betsy and Caryn rubbed my back and reassured me that I was okay.

I know I speak incessantly about the stellar care I receive at Women and Infants but it cannot go unacknowledged just how well they support their patients. In addition to every single nurse coming to my aid and knowing just what to do, they were incredibly warm and compassionate. One of them even ran upstairs to get Sheila because she knew we were close and thought she would help to make me feel comfortable.

If this blog ever ends up in the hands Mark Marcantano (President and COO of WIH), the following infusion staff deserve a massive raise and recognition as a result of this  particular incident: Amparo, Betsy, Caryn, Ann-Marie, Ivone, Beth, Susan, Sandra, and of course Sheila.

(Sidenote: Unsuccessfully tried to find contact information for Mr. Macantano to email him directly. If anyone has it, send it my way. Between GYN onc, the 4th floor of the main hospital, and the infusion center, senior leadership NEEDS to know the level of care that is being provided by these angels)


Over time the redness came down, I was able to catch my breath, and the fear subsided. Betsy told me that she would stay as late as it took for the redness to disappear. By about 6pm I was back to normal.

So after all of the months that I’ve receive platinum based chemotherapy dating back to 2013, why now? Why would I react all of the sudden?

While I had assumed (wrongly) that the more exposure to something, the more your body gets used to it, that is not true in this case. Over time your body can start to view the Carboplatin drug as an antigen, meaning a toxin/foreign substance/allergen. As a result, your immune system reacts by sending antibodies to fight against the antigens.

I kind of see it going down like this:

What now?

The next two weeks of my chemo cycle is fortunately only Taxol. When my new cycle begins we will likely do a “desensitization chemo”. This protocol is considered when a drug is seemingly working but a patient reacts like I did to it. Instead of going to the infusion center I would receive the treatment in the main hospital oncology floor. I wouldn’t be inpatient (I can go home when it’s done), but the infusion would be incredibly slow.

~1 hour for predrugs: steroids, Pepcid, Benadryl

~1 hour for Taxol

~6 hours for Carboplatin (normally it is 3 hours)

It’ll be a pretty long day but it’s a safer way to infuse and reap the benefit of a drug that could be working under close supervision.

Now, if this desensitization chemo still causes me to react, we will probably have to break up with Carbo. We could potentially just continue with Taxol only or maybe Dr. Robison will have another chemo up her sleeve to try.

So that’s that. I’m totally fine. Aside from feeling fatigued, I’m feeling okay today.

I will need to have Cory bring me to Providence to pick up my car from the hospital. I ended up needing so much Benedryl yesterday that they told me I couldn’t operate heavy machinery for 24 hours. Sarah Breen is an incredibly selfless human and no questions asked picked me up from chemo and drove me the 45 minutes home even though she worked all day (an hour away as it is). THANK you Sarah. I love you more than you will ever know for all you do and all you are.

I’ll end on a less dramatic, happier note:

My CA-125 dropped from 843 to 642🙂




The Bucket List: Sans Morgan Freeman & Jack Nicholson

I don’t think there is a way to say this without sounding a cheesy.

I made a bucket list…



A cancer patient made a bucket list, how original.



So why now? What prompted this cliche?

A single article: 91 year old’s bucket list journey

I read the initial article as it circulated social media a few months ago. It’s about a woman diagnosed with Uterine Cancer at age 90. She decided to skip chemo and go travel to do all of things she has always imagined doing in her lifetime. As you may see, she did a whole heck of a lot in the span of a year, probably more than most do in their lifetimes.

No one wants to live out their days hooked up to IV poison. At 90 years old I would have said “eff it” too and just let everything else take its course.

Admittedly I was jealous of Norma. If it was evident that I would meet my maker soon, I would want to do the same. The reality is that I’m in my 20’s, there is a lot of life to be had, and no indication that I’ll be kicking the bucket anytime soon (that’s a good thing). I still need to work full time and plan for the future.

Norma’s adventure got me thinking about purpose and fulfillment. Am I doing everything I want to live a purposeful life? What do I want to do that I haven’t done yet? What can I do that will push my own boundaries? As I spun through the “I really want to ______” rolodex of my mind I became overwhelmed. Can I do what I need to do? Will I have the resources? Will I feel well enough?

