flynn031

Today I went in for my third round of chemotherapy treatment at Children’s Hospital. They injected me with some cancer-killers , took out some blood and then sent me home without any pricks or scars; all thanks to my wonderful, ‘bionic-woman-like’ VAD. It’s all quite exciting!!! .. If you’re one to get excited about biomedical ventricular engineered ports. But it really is amazing. When I was first diagnosed, they surgically placed an access port under my breast that’s directly connected to a small tube they ran underneath my skin. It goes up all the way through near my neckline where it can access and pump blood to the rest of my body. Aside from a small poke to access the line, treatments and blood tests have been completely painless; so to speak.       But the reason I’m waiting... Like I said, I’m on round three of chemotherapy and, although past the point of expectance, still no sign of any hair-loss . I’ve yet to start balding. You’d think this is somet...

Food tastes SO good. Almost 3 weeks into my chemotherapy and food, amongst other things, has been quite the highlight for me. I’m currently taking 8 drugs a day. 4 in the morning, 4 at night. During this phase of chemotherapy, one of these drugs is a powerful steroid known as Predinsone. Predinsone: (Pred- ni-sone): A synthetic corticosteroid drug used to treat the symptoms of low corticosteroid levels: lack of certain substances that are usually produced by the body and are needed for normal body functioning. Thanks to Predinsone, the thought of a Triple O’s Spicy Ultimate Chicken Crunch burger leaves me drooling every night and when I finally indulge in a long-awaited salty meal, the magnitude of satisfaction consumes all other customary senses. Flavours are louder, textures are sharper, and sensations are heightened with each bite. Consider my perspective on food changed. In a world that’s constantly changing every day, it’s easy to get lost along the way. Life moves fast. Like Ferr...

My first full day after being discharged from the hospital; thank god. No more hourly vitals from the nurse, no more infuriating whines from the baby next door, no more bland hospital meals and most importantly, no more isolation. I`m home. However, as comfortable as I am back in my own bedroom, I have no choice but to accept that nothing is the same as before. The physical toll that my body is undergoing at the moment is too painful to ignore, even amongst all the excitement of homecoming. I`m beginning to understand, realistically, just how tough this journey is about to get. It`s hard to explain what it`s like being induced on chemotherapy drugs, but my overall impression is a lack of stimulant and motivation to do anything. My moods are completely unpredictable and will continue on like that as long as these drug combinations keep changing. I can only best describe it as consistently inconsistent . I seem to be exuding all the symptoms of a pregnant maniac while also encompassing t...

I go to sleep hoping to be woken by the sound of that shrill alarm; expecting to drag myself to the closet, slip on my scratchy kilt, fitted blazer and tie; head to school where I`d start the day on stage, addressing the students about the upcoming week; go to my classes, talk with my friends; come home to my family, a home-cooked meal; maybe head off to soccer practice in the pouring rain, enjoyably burning off my energy. Like clockwork. Instead, I wake up in my hospital bed. And this routine, this habitual schedule that I am so accustomed to, has seize to be reinstated. My days have been altered from here on out and I can no longer fall asleep expecting to awake in that familiar reality. I have a new future that awaits me: One with less routine and more spontaneity. One with unpredictable outcomes, not knowing how the day will unfold, how it`ll begin or how it`ll end. Whether the stress will consume me or merely distract. Whether the day will be spent at school or the hospital; if I’...

Not sure if I could have handled being born in any other decade. I’ve been spontaneously pulled out of my habitual routine and tossed into this surreal alternate where I have no choice but to adapt. The physical isolation in this hospital alone is nearly unbearable. But, like I said, living as an adolescent in any other time period would’ve made this enduring week an even more intolerable challenge. Without hospital wifi, 3G texting, imessage, facebook, instagram, twitter, facetime, I probably would’ve escaped through that tiny skylight in the corner of my room which taunts me with its blinding glow day in and day out.  I’ve spent 7 ½ days straight, living and sleeping in room 17, ward 4B (It’s beginning to resemble a less exciting university residence life). The most physical exertion I’ve undergone while living here has been the 9 step journey to the washroom and back-it’s more likely that I’ve burnt most calories while typing. The hardest part of it all though, is that infuriati...

Love is infectious. Luckily, Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL) is not. The support has been overwhelming and I could not be more appreciative given my current situation. However, I’ve come to the conclusion that although there is emotional and spiritual support, not many know exactly what I am going through at the moment and what I have planned for the future. This is completely understandable, so I’ve attempted to explain my diagnosis in a somewhat relatable way. When you hear Leukemia, Cancer and Chemotherapy, the mind can only grasp hold of familiarities that are present as a result of past experiences and exposure. For example, when I sat in the child-friendly brightly decorated emergency room on Thursday, October 10 th , I didn’t have much to go off of when the Oncologist addressed the possibility of Leukemia, Cancer and Chemotherapy. Familiarities that my mind immediately drew from: -           A walk to Remember -    ...

One's ability to hold on, to love and to build dependence comes easily to us humans. We make connections, not just with people but with surroundings. We become attached to ideas and theories, dreams and desires. The risk of this deep bond we create is that we're never prepared for the breaking of it. We can never fully ready ourselves for the loss of a loved one or the flaw in an idea or the realization of a broken dream.  However, when these inevitabilities expose a presence in our lives, we, as victims, have no choice but to grow accepting.  Whatever the challenge, it’s our job to integrate them into our daily routine and realise that from here on out, life will be different. Normalities will change, habits will evolve and perspectives will adjust. But we are optimists! And suitably, we must respond to these events with positivity. Ways of which I’ve responded positively and tactics of integration: Lymphoblastic Leukemia has no dietary restrictions. After a long list of dish...

That first post seemed too depressing for my liking. I wanted to follow up with an update of the abundance of support I've received over the past three days. It's hard to grasp an awareness of the love and care that constantly surrounds each and every one of us on a daily basis. It's hard to comprehend how much we affect the lives of others and how much the lives of others affects us. I'm not saying that it takes the threat of health to realize how much love is evident in my own life, but sometimes we take our relationships for granted. Thank you to all who have sent wonderful, supportive messages and to all my visitors who've shared their love (and unnecessary yet tastey and wonderful gifts) - Friends registered for Light the Night Leukemia walk "For Serena" - Kara making calculus video to help me catch up on school - Drew offering to shave his head along with me for grad - DCSG Soccer team registered for Light the Night Leukemia walk "Serena's S...

Well I leave my fate in the hands of internal organs and tenacious blood cells; ironically it's always been my job to take care of them up till' now. Eating healthy, staying fit, taking my vitamins. Of course, I still hadn't the perfect track record for illness. Does anyone really? Getting told by a doctor that you've caught a common cold, typically plants a feeling of suitable normality: 'Well I didn't wear a jacket last night, so go figure.' There’s an evident action followed by a fitting reaction. A physiotherapist giving news of a sprained ankle, embedding the mind with justification: 'Well, I did go hard into that battle knowing it was a 50/50 ball.' There's an expectation of infirmity, a responsibility that we take as rightful victims to restore our health. Getting told by an oncologist that leukemia cells had invaded my bone marrow; this one left me seared. She gave me the news with such grace; all my expected emotions were cons...