I've been remiss in updating this with the latest good news on the TL Hines health front: I had clear scans and blood work the beginning of July. So, no evidence of disease (which usually gets capped to No Evidence of Disease and called NED)--great news for me. I took a much-needed vacation with my family, and it was a wonderful, celebratory time.

And yet, smooth sailing physically doesn't always mean smooth sailing emotionally. In this journey, I've met many other wonderful people affected by cancer--lymphoma and other kinds--and it's hard not to agonize with them when they're in the midst of struggles. This past week, one person I met at a local support group passed away from ovarian cancer. Another author/colleague passed away from brain cancer. Two other friends I met online continue to struggle physically...one with a lymphoma relapse, and one with ongoing heart and other physical issues after treatment.

These are the times, I think, that test us so much...maybe even more so than when we are personally struggling with life-and-death issues. No, we don't have any control over a thing like cancer in our own lives; but in an odd way, we have even less control when the cancer is affecting a friend or loved one. You want so much to do something, say something, that will make it better. And yet, in spite of our medical advances, we're human after all. So much of life, and death, remains a great mystery to us. It seems unjust, unfair, unbearable.

And it is all that, really. That's part of the broken world we live in, I think. Evil exists. Not every story has a happy ending. That grates against the overcoming-all-odds, triumph-of-the-human-spirit dynamic that's so ingrained in our consciousness.

But if every story was filled only with happiness and joy, faith would be meaningless. Perseverance would be meaningless. More than that, they would cease to exist, because unending happiness (in this life) would be a mere fact of life we take for granted, in the same way we don't think much about the air we breathe. Without complete darkness, we can't understand what light is. Without suffering, we can't understand triumph.

That's what faith is about, for me. We all choose to believe what we believe. I choose to believe there is suffering and pain we can't understand right now. But one day, we will. One day, I believe, all this unimaginable evil will be put into context, because we will know unimaginable joy.

I choose to believe that, because the alternative--that all of this happens for no reason it all--is the most unimaginable thing of all.

Yesterday, I was honored to speak at our local ceremony commemorating LiveStrong day. It was a wonderful celebration, and I wanted to share the thoughts I passed along from many wonderful people I've met through a local support group.

Thank you all for being here, and for helping us mark Livestrong Day. It's a day, I think, when we can all pause and look at where we've been, and where we're going, along this road. My first steps on this particular road began in May of 2007, just a little more a year ago, when I was diagnosed with Follicular Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

And even though I'm in remission now, and doing well, I'm still learning new things every day. Last night, our support group was talking about LiveStrong day, and what those two words--Live and Strong--mean when you put them together.

I think for me personally, it's about a choice. When we're diagnosed with cancer, or when we have a loved one who's diagnosed, we can choose to focus on the difficulties of treatment, and the pain and suffering, and the unfairness of it all. Or, we can choose to learn from the experience by taking all that energy and funneling it into something that makes us better human beings. In short, when we hear the word “cancer,” we can choose to give up and start dying--even if it's far from our appointed time--or we can choose to start living better by being free, by being happy, by being loving, and yes, by being strong.

As our support group talked about these things last night, I think we heard and shared some bits of wisdom we can all take with us, some things LiveStrong embodies, and I'd like to share a few of them.

• To live strong is to never let cancer define who you are.
• To live strong is to keep your sense of humor.
• To live strong is to accept the bad--but to embrace the good.
• To live strong is to face fear and go on anyway.
• To live strong is to never give up your vibrance or your vitality.
• To live strong is to be intentional about how your live your life.
• To live strong is to move beyond merely existing, and to open your eyes to the true beauty of life.
• To live strong is to learn about a resilient part of us that we didn't know existed.
• To live strong is to give our families and friends the strength to rise above and be our best selves.
• To live strong is to never, ever give up.

Each one of us here is on a different part of this path called cancer. Some of us, maybe, are just beginning after a recent diagnosis. Some of us have been survivors for many years, even decades. Some have had detours we didn't expect--relapses or challenges in our treatment. Some of us are here because we have a loved one fighting cancer, and we're right there beside them on that path. But for all of us, LiveStrong can be--and should be--more than just mere words. I think they can represent a goal, and an everyday commitment.