Is there enough time?


And there I went again, staring my mortality in the face.

It happens every now and again. The thought of my own mortality isn’t persistent. Sure it’s intrusive, but not a daily thing. For me, it doesn’t act as these ongoing big, dramatic, moments. When I go to bed at night I don’t think to myself “hope I wake up tomorrow!” I think “my phone just indicated that I need to wake up for work in four hours and twenty-one minutes, yikes.”

The reality is that intrusive thoughts will visit you periodically and you have to sit with the discomfort and find productive ways to transform it.

The grim realities of disease can either drag you down or they can motivate you (although truthfully it’s a little of column A and a little of column B.) In this case, I sat with these strong feelings and allowed it to challenge my pattern of thinking.

I had the great privilege of speaking with Zach Mercurio, writer and educator recently. Zach writes and speaks openly about awakening one’s purpose. He has published some great articles in the Huffington Post as well as on his blog, Purpose Speaks. His message is mainly “why does this matter?”, more specifically “why does what I’m doing matter right now?”

Coming down from the energy of the Izzy Gala, combined with speaking to Zach on this topic, and being super peanut-butter-and-jealous of Norma, my bucket list was born. It was a way to reconcile the nagging thought that time could be* running out.

*I purposely said “could be” instead of “is” because no one knows when their story eneds. For all I know, I can live with cancer for 10’s of years or a freak sinkhole could form around my bed and I could fall in and die without warning (for real THIS HAPPENED in Florida in 2013). I’m not Nostradamus therefore I have no business agonizing over how much time I ultimately have on this earth. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is what I’m doing right now.

So back to the bucket list. Or perhaps a more appropriate name would just be: Joyful Opportunities. A collection of low stress, high intrinsic reward ideas to pepper into my daily life as I see fit.

You may be wondering: “Jess, what’s are these “joyful opportunities” you speak of?!”

I’ve opted to keep my list to myself for a few reasons, although I will share a few examples to demonstrate my pattern of thinking. First, it’s highly personal and although my list is pretty vanilla, I’m not inviting others to weigh in on what I find meaningful to me. Secondly, this should be a low-pressure endeavor. By putting such goals in a public forum I may feel more stress to have to achieve them. These joyful opportunities are to serve as rainbow sprinkles on an already fulfilling life, not check boxes on a to-do list. I’d rather keep the full list between me and the pages of my journal.

(P.S. Steph Frazitta, if you’re reading this, my list lives in the fresh pages of the new journal you gifted to me. I couldn’t think of a better home for it.)

I will say that I found my goals falling into three overarching themes: 1.) Travel, 2.) Things I want to create, 3.) Things I want to do for others. (and as a byproduct of all themes, 4.) Things I want to eat, nom nom nom.)


I acknowledge that I won’t do everything that I wrote in my journal but I was fairly realistic and simple with the experiences I hope to have, so much of it is doable. One example that I am willing to share is something I hope to do this weekend:

  •  Bake a lattice top apple pie from scratch.

I chose this experience because it’s one of those things that “matters now”. Baking to me is calming, low-stress, productive, and requires you to be in the moment. It allows me to share with others and quietly create something beautiful (hopefully) and delicious (hopefully).

Sure I have more adventurous experiences on my list and pie might sound boring but again it is an intentional endeavor and matters to me in this moment.

I’ll end on a spoiler alert: sky diving, bungee jumping, and freebasing did not make the list. Anyone who knows me should not be shocked by this.

Enjoy the long weekend everyone! Be sure to fit in moments for yourself where the joy to stress ratio isn’t too skewed in the stress direction.

Living in Lilac

Here we are at the 5th annual Izzy Gala.


I look at this photo and can only think about how lucky I am. On a purely surface level, we are lucky to be afforded the comfort and luxury of spending an evening at a “purple” tie event on the 18th floor ballroom of the historic Biltmore Providence. Not everyone gets to dress up in a gown, sip champagne, tear up the dance floor to a live band, and retire to a beautiful room facing the city’s statehouse alongside their dashingly handsome best friend. It is a privilege to take part in such an experience.

