Ziva's Army: Odds are...

Mom and Dad

I wake up every morning hearing my parents talking to each other. What a beautiful thing to hear. True love that has lasted their lifetime. They've lived all over the world, lasted through incredibly challenging times, had 2 children, and still made it until today with love in their hearts. My dad enlisted during the Vietnam war and was stationed in Korea. He met my mom at the local chapel where she was making cookies and challah for the Jewish GIs. My father fell in love with my mother at first sight. A Korean Jew. He asked her to marry him on their first date, she agreed on their second. They were married after three months. Forty eight years later, here they are. Still in love, still flirting, still happy. It's what we all dream of. It's so rare, so incredibly awe worthy. And I'm truly happy for them. I look at them with pride that I'm lucky enough to have them as parents. What are the odds that I would end up with a family as incredible? With a brother that makes me laugh when I want to cry? With parents who will never give up. I wish they didn't have to see this, to experience this insane disease. I'll fight as hard as I can. I'll do everything in my power to defeat this. Because I never want to break their hearts. They are everything to me.

My brother Avi and me

I always bring treats to chemo to share. Since it was my birthday, I decided on birthday cake. Then it really hit me that I would be continuing celebrating at chemotherapy. Not a concert, not a festival, not drinking tequila with my friends, but in an infusion center getting my biweekly life saving poison. And with a new cocktail. One that would change my physical appearance indefinitely. My doctor at MD Anderson looked at me and said, "You'll be balder than me. " That is very bald. It took a few days to digest. I finally understood what that meant. I will no longer be able to hide my condition. I know people will look at me. That way that people get looked at when they are pitied, which is a look that I despise. I'm not afraid of being bald. Being a hairdresser, I’ve shaved my own head before and been every length and color possible. I'm mad that it isn't my choice and unsettled about the looks I'll get. There will no longer be any moments of normalcy. I will be able to feel my bald head and see myself in a mirror and won't ever be able to forget for even a moment that I have cancer. So when it hit me, I couldn't control the emotion. I was standing there one minute and the next I couldn't hold back the tears. It was in that moment that weakness overcame me and I just gave in. In the middle of the Publix baked goods section, ordering a birthday cake.

A couple days later I started wondering when and how my hair loss would occur. I sat at a table with my mother at breakfast chatting about it all. As I talked, my mother rushed at me with tissues before my nosebleed fell into my cereal. Nothing new here. It's been happening for months now. This is just one of many side effects I've endured. At that moment , I was reminded of what I’ve been experiencing and realized I would be ok. But I needed to be armed with what to expect, then I would be prepared and my mind would relax. Because if I'm destined for it, why waste any more time feeling sorry for myself? Let go and find a way to handle it. So I pulled myself up by the boot straps and went searching for answers. What I found was really interesting. I found every possible scenario. I read everything from, "I lost my hair after the first infusion" to "I never lost any hair at all." There were stories upon stories about patches of hair loss, thinning, baldness, and no hair loss at all with this new chemo. I'm one infusion in and haven't had half the side effects so far. So I'll count my blessings at this point. However, I lost half my hair with my previous chemo cocktail after a few months. So who knows? I'm hoping for the best and stocking up on hats in the meantime.

This new chemo cocktail was tough. It’s called folfiri. I was broken from it and didn't know if I could come back. I felt like nothing would be the same after this one. And I am to be on this chemo indefinitely. Can I do it? Would this be the thing that would finish me? It felt like it. I couldn't read, I couldn't concentrate on anything. Writing has always been a way to process and handle things. Now I was having trouble. It's like my brain went on hiatus. This was supposed to be easier. I hadn't felt this sick in months. The exhaustion and nausea was overwhelming. All I knew how to do was sleep. The constant nausea sparks an intense emotional response. I only tear up and cry when it hits really hard. It serves to remind me of unending vomit, ambulances, and hospital stays. The day after my first infusion with the new drug, my body swelled to discomfort. My face, my eyes, my torso, my feet. But my hands were the worst. I wear two of my grandmother's rings. We were very close. They give me strength. But now, with the swelling, they felt like my fingers were going to pop off. It took about three days for the swelling to go down, but then the skin on my hands started cracking and peeling. A week later it still hasn't stopped, but at least the nausea and fatigue have become manageable.

I went in to see Dr. El Reyes. I've been seeing him since the beginning. He's the head of colorectal oncology at Emory. He told me ages ago to see him primarily when the protocol changed. And it has finally changed. With the new chemo comes the possibility of a clinical trial. In my constant search for information, I found this one that seemed would fit my situation. They've just opened up the trial to colorectal cancer. It's had a very successful run with pancreatic cancer. A woman was just cured from late stage pancreatic cancer with this drug. Amazing. It was completely eradicated from her body. The thought of being cured, of having this thing that has completely taken over my life, gone, is overwhelming. I can only imagine how she must feel. No more nausea, no more pain, no more fatigue, no more wondering. No more infusions, no more going in for fluids because of dehydration from chemo. No more chemo brain, no more tears. I feel only happiness for her. And hope for me. But there's a catch. Isn't there always? In order for me to qualify for this trial, I have to fail at this chemo. That means my body has to take this new chemo four times and I have to still see growth. If I respond well, if it causes my cancer to recede, then I'll be on this indefinitely. If I don't, then I get put on this experimental drug that may or may not work on me. So what do I hope for here? How do I process this information? The answer is, I don't. I just wait and try not to think about it. I want so badly to get into this trial, but at what cost? My cancer is aggressive. It may grow. But that is so scary. Dr. El Reyes seems to think I'll respond well to this chemo. But that thought is difficult too. These drugs are debilitating. So it's best to not hope for anything at this point. I'm one chemo in. Three to go until I find out. I must carry on, put on my armor, and trudge forward.

It seems that I'm always thinking about the odds. The statistics. The survival rates. The age of diagnosis. The drug combinations, the side effects. How long will it last? Will this be the thing that kills me? I'm not the kind of person to just trust that someone else knows what's best for me, so I try to consume as much information as I can. That means Google. A lot. One of the most difficult things I've had to digest is that the statistics for my diagnosis are just plain bad. From what I’ve read, I'll be lucky to make it five years. It's gone round and round in my head. At first I was shocked. Then scared. Then mad. Then defiant. Now I'm at peace. Not that I accept it, I'm fighting beyond the statistics. But there's a peace that I've found past the stress. Past the fear, sorrow, nausea, and pain. It resides in my happiness, in my laughter, and my faith that I can beat the odds. What I've learned is that all this information isn't exclusive. I'm not tethered to it. Every case is different. All this information is what could happen. Not what will happen. It's an important distinction. This information is in the past, not the future. So if I'm going to play the odds, I've got to look at my life and my family. Our lives have already beaten the odds. Because if my dad could enlist during Vietnam, get sent to Korea instead, meet the only Jewish Korean girl out there, get married almost instantly, have it last for 48 years full of love, and overcome all the odds out there, then I have to believe that I am destined to beat the odds myself. And believing is everything.