May we all continue to live strong, every step of the way.

(Side note: Here's a link to some video of the event, although my comments aren't on camera. You might, however, recognize my head floating over the right shoulder of Nancy Guenthner while she speaks.)

Charged up by two late-night cups of coffee, I've been sitting at my computer doing a bit of writing and working on my web site.

And just now, I've looked at the date.

May 2nd.

May 2nd was the day that started this whole crazy gig called lymphoma. It was the day I went in for a mild-mannered CT scan, and came out with a not-so-mild-mannered case of cancer.

No, May 2nd wasn't really one of the BIG milestone dates. Not the day I was officially diagnosed, or the day I started treatment, or the day ended treatment, or anything like that. But it still sticks in my head as the beginning of it all.

May 2nd. One year. Wow.

So what has a year taught me? Plenty of things, I suppose. The expected platitudes about family and friends and doing what you love being more important than ever. And I'm doing well on all those fronts; I'm working at home full-time, spending more time with my lovely daughter and lovely wife. So I like to think I made some positive changes based on the experience.

But I've also learned some practical things I never would have guessed, and here's perhaps the most important one: it gets better.

I'm saying this to you, the man who has just been diagnosed with DLBCL. Or you, the woman who's been told you have Follicular NHL. Or you, the husband/wife/son/mother/brother of someone who's been touched by cancer or some other terrifying-sounding disease.

It gets better.

As I said at the beginning of this entry, I've spent the last few hours working on my next book, checking some web sites, doing some research, sending emails...and really, the thought of cancer didn't cross my mind at all until I saw the date of "May 2nd" turn over at midnight. Cancer isn't the first thing I think about in the morning when I awake. It's not the last thing I think about when I'm trying to go to sleep. Many days, probably even most days, I don't think about cancer at all.

It may sound impossible if it's fresh in your mind right now, I know. When I was diagnosed, I knew, deep down inside, that I was destined to carry this weight on my shoulders for the rest of my life. I pictured myself as a cancerous version of Jacob Marley from Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Marley laboriously struggled with the chains of greed he forged in life, while I, I was certain, would just as laboriously struggle with the chains of cancer forging my own death.

But thank God that hasn't been the case. I'm just...me. I worry about the things "normal" people (meaning, I guess, people without cancer) worry about. My family, my work, my finances, my odd, obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Sure, I think about cancer, but it's not the terrifying, adrenaline-pumping adversary it once was. It's just something I have to live with. Emphasis on "live."

Make no mistake, I realize it's easy for me to feel this way because I've officially been in remission since the first of the year. If my most recent scans and blood tests weren't clear, I certainly wouldn't be so "Gee, ain't life grand?" about the whole thing.

But again, for those of you struggling after diagnosis, I want you to know that part of the reason you're so scared of this thing right now (I have many friends who call it "The Beast," and I guess that's as good a term as any) is precisely because you have these warped visions of what life with cancer is like. We all do. We see how it's portrayed on television, in magazine articles, movies, and such. The cancer "victim" is almost always heroic and valiant in the battle, but the end is always the same: the "victim" dies, right?

But I'm guessing you've probably heard that old saw about real life being nothing like the movies. People live with cancer all the time. Thousands of us. For decades. And we die of other less-terrifying things such as slips in the bathroom and old age.

I plan to be one of those people. Someday, my cancer may be back. I hope it's later rather than sooner, but that's okay. I've lived with it before. I can live with it again.

It's been 43 days since I've officially been cancer-free, which has been bad news for this particular corner of my online existence. When you aren't going through treatment, or shuttling back and forth to doctor's appointments, or worrying constantly about the next step of your process, you don't have much to report.

Mind you, I'm not complaining.

It's an odd new phase I'm entering now, however. Cancer isn't the first thing on my mind every day. Cancer doesn't even really cross my mind at all, on many days. It's fading into the background, and I think that's an all-important part of the healing process: your body, and your mind, move on.