That “luck” extends beyond the feeling of glitz and glamour. I think we can all agree that having cancer doesn’t make one lucky by any stretch of the imagination. I suppose what I mean is more serendipitous. All of the twists and turns that life has taken in the past few years that have led to deeply routed connections with some incredible individuals. I always harp on community that exists around illness and it is truly beautiful to see it in action.

The Izzy Foundation blossomed out of grief. The grief of a child leaving the physical world too soon as a result of cancer. From the ashes of loss came rebirth and Isabelle Wohlrab’s tiny, loving, spirit would live on. In Izzy’s memory you have a brightly decorated family room in Hasbro Children’s Hospital that provides comfort and respite to families that are just trying to hold it together through some of their toughest days. You have over $23,000 in scholarships this year alone for children and their siblings to be able to go to school and ease the burden of growing medical debts. These are tangible results of a community that decided to make life better for others facing similar battles.

When Dr. Robison was giving her toast, she spoke about the intention behind this year’s theme “Living in Lilac”. Beyond continuing with the purple theme, it was important to her to communicate that in spite of it all, you and your loved ones can live a full and vibrant life alongside cancer. It cannot dull all of the laughter or love or generous spirit we have within us. This year I listened to her  deliver the toast not as Dr. Robison, my trusted oncologist- but as Tina, Izzy’s mom. It was raw, authentic, and hopeful.


As the primary facilitator of my care since 2013, I’ve always known that Tina “gets it” when it comes to evaluating medical decisions from the standpoint of quality of life, impact on family, work, etc. Last night was a reminder of that level of understanding.

That understanding extends to the Women and Infant’s staff present that have also become like family. Last night I had the pleasure of bopping around to Tom Petty alongside people that have consistently gone beyond the call of duty to ensure that I stay well. To these medical professionals, you aren’t just the next patient on the schedule. They cheer you on, they cry with you, they hurt when you hurt. They don’t just go home when their shift is over. These are people that on the most human level, feel for your experience and do everything they can to help improve it.



Living with cancer can be a lonely task whether you are the patient or caregiver or loved one. We don’t always understand the disease and we don’t always feel in control of our fate. Sometimes we feel exhausted, utterly depleted. Sometimes we let the fear of “what-if’s” consume our projections of the future. Sometimes it feels like too much for any one person to handle.

Well, it is.

But- with the support, warmth, and drive of a community that understands the plight, we can come together and lift each other up in unimaginable ways.

Last night’s event was bursting with the kind of love that could only be captured in the heart of a spirited child. I am grateful to those that made it possible for Cory and I to share that experience. It means more to us than you know.

Izzy would be so proud.






Notorious O.V.A.R.Y. in Action

September has great energy. A new academic year begins, the seasons start to change, and one of my favorite annual events takes place- the Silent No More 5k to benefit the Rhode Island Ovarian Cancer Alliance.

I am pleased to share that with the support of family, friends, and friends of friends, team Notorious O.V.A.R.Y. raised $2890 (exceeding my goal of $2000). As a whole, this event raised over $32,000 with donations still rolling in!


I’ll chat more about the walk in a minute. For as many times as I’ve had to write about being in the hospital, needles, pills, NG tubes, and general unpleasantness, it’s important to highlight when life is just normal. That includes visits with friends, good meals, professional growth…pretty much any moment that is not spent clinging to life on my couch. So weekend recap- commence!

The weekend began with a visit from two of my childhood best friends, Stacey and Michelle. Our time together was filled with good food, a carnival on the beach, hot tubbing in the back yard, and several moments where I laughed so hard that I almost cried.

At the carnival we may or may not have shamelessly ridden a kiddie coaster and the “bear affair”. I’m guessing three 28 year olds are not the target demographic for these rides but hey, if we fits, we sits.



Living in three different states and starting the majority of my weekends with chemo makes it difficult for the three of us to be together at the same time very often. That said, my heart was very full this weekend with these goons.

