Recurrence. A word every cancer patient hates to hear. A word that steals your breath, and not in a good way. Not in the way Brad Pitt does (to me). It’s a word guised as a marauder, pillaging your mind of anything good, positive, and holy, until you’re left with nothing but the shattered pieces of dread. It’s a word that has arms to choke you with, and legs to kick you while you’re down. And when you think you’ve accepted the reality of the situation, dusted yourself off to fight another day (more like another minute), the dire uncertainty of it all will leave you vying to escape the existential crisis you’ve now been sucked into — a whirlpool of every decision you’ve ever made, leaving you to wonder: Why?

It was September 21st, 2021 — nearly two years from original diagnosis — when I asked why.

I was sitting on the examining table, while my oncologist, Dr. Yeckes, pressed firmly against the lymph nodes under my arms and neck. She had barely spoken to me, barely made eye contact, and I knew something was wrong.

Since being in remission, I’ve been getting routine CT scans. Not PET scans, to be clear. After all, that’s all the insurance would approve. The difference between the two? PET scans detect metabolic activity, whereas CT’s only detect changes in the organs and tissues. The last one, however, detected “soft tissue structure in the anterior mediastinum.” If you’re thinking, “WTF is that?” So was I. But it’s what I read next that worried me: “This may represent residual thymus tissue … The differential diagnosis includes lymphoma or teratoma.” Again, no clue what that meant, but I was fixated on the word “lymphoma.”

“I’m not saying it’s cancer,” Dr. Yeckes had said of the CT results. “Younger patients who’ve had chemo can have a regeneration of the thymus. But I want you to get a PET as soon as possible to compare.”

So there I was, waiting the results. “I’m guessing the scan didn’t come back good?” She didn’t answer. Rather, she lowered her head and shook it. Her eyes then met mine. They were filled with sorrow and regret, as if somehow it was her fault. “It picked up activity in the exact same spots as before. I think the lymphoma is back.”

Once when I was a little girl living in California, I stood atop of a very thin fence that surrounded our yard. As if walking a tightrope, I put one foot in front of the other and held my arms out wide. Naturally, I slipped. My legs fell on one side of the fence, my arms on the other, and my stomach received all the impact as it hit the top rail. I landed so hard, I couldn’t breathe.

This felt worse.

“What?” I said, disoriented. “But you said I would be fine. You said I didn’t need to worry. Why? Why is it back?”

Pulling up her chair, Dr. Yeckes sat down and said, “I don’t know why. You responded so well to treatment.” As the resident badass of Hematology Oncology of the Treasure Coast, I’ve never seen her look almost apologetic. She explained the “activity” was in my mediastinum (chest area) and under my arm. “I can’t say with certainty it’s the Hodgkin’s that’s back, but if I were a betting woman, I’d say it is.”

The room was spinning.

“Is there someone you want to call?” Dr. Yeckes asked.

My breathing erratic.

“Do you want to maybe call your mom?” She asked. As my mom’s oncologist, as well, Dr. Yeckes has come to know the pair of us pretty well.

How could this be happening again? Did I cause this? Did my stress —- my amplified neurosis since going through this process the first time —- poison my mind and subsequently my body? I take my thousand vitamins a day, my anti-cancer supplements, my veggie and fruit smoothies. I exercise, I eat well (well, there is the wine), I pray every day (OK, fine I pray almost every day). But WTF?) And Julian, Oh God, he’s older now, he’ll remember this time for sure.

“No, not just yet,” I said. “So now what?”

And the answer she gave me has since been covered in a series of appointments that have followed that day. Each one providing another piece of a puzzle I can’t seem to put together.

Since then, I’ve:

• Had a biopsy, which did confirm it was Classical Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.
• Had my port re-implanted. (Hurts a lot more the second time around).
• And have met with a lymphoma specialist in Gainesville, who explained the course of treatment I’m about to receive.

It’ll start tomorrow, Tuesday Oct. 19, 2021. I’ll check into the hospital in Stuart North, where I’ll receive a chemo treatment called ICE. Each letter representing a drug I cannot pronounce, but they’ll work synergistically to eradicate the disease. And I’ll stay there until Friday morning. I’ll have three weeks off, and I’ll go back in again and possibly again. I do this a total of two or three times in hopes of getting a clear PET scan. If so, then it’s off to the big leagues in Gainesville, where I’ll stay at the UF Health Shands hospital for one month, while my stems cells are harvested and then transplanted back into my body. This is known as an autologous transplant. And in December, I’ll meet with the stem cell transplant team to go over all the logistics.

A few years ago, while pregnant with Keanu, I had severe arm pain in my left shoulder. I self-diagnosed it, as I do with most of my ailments, as bursitis. I had all the symptoms, but because I was pregnant little could be done. So I turned to acupuncture. I went to a woman who said things like, “Shhh, let the needles do the work.” I was open-minded, but also very desperate.

Well, I’m desperate again. Because while the pain isn’t physically present, it is there spreading like the disease itself infecting all the corners of my mind. Lately, it’s been like an episode of hoarders, storing all possible worst-case scenarios, and most days I can’t seem to get declutter it. And that has been my biggest issue right now: Clearing my mind of fear and negativity. Instead, I’ve been clinging on to a proverbial pendulum, swinging back and forth, thinking: “What if I don’t beat this?” to “Stop it. You will beat this.”

Admittedly, I’ve always been an anxious person, and while I’m an outwardly glass-half-full type of person, I tend to sometimes think the worst. And unfortunately, it sometimes takes these type of situations to rewire our brains. What I went through a year and a half ago was so terrifying that I was forced to reframe what I did and how I thought back then. But as time has passed by, I suppose I’ve fallen back into old habits. It is challenging, though, when you have small children, working full time, working side hustles, and doing everything else in between that falls on the spectrum of adulthood, to be purposeful and present. I mean, my gosh, there have been many times, I’ve only shaved one leg. Days that I have to take or make calls in the closet. Gotten dressed in the garage, where my dryer is and thus my clean clothes are unfolded. It’s life. And, yes, I’ve complained about the monotony of chaos, but I love it. And if I haven’t been living with intent or cherishing each moment, it isn’t because I’m not grateful. I guess, facing your own mortality tends to awaken all sorts of things you should feel you should be doing differently. And that’s where I’m at. And while I know I need to double down on my faith, it gets harder to do, when you’re filled with terror.

Because I am pretty scared right now. I know how hard it was the first time around. How sick I was. How I had to push through for the boys. It wasn’t that long ago, after all. I just don’t do want to do this again. I don’t want to be sick. I don’t want to miss out on the boys’ lives, activities and milestones. And although, I have a grotesque curiosity to see what my scalp looks like, I sure as hell don’t want to lose my hair.

But, logically, I know these next steps I’m about to take, the ICE treatment, the transplant, the immunotherapy, are all a collective effort to cure me. I know there’s no “why” or “how” behind Hodgkin’s lymphoma, at least that’s what I’ve been told. And I know it’s hard to accept the randomness of it all, but all I have to do is read something online or turn on the tv to see that hardship comes in all shapes and sizes. So perspective is key. So is acceptance, perseverance and faith.

Luckily, I have an amazing support system comprised of friends and family that reminds me everyday that I can do this. And I will.