But I don't think it's all good, because I think when we heal, we also forget. And I don't want to forget. I want to remember what it's like in the eye of the storm, so I can help other people who are in it right now. I want to remember what's truly important in my life; the things that flashed before my eyes when I heard the word "cancer" weren't money, or work, or possessions. I want to remember it all, and keep it in the forefront of my mind, because if I don't, will I have really learned anything--changed anything--as a result of this whole experience? Will I still be standing in the same hole if I have to face this cancer thing again some day down the road?

In some ways, even though I know the wounds are healing--the metaphorical wounds, I mean--I need the scars to stay there as reminders.

Today is exactly 240 days since I first heard the word "lymphoma" used in the same sentence with my name. So I suppose it's only fitting that today is the day I find out the results of my recent blood tests and PET scan. (Which I had on New Year's Eve, thereby precluding me from champagne or any other kind of alcoholic beverage at the stroke of midnight. Great planning, Tony.)

As you can imagine, I've both coveted and dreaded this very day. On the one hand, I've wanted to know the results, because it gives me an indication of how the treatment is working for me, and any information at all--even bad--is better than the fear of the Great Unknown. On the other hand, the potential for bad news...well, that makes the Great Unknown seem downright appealing.

So, when I arrive for my appointment, my primary oncologist's associate comes into the office and says, "I bet you want to take a look at your scan results."

I say, "Well, I do and I don't."

She smiles and replies, "Oh you definitely do." She leads me and my Lovely Wife out into the hall, where the scan has been pulled up on a computer screen. I've seen the report and scan from my previous PET adventure (way back in May), so I know what the image looks like; I can remember several globs (that's the technical term, you know--globs) of light indicating mid-range Standard Uptake Values (otherwise known as SUVs) in my abdomen. The radiologist report at the time said "several areas of uptake, consistent with lymphoma." Sheesh, seven months later, and I can still remember those exact words from the original PET report.

So imagine my surprise when I look at this PET scan and see...nothing. No globs of any kind, no SUV of any kind, outside of my brain and my bladder. (And really, it's good to have uptake in both your brain and your bladder, isn't it?) I go back around the corner to the office with my Lovely Wife, my Cancer Care Navigator; soon, my oncologist joins the party, and I hear the words "no evidence of disease" and "remission" used for the first time. My oncologist hands me all my blood test results and the PET scan final report, which says "No convincing metabolic activity on today's exam to suggest active or recurrent lymphoma." Man, those words are as sweet as anything old Willy Shakespeare ever wrote.

When you hear the word "lymphoma" the first time, it's a punch in the gut. But seven months later, when you hear the words "no evidence of disease" and "remission" for the first time, well, that's more like water to a man who has just walked across the Mojave. In the words of the Old Man on A Christmas Story, it's indescribably beautiful.

So, after some further ado, I'm out of the office and headed home. I make several phone calls and send several emails, spreading the good news. I feel like Scrooge on Christmas morning, after being visited by the three ghosts and given a reprieve. (Yes, I've spent the past few weeks watching holiday movies, which obviously explains my current penchant for Christmas images.)

Bexxar, it seems, has worked for me. Better, and sooner, than I expected. I was hoping to see some kind of response after three months, but trying to be realistic by telling myself that the optimal time to response is more like six months. To expect a complete response this early, well, I wouldn't let myself go there.

But I have gone there, it seems. And let me tell you, there feels pretty damned good.

On December 31, I'll have a PET scan to determine my response to radioimmunotherapy. On January 2nd, I'll meet with my oncologist to discuss the results of the PET scan (which will be, to the day, 240 days after this whole adventure started).

I'm trying my best not to think very much about the scan or results right now, but with only limited success. I've confessed before to being a bit obsessive, and while it's mostly for comic effect, it's also true. So my mind doesn't switch into Bobby McFerrin "Don't Worry, Be Happy" mode very easily.

In fact, I'm sure my mind has no such mode.