In the midst of their visit I did have to work on Saturday to facilitate a training for the MyPath mentors. The mentors are (mostly) juniors and seniors that serve as resources for students that are exploratory. Exploratory meaning, undecided about a major/career path, questioning their path, etc. It’s a fantastic program made better by these incredibly motivated student leaders. Despite falling on an already busy weekend and me running it for the first time I was very pleased. The mentors blew me away with their insight, discussion, and willingness to share their personal experiences. I’m looking forward to the upcoming year with this program.

My ability to be at this training without stressing over leaving my transportation-less guests home was made possible by Cory continuing to be the best human. He cleaned, made sure Michelle was caffeinated (super important), and picked up Stacey at the train station without complaint. What a gem, right?

Our weekend wrapped up with the Silent No More 5k to benefit Rhode Island women touched by ovarian cancer. To give you a little background on the name of the walk, one of the most grim nicknames of this disease is “the silent killer” because it’s symptoms (bloating, feeling full quickly, GI issues) can mirror a massive number of other, more minor, ailments. That said, many women are not diagnosed until later stages when the disease has spread from the ovary to other parts of the body. Being “silent no more” flips the script on that ugly nickname because as a small cancer community we are educating women on how to listen to their bodies and spreading the word. The more preventative we can be, the more women will thrive in the face of this disease.

Speaking of thriving, there were FORTY survivors at the walk this year. That is incredible. That means forty women that are either still kicking some OC keister or in remission. That is forty more women that are defying the odds, blowing up the statistics, and truly thriving.

It was nice to see familiar faces from previous years and exchange big hugs. The Rhode Island OC community is truly full of kind and remarkable people. I wouldn’t wish this disease on anyone, but I’m glad that it brought us together. (Shout out fellow cancer crusher, Dorinda for my new favorite bracelet!)



I was lucky to round up a great team to come together as Notorious O.V.A.R.Y. (team name credit to Sarah Breen). Thank you Mom, Dad (Peepaw), Cory, Stacey, Michelle, Sarah, Zack, Kerri, Monica, Robin, Becca, Maddie, Joseph, Austen, and Ginger for waking up early, going full on teal, and braving the humidity for this cause. It meant the world to have you there.




Congrats to Donna Ricci (President), John Morris (Vice President), and the rest of the RIOCA board members on another successful year. So many bear hugs, so little time! Jessie was most definitely proudly smiling down on you today through the sunshine.

Before I wrap up, I have a minor health update but it’s nothing exciting. One of the small incisions from the port placement wasn’t healing quite right and became infected so I completed one course of antibiotics. Unfortunately it still isn’t better so they have extended antibiotics for another two full weeks. So far they aren’t wreaking havoc on my life like the mega-antibiotics I had to take over the summer. On Friday, they drew blood cultures from my port just to rule out another infection in the port but they’re pretty sure that the infection is superficial.

CA-125 will be drawn this week, I see Dr. Robison for a check up on Thursday, “big” chemo on Friday. I’m not banking on a great CA-125 considering this infection business but here’s to hopin’.

Now that I have survived and chronicled such an eventful weekend, I’m going to plop down on the sofa, watch the Packers (hopefully) crush the Vikings (sorry Larz Barz), and restore my energy for work tomorrow.




Teal Month Begins with Silver Linings

On this the day of my daughter’s wedding Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month beginning, the universe did me a solid favor…

3 weeks ago at the beginning of my last cycle of chemo my CA 125 was pretty high- 1900 (generally “normal” is 21 or below. I haven’t been in the double digits in a good long time)

Today, Dr. Robison called me personally at work to deliver the news the my CA-125 tumor marker came back as 759.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a dramatic drop within one cycle. There are so many factors that can influence this number: less inflammation in the body, no infections, chemo doing it’s damn job, nourishing my body with better food. So that said, no need for a CT scan right now and we will just stay the course with my current treatment plan.

I cannot scientifically prove this, but I want to believe that my tumor marker came down as a result of the love, laughter, and good times spent with my family last weekend on the Cape. It’s not often that my brother and his girlfriend are on the east coast so it was an extra special visit.

