[I am doing very well! These "year later posts" are anniversary reflections looking back on 2023 - looking back to gain perspective on the whole and to continue healing.]

One of my favorite Friends' episodes is Ross, Rachel, and Chandler trying to move a couch up the stairs with Ross screaming "PivOT!" The actors can't keep it together. Hilarious. [watch it here.] It's a lot less hilarious to pivot during the information gathering of cancer and treatment. Scheduling scans, being scanned, vials and vials of blood for labs, consent forms, only to be booted from a very promising clinical trial on a technicality was overwhelming...AND I SPEAK MEDICINE! Not only do I speak Medicine, I speak Oncology. Oncology is a dialect with lots of multi-syllabic words and mysterious norms. I also have a doctor sister who speaks Medicine. I just kept thinking that if I was overwhelmed, what must people feel like who don't speak Medicine, much less Oncology?! Pivoting was the name of the game and laughter was essential.

The bi-specific antibody clinical trial would have meant an injection in my leg every few weeks, keeping my hair, and a lot fewer side effects. Dr. Burke called me one evening to tell me that chemo was my option. He'd already covered the two chemo choices in his introductory visit with us. I asked him what he would do given my scenario. He said, "Am I remembering that you said you don't mind losing your hair?" I said, "That's right." (I still can't believe he'd remembered that comment - he must not hear it very often.) He said then he'd go with CHOP. That's an acronym for a powerful chemo cocktail of pills and infusions. A friend of mine told me that she had to believe that chemo must be what my body needed to get better. I believed it with her. I told Dr. Burke (noted in my journal from last year) that, "I believe grace and healing come in all kinds of ways and mine would now come through chemo."

Off to the Interventional Radiology suite again (that's the Star Trek bridge room - this one was complete with starry lights embedded in the ceiling for patients to gaze upon while drifting off on propofol). Infusion port was surgically placed under anesthesia. Rob was my wingman this time, phew, and the nurse even brought him down beforehand to meet the surgeon. I needed the infusion port for CHOP, for blood draws, and for supportive measures in case I ended up in the hospital with infections or other chemo-related problems.

While all of this was happening, the calendar pages were turning towards Holy Week and Easter. Retired clergy in my congregation graciously agreed to preach and lead worship on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Not knowing what would come to pass, I'd had the wherewithal a few weeks prior to CHOP starting to ask my bishop if he was available to preach on Easter. Turns out that he was! It seems that most pastors like to preach that day and don't need a bishop around. Score! My congregation was in good hands for these high holy day services. I still can't believe I missed out on them... ... ...nope, still can't.

CHOP started the Wednesday before Easter. I packed along trinkets of love that people had given me - a tiny porcelain guardian angel, a red chert stone from a favorite hiking trail, beads and bracelets, a Werther's hard candy, wintergreen Altoids, and other snacks tucked into a Superman-heart chemo bag. It was an arduous day. Rob started the day with me, and my sister Hilary finished it. I had an allergic reaction that slowed everything down to a crawl. I was slammed with Benadryl and cozied up with a special neck scarf, under piles of warm blankets on top of a crocheted prayer shawl that my former congregation gave me when I was diagnosed.  Almost nine hours in the infusion chair that day along with an infinite amount of love.

This year, I get to do Holy Week services AND Easter. I'm savoring every moment of them. Not being able to have something really does make everything better now that I get to have it again. AND a trip of a lifetime with Rob and "the kids," that was postponed during the cancer fiasco, is back on! In my journal from last year, I was still thinking that our trip was going happen well past the point of logic. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I was even booking lodging. I'll make every effort not to bore you with travel tales upon our return.

Looking back on this week last year slows my thinking down to appreciate the difference a year made in my story. Every cancer story, every human story, is so different. Mine has a healthy outcome that I don't take for granted, especially given the loss of friends to cancer in the last year. I'm savoring life. Thank you for savoring it with me. Love, Caitlin