Instead, my mind has an immediate "DEFCON 4" mode, and it automatically hits all the alarms and red lights whenever I'm not keeping close attention. I'm a walking contradiction, I'll admit. On the one hand, I'm something of a pollyanna, adopting a "we'll solve the problem" attitude and projecting it, as much as I can, to others around me. And I really mean it when I say it: I think it, deep down inside. Whatever the issue, I always believe there's a solution, and a glimmer of hope, and a way out of the darkness.

But there's also a deep part of me, a dark heart, that focuses much more on the problems than the solutions. Maybe not the loudest voice in the chorus, but definitely part of it. It's the voice that always asks "What if?", which makes it the most difficult voice to ignore. What if I don't have a full response to radioimmunotherapy now? What if I don't have a full response at six months? What if I don't have a full response ever? What if this scan actually shows I've progressed?

Now, I know the odds are with me on this treatment. It's succeeded for the vast majority of people who have had it, and especially so in a clinical trial of people who had it as a first therapy. But then, I've already defied some pretty good odds simply be getting lymphoma, so what if...?

To tell the truth, it's not as if every waking moment is spent in this struggle. Not many waking moments are at all. But I know, as of January 2nd, this phase I've become comfortable with will be over, and I'll be entering a new phase. Right now, I'm in the hopeful expectation phase: I've done what I can to treat the disease, and I can look to the future with bright confidence. But this next phase will end all that. It won't be the confident future; it will be the unavoidable present. Maybe that unavoidable present will include good news for me, but maybe it won't yet. Maybe it won't at six months.

And so, the internal struggle continues. I have to admit, if I don't have a full response at this point (which, truth be told, I probably won't), it may be a rough stretch. That puts more pressure on six month scans, and perhaps even more pressure on nine month scans. The what ifs are bound to keep piling up.

Even so, with the PET scan only five days away now, I have to focus on the what if I'm praying for: What if I'm in remission?

Let's just say I have high hopes for 2008.

Today, I attend a business meeting with a friend/colleague I've not seen or spoken to for quite some time--a couple years, anyway. This is a person I know from business dealings, as well as socially; I've been to his home a few times, and vice versa. I'm there to do some paperwork, so I can take over an insurance policy my company has turned over to me.

Why do I say this? I'm not sure; I feel like it helps set up the story a little bit, give it some context. Anyway, as I said, I'm there to sign some paperwork, but before we get to the paperwork, we start with some small talk. He's aware of what's been happening with me--which is to say he knows I've been diagnosed with cancer--through the grapevine. I also know he read the articles about me that appeared in the Gazette and the Missoulian a few months back, because he says, "I don't know much about your situation, other than the article said the cancer is terminal."

I sit in mild shock for a few moments. Terminal. Did the article say that? No, it didn't. I know this, because I've read the articles in question several dozen times. (I'll admit to being obsessive/compulsive AND vain. Oh, and I also have cancer.) I'm quite certain the articles don't mention the word terminal, and yet...there's something in there about follicular lymphoma being "slow growing but deadly." Does that mean terminal?

In lay terms, I suppose it could mean that--if you don't give it much thought. And I must admit, if you don't have cancer, you probably don't give it much thought. It certainly wasn't on my list of favorite topics before diagnosis.

Still, something about that "terminal" word gnaws at me, so when I get home, I look it up at the trusty dictionary.com web site. And there it is, under definition number nine: Informal. utterly beyond hope, rescue, or saving.

That's it. "Terminal" has become synonymous with "hopeless." And admit it, whenever you hear the word "terminal," the word you immediately think of is always "cancer." The two are inextricably linked in our consciousness, and so in many ways, cancer is always terminal. Despite all the advances we've made in cancer treatment in the last few decades, I think that perception still exists among many folks: cancer is terminal.

I suppose, for me, that means I'll always meet people who think I'm a Dead Man Walking. That means, when I tell these people I'm feeling great and doing well, and my treatment has a good chance of giving me a long remission or possibly even a cure, it will just be "Tony putting on a brave face," and these folks will know deep inside that Tony's going to die of this cancer. And probably much sooner than he expects.