Oh and Cory and I went to a food truck festival on the Cape Cod fairgrounds and ate SO much incredible food- BBQ, Vietnamese, hipster grilled cheese, ice cream…

It wasn’t long ago that I sat behind my keyboard and drafted a blog post in tears considering that I may never eat normally again. This sounds dramatic, but a g-tube was a real possibility that most of the residents were in favor of at that time. Just weeks ago I didn’t have much reassurance that my body would “know what to do” and process solid food as it once had. In a short time I’ve gone from not eating to fearing food to re-teaching the body how to eat to enjoying the experience of dining.

You don’t truly realize how much the act of eating food factors into your day, your social experiences, and your mental health. Treasure every bite my friends.

Anyway, I’ll hop off my soapbox and let you in on some of last weekend’s good times.


As horrendous of a summer as it was, I can say that the past few weeks have totally salvaged it.

Lastly, I would like to take this opportunity to share the cherry on top of great news and welcome my baby cousin Vincent into this world. Vinnie- you will know nothing short of infinite love. Congratulations Sara and Ray!!


All Things Hair

Hair and I have had a complicated relationship over the past few years. Or perhaps all my life. How many times have we been guilty of looking in the mirror furiously straightening/curling/blowing out and announcing to no one “I HATE my hair”? Well that was before I started systematically poisoning myself and it all fell out. Now I kinda miss the little buggers. Imperfections and all.

Before I started writing this I went back in time to 2013 and 2015, the two other years that I was treated with Taxol (the chemo that makes your hair fall out) to remember how I felt about the hair loss events.

To recap:

2013– It was an emotionally challenging process. Working out your identity as a chronically ill person is not something that comes easily or happens quickly, and it’s never really “complete”. Losing my hair made the illness visible. At that time, I needed the wigs to reclaim my femininity (which I felt robbed off sans hair and all reproductive organs). I didn’t look or feel like myself so wearing wigs was necessary for my comfort.

wig shopping


2015- Let’s be honest. I was SUPER sad to lose this hair. It had grown back darker, curly, and it was adorable. That said, I didn’t have the same emotional response to losing the hair. I had my head casually shaved by my girl Emily at the salon and went on my way.

Aside from work where I would wear a hat or scarf, I generally went bald most of the time and was very comfortable with that. I got the occasional second look from time to time, mostly because you don’t often see women with cue ball heads. It didn’t bother me. I had already done a lot of “emotional work” so this wasn’t as emotionally taxing as the first time.

What is strange is that even though I was on taxol pretty much all of last year, my hair randomly started growing back in the middle of it. Bizarre.

PRESENT DAY- After a short taxol hiatus we started up again in late spring. To be expected, my hair started to thin. I didn’t bother shaving it in hopes the same “growing back miracle” would grace me again.

No such luck.

I’m not emotionally attached to having hair. I’d rock a buzz cut again no problem (do you see how round my head is! My saving grace). But hair is just fun! It’s like an accessory. So in seeking out said fun, back to wigs I go…because- why not?

The talented Ky Michaels of The Ky Michaels Salon in Providence agreed to take on the challenge of updating my wigs. Actually I asked him to do one and he’s doing all three because that’s just the kind of gem he is!

I went in to see the finished product for the two that are ready and per usual Ky did not disappoint. I know he spend a lot of time and energy, at home no less, to make sure I ended up with hair that made me feel polished and pretty.

Mission accomplished. The wig pictured directly below used to be the length of the first picture. I love it. It’s bouncy, full, and I feel great in it.


Look #2: A little longer for variety.


In short, I’ll be sporting some new looks and now Cory has 4 girlfriends.


Port on the Starboard Side

Holy insomnia. I actually did sleep for a few hours last night but it was one of those sleeps where your dreams are so intense and bizarre that you don’t feel rested. Full disclosure- I don’t fully remember all of the details but it was some combination of being part of being a newly retired olympic gymnast and Big Brother contestant. Neither of which I’d be very good at in real life (can’t do flips, bad a comps, not competitive). Although it beats my Stranger Things inspired dream from the previous night that left me a little hesitant to find my way to the bathroom in the dark (note to self: string Christmas lights and befriend Eleven for protection).