I think even of the kind 90-something year-old lady who lives across the street from me. Every six weeks, she must have the exterior lights on her house changed--even though the existing bulbs are working perfectly well. (And I thought I was obsessive/compulsive.) For several years now, she's asked me to change those lights for her every six weeks, and I've always been happy to; like clockwork, she calls me and asks.

Except for the last several months. Since she found out I've been diagnosed with cancer, she hasn't called and asked me to change her lights. Evidently, according to her, I'm terminal. And twisting a bulb out of a light socket is too much of an effort for me in my weakened state.

Then again, she's survived 90-something years, and still lives in and maintains her own home, so she obviously knows a few things I don't.

Still, when I detect that mild whiff of pity rolling off a select few people as they ask how I'm feeling, I feel my blood pressure rising just a bit. Let them think I have terminal cancer, if they must, and let them think my situation is hopeless.

It's not nearly as hopeless as terminal ignorance.

First, a quick update: all my blood counts are back in normal range. That means I reached my nadir sometime within the last few weeks. My platelets, which started at 240,000, went all the way down to 82,000 before coming back up again; last week, they were at 229,000. My white blood cell count bottomed out about a week later; it dropped as low as 29 (that I know about), and last week was back up to 34. The low end of normal is 32, so we should certainly see the white blood cell count continue to recover.

Today, though, let's talk about some of my more recent adventures through the looking glass otherwise known as Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. The physical aspects of cancer are easy to identify and handle: you go through tests and scans, find abnormalities, decide on treatments. Straightforward.

But, oddly enough, probably not the most difficult part of a cancer diagnosis. The spiritual and emotional components are perhaps even more devastating, especially because we have a hard time recognizing them and figuring out how to treat them. After all, when you have cancerous cells, you may decide on a treatment--chemotherapy, say--and pursue that treatment. Unfortunately, there's no chemotherapy for your emotions, nothing to attack and eradicate negative thoughts.

Most people who know me will tell you I tend to be a bit of a Pollyanna about everything in life. Let's say I get into a minor fender bender. My immediate reaction? "Hey, no big whoop; we'll deal with it." Or maybe someone breaks into my home and steals my beloved collection of "Big Boy" collectibles. "Hey, no big whoop; we'll deal with it." Nuclear explosion wipes out half the United States? "Hey, no big whoop; we'll deal with it."

You get the general idea.

So, when I received a cancer diagnosis back in May, I generally no-big-whooped the whole thing. That's the way I cope. I tell myself I'm going to find a solution, and I comfort myself with that thought.

But telling myself something and actually being able to do it are two different things. Now, perhaps I'll be sharing too much with this entry, but I think it's important to talk about this aspect of treatment--because I don't often see it discussed elsewhere.

A few weeks ago, my Lovely Daughter, who is nine, began seeing a counselor at school. My immediate worry was that she was going to be talking about me all the time: my dad has cancer, I'm worried about him, and so on. Thankfully, that hasn't been the case. I had a meeting with the counselor last week, and she said my Lovely Daughter is worried about the normal things most nine-year-olds worry about: friends, school, and what-not. That's great. However, the counselor did note my Lovely Daughter said "Dad's been a lot grumpier than usual." Hold that thought for a moment.

Also last week, I sat down to talk with my Lovely Wife. We get to sit and have good heart-to-hearts pretty much every week, and share what's happening. During this particular session, she said she felt I was moodier and more depressed.

My first reaction, which my wife actually said before I could, was obvious. Well, hello? I have cancer. On the putting-me-in-a-happy-state scale, it certainly doesn't rank up there with ice cream. And again, my wife acknowledged that even before I did. But still, she felt it was important enough to talk about with me.

Now, I tend to be someone who has cyclical moods. I admit that. I'm prone to cyclical funks every few months or so, wherein I feel somewhat morose for no real reason. I've always recognized that in myself, and done my best to roll with it. It's not been a huge impact on my life. And to tell the truth, I thought I've been dealing pretty well with the whole cancer thing. But the fact is, both my wife and my daughter commented on it. That's not something I can discount. Just because I think I'm dealing with the situation doesn't mean I am. I trust the opinions and perceptions of the two people closest to me, so if they feel I'm having trouble, perhaps I need to listen.