I’ve been awake from 3am-6am to embrace the weird/non sleep and get caught up on Big Brother.

Non-fans of any of these shows…just move on. Clearly the sleep deprivation is not conducive to a clear and concise actual treatment update.

Anyway, I’ll keep the rest semi-short and sweet.

Monday I had the new port placed. I was told it would likely go on the left side of my chest but they did an ultrasound beforehand and determined that despite scar tissue from the previous port they would still have no problem placing it where it was before on my right.

The port was placed under VIR (vascular and interventional radiology) at Rhode Island Hospital. It was the same place where the first port and PICC line were put in so I had an idea of what to expect. I was under conscious sedation so although I was awake sterile barriers prevented me from seeing what was happening and IV drugs prevented me from feeling it.

I will be honest, leading up to that day I wasn’t nervous or concerned but when I was in the waiting room after check in I had a mini-moment where I was feelning pretty overwhelmed. Cory was with me and talked me through it like the champ he is. I don’t even think it was the procedure itself that freaked me out, I just felt triggered by simply being there. Remember, my only experiences at RIH have involved getting ports placed or the ICU for septic shock. Not a great track record for fond memories.

The night after surgery I didn’t sleep at all. I was in a lot of pain and nothing seemed to take the edge off. I can best describe it like Conor McGregor slugging you in the collarbone as hard as he can. 513972668-conor-mcgregor-punches-nate-diaz-in-their-gettyimages

I returned to work the next day, which happened to be “moving day”. Our office was renovated over the summer so we were moving back in from our temporary space in the library. I couldn’t have been more useless on moving day. As always, I’m fortunate to have such compassionate co-workers. Shout out to Doug Hillis for moving my boxes for me. I was able to slowly but surely get unpacked and I am so thrilled with the new space. The office layout will be a little different to get acclimated to but my actual office looks phenomenal.

The pain has subsided over the past few days and luckily I can say it’s no longer sore. At chemo yesterday, Rosa removed the big bandage and revealed that it’s healing nicely. We were able to use the port with no issues for my Taxol infusion.

New Port…not Newport.

Final notes-

Thanks to Stacey for the chemo visit (I owe you a better hang out…Eskimo King stat). Double thanks to my parents for the post-chemo surprise visit yesterday!

Anyway, it’s a decent hour and I need to get ready for work.

Happy Friday!

The gift of momentary inner peace

Yesterday after chemo, I officially had no use for the PICC line and it was pulled from my arm. It didn’t hurt, actually, it felt like a long piece of wet spaghetti slide out from under my skin. Within seconds I was free. Free from the tubes, the daily saline and heparin flushes, the sickening smell of alcohol wipes. My arm could just be my arm and a shower no longer had to involve a sandwich bag and medical tape.

After work today I was fortunate to have one of those crystal moments of clarity where nothing serious mattered. There was no fear, no countdowns until something unpleasant ends, and thankfully no overwhelming nausea or exhaustion. I mean, all of those things exist steadily in my life, sure, but they were out of my head at least momentarily because yesterday’s PICC pull was symbolic. It was freedom.

With my new found “freedom”, I stopped home briefly, threw on a bathing suit and charged to the beach. The 80 plus degree weather at 6pm was certainly a gift as I was determined to get in the water. The waves were huge and crashed around me. The water was chilly but not biting, typical Atlantic in August. I eventually just sat down where the waves calmed and met the sand and let the water wash over me. I soaked in the smell of the ocean, let drifting seaweed cover my lap, and watched the searats sea gulls scavenge.

To put it not-so eloquently- I was happier than a pig in shit.

(This also resulted in about 3 lbs of sand in my bathing suit bottom when I got home soooo, souvenier?)

Now you may be asking yourselves, Jessica- why are you going to such great lengths to describe an incredibly average evening at the beach? Well friends, because I was denied a true summer. The powers that be filled this summer with hospitals and limitations. In short, more days than not were a total suckfest. I say this not necessarily to dwell on the nightmare that was but to highlight a single evening that brought pure, natural joy.

Tomorrow or the next day I’ll worry again. I’ll drag my feet to the hospital on Monday to add to the collection of scars for another port placement. I’ll begrudgingly sit through another chemo infusion on Thursday. I’ll take things for granted. I’ll continue to yell expletives through closed windows on the highway at oblivious fellow motorists… We’re only human right?

But for tonight tonight, I was cut a break. Nothing in the world stopped me digging my swollen ass feet into the sand, cracking the binding of a new book, and drowning out the world as the waves collided.


Thank you universe for this taste of summer and utter peace.


I dig my toes into the sand. The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue blanket. I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless and in this moment I am happy

Eat, Work, Chemo

Knock on wood…

I’ve managed to stay out of the hospital for over two weeks now.


Let’s let that one sink in for a minute.

I’m grateful for every second that I can live my life on the outside. We take slow, incremental steps to reestablish a sense of normalcy. It’s not easy…but it’s lightyears better than where I was just weeks ago.

1.) Going back to work


Although have been working remotely throughout medical leave on projects, reports, etc. I’ve been transitioning back to the office little by little since mid-July. Part in person/part telecommuting. The nature of summer in undergraduate advising (after orientation of course) involves some sparse phone appointments but mostly administrative work to gear up for the next academic year. Degree audits to make sure your rising seniors are on track for graduation (and to light a small forest fire under the ones that aren’t), adjusting freshmen schedules to account for their AP/transfer credits, finalizing study abroad course contracts, prerequisite reports, and general ‘i’ dotting and ‘t’ crossing. It’s pretty low-key stuff but keeps me busy and isn’t terribly draining. That said, my return is well timed.

The fall semester is full on. Two straight weeks of walk-in’s during the add/drop period, classroom presentations and workshops, probation meetings, study abroad advising, registration advising, collaboration with other departments on projects/events and “other duties as assigned”. Student contact is high and this is where more of the student development piece (my favorite piece) comes in. It can be intense, but it’s truly the part I love the most.

Part of living with chronic illness is having to make tough choices about your limitations. As someone who fiercely cares about the work I do, I don’t like “scaling back” or not taking advantage of opportunities to grow in my role. One tough choice came recently when I decided to take a step back from a teaching opportunity in the fall. To be clear, no one at work made me feel as if I had to do this. I’ve gotten nothing but support to take on this additional role. I just knew that in light of this summer from hell, I didn’t want to put my students or the rest of the staff in a tough position if these secondary health issues were to persist. It’s just not fair to anyone.

For now I’m going to keep focusing on my advising role, partnership with the Honors Program, and advising the Colleges Against Cancer club. That keeps me plenty busy.

2.) Om nom noms (…eating)

Reteaching your body anything that is supposed to come naturally is nothing but frustrating. When you’re a baby learning how to eat solids you aren’t worried about the capacity of your stomach or if/how certain foods will digest. Babies eat, poop, occasionally throw up, and move on quickly into hysterical laughter when someone blows a raspberry on their belly.

When I say relearning how to eat, in this case, I don’t mean relearning how to chew or swallow. I’m referring to my atrophied stomach slowly growing to increase food intake and the intestines absorbing nutrients and passing the food without obstruction. It is easy to get in your own head and stress yourself out. There is a sense of urgency to gain weight because I’m super underweight but you also walk a fine line of taking in calories but not so much that you exceed the (very small) capacity of the stomach.

I have been off of TPN for just over a week now and luckily, I didn’t lose weight. I thought that my dietitian would be concerned that I didn’t gain this week because she really hammered home the importance of a 1400 calorie per day diet. Knowing that I didn’t even come remotely close to 1400 calories per day or even 1000 for that matter, I put myself in a tizzy and shed some involuntary tears when she asked how the week went. She was incredibly encouraging and reminded me that this is a process and that I have a lot to be proud of. Getting off of TPN and not losing more weight, actually digesting the food I can take in, eating at a restaurant, are all victories. I felt a huge weight lifted after that conversation.

So things I’ve mostly been taking in that have agreed with me: Stonyfield whole milk baby yogurt, blended fruit/vegetable pouches (yes also for babies), smoothies, cottage cheese, rice cereals, milk (cow or coconut), soft fruits without skin or seeds, very soft cooked vegetables without skin or seeds, bagels, grilled chicken, rice, noodle dishes (lo mein, pad thai), hummus, pita chips, soups, ice cream…

Oh and I was able to eat half of an insanely good reuben (sans saurkraut) the other day. I was in love and proud of myself for keeping it down.

I am fortunate to have a damn good cook in the house so it’s nice to enjoy Cory’s creations as tolerated in small portions. This week I actually ate a small helping of braised short ribs, crispy polenta, and mushrooms:


Not bad for an architectural lighting salesman, eh?

I’m sure most people could house the above meal in two bites but that’s just about how much my stomach can take right now. It was perfect. I look forward to my stomach normalizing even more to take advantage of Cory’s natural culinary talents.

3.) Getting rid of the PICC

The PICC line was supposed to come out yesterday and I was supposed to have the new port placed this coming Tuesday BUT a scheduling miscommunication has pushed both back. I won’t have the port placed until August 15th which means I need the PICC for another week to receive chemo.


I was disappointed but in the grand scheme of things, living with a PICC line for one more week is nothing in comparison to anything else I’ve had to do this summer.

So that’s it for now. I have a big weekend lined up with both Cory’s parents and my parents coming to visit. Should be a lot of fun to get everyone together🙂 It’ll be good to see family after having a slightly emotionally challenging week.

Perhaps next week will turn around as flawlessly as Meyhem Lauren.




Six Days Strong

Almost a week has passed since I was released from the hospital for the most recent bacterial infection. I can’t believe I even need to qualify that with “most recent” as if it is totally normal to go into septic shock then a few weeks later acquire two other infections. I don’t know if I should be terrified that this has happened on top of the other ailments or super impressed that despite it all I’m back home doing relatively well. In any case, I digress…

The point is, I’m home and all things considered I’ve had a pretty decent week. I was fortunate to not have to go home on continued antibiotics this time. I actually had a chance to slowly start to feel human at home without added intensive medications.

On Thursday it was back to chemotherapy. Prior to chemo I had a check up with Dr. Robison and it held some promise!

I had expressed that I was very ready to be finished with TPN. Due to the fats/lipids/dextrose in TPN, it isn’t hard to unknowingly create a little petrie dish in your port/PICC that bacteria thrives on. It just worries me to continue putting myself at risk for infection if we continue. I understand that TPN was necessary, especially given the issues I had with intestinal obstruction, but I’m at a point where my guts are improving and I’m ready to try to nourish myself the good old fashioned way…



I was expecting my request to be met with some resistance since:

1.) I have easily lost 10 lbs since all of this nonsense began in May (at a point where I was already under weight)

2.) TPN provides nutrients that I cannot fully get by mouth while I work on slowly increasing calorie intake

Dr. Robison was in agreement that if I felt ready, tapering off of TPN would be our next move. That said, TPN has been reduced by 50% this week which means that I only need to infuse TPN every other day.


I’m certainly not able to house over 1000 calories at this point (or anywhere close to that) but a small victory is that I have had a few small meals each day and without nausea or vomiting. This is a massive deal. In fact, I haven’t even needed to take nausea medication since Thursday when I had chemo. WIN.

Assuming the remainder of the week is equally successful, no TPN would mean no further need for the PICC line. That could potentially come out in the next week or two. That also means that a new port would be placed in my chest in the next 2-3 weeks.

Again, all of this is dependent on continued progress of eating by mouth and keeping it down. Let’s hope this vessel is up for the challenge.

On a final and unrelated note, many have asked me how I’m settling into my new home. It has been great! That is, when I’m actually home and not living at the hospital…

It’s a comfortable, cozy place to melt into when I’m feeling my worst and a cute beach community when I’m feeling human enough to venture out. One of those rare “feeling human” nights happened last night so we decided to capitalize on it with a beach picnic just minutes from our house.


Cheers to many more beach picnics, feeling like summer is actually happening, and for the love of all that is holy- STAYING OUT OF THE HOSPITAL.