So, at my most recent appointment with my doctor, I bring up this subject. He asks me a series of questions, and I have to answer "yes" to just about every one of them. The kicker? "Do you have trouble sitting still? Are you constantly fidgeting?" Well, yes. I've always been like that to an extent. My doctor says that can be a symptom of low dopamine levels in the brain. Who knew?

In any case, he suggests I try a mild antidepressant for several weeks to see if it makes a difference in my overall well-being. He gives me a prescription for Lexapro. Actually, it ends up being the generic equivalent of Lexapro, which is known as escitalopram.

I should say this is a big step for me. I'm not a medicating kind of guy; in the average year, I'll take maybe two aspirin and a couple of cold tablets. So, to take a prescription for something as nebulous as depression, well...it's enough to depress a guy.

My reservations aren't helped at all when I pick up the drug at the pharmacy. The pharmacist tells me some people experience constipation...but others experience loose stools. Well, there's something to look forward to. Other side effects may include nausea, sleeplessness, and...um, certain sexual side effects. Also, the first warning on the label tells me the drug MAY INCREASE SUICIDAL TENDENCIES IN SOME PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY YOUNGER PATIENTS.

Hey, with all that going for it, no wonder it's so effective treating depression.

I also see the drug is not only used to treat depression, but also general anxiety disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, social anxiety disorder, and bulimia. So I guess at my next cocktail party, I won't arrange every hors d'oeuvres alphabetically, count the number of pretzels in the large bowl, gorge myself on Li'l Smokies sausages, retreat to a dark corner, and vomit inconspicuously into the trash can I happen to be clutching for comfort.

That was kind of embarrassing the last time it happened.

So, I've now been taking it for about ten days, and you know what? I think it's making a difference. I feel a bit more chipper, a bit more happy with life in general. That may just be the placebo effect, and me looking for something because I'm taking a medication, but there it is. There's only one way to find out if it's really working.

I'll ask my Lovely Wife and Lovely Daughter, then let you know their verdicts.

As I write this, I feel fortunate I've been able to receive radioimmunotherapy (RIT) to treat my follicular lymphoma--a breakthrough treatment that's produced amazing results for so many people.

I may not have realized just how fortunate I was though, because a recent government ruling, if it stands, will surely kill radioimmunotherapy as an option for others.

A powerful article appearing in Newsweek magazine today outlines the travesty, and what we're up against.

The Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS), which has the power to set reimbursement rates for treatments received by Medicare and Medicaid recipients, has issued rulings for reimbursement in 2008. As part of this ruling, they have drastically cut reimbursement for radioimmunotherapy. Not by just a little, but by 50%. At the levels they've adopted, the reimbursement for RIT will actually be less than the acquisition cost for the therapy--meaning hospitals will lose money by providing the treatment for lymphoma patients. At the same time, the CMS ruling maddeningly states, "(CMS) may terminate the provider agreement of any hospital that furnishes this or any other service to its patients but fails to also furnish it to Medicare patients who need it." In other words, it demands hospitals either provide the treatment to all and lose money, or provide the treatment to none to avoid jeopardizing their provider agreements.

It seems to me this is an equation even a government bureaucrat should be able to figure out. If any hospital has a choice between providing a service that loses money (several thousand dollars) each time they do it, or declining to offer that service, which will it be?

If the CMS ruling stands, then, it will kill the two radioimmunotherapy treatments available (Bexxar and Zevalin), and at the same time kill research in the entire radioimmunotherapy field--which has produced durable remissions (and some may say a cure) for lymphoma types currently classified as incurable. Let me say that again: the CMS is killing an effective treatment, and a possible cure, because they refuse to look at the true cost of this treatment--the cost of providing it, and the cost, in human lives, of denying it to people who desperately need it.

During the short comment period offered on the proposed ruling, more than 2,000 people weighed in with comments/support for re-examining proposed payments for Bexxar and Zevalin--either by petition or direct comment. In addition, several healthcare companies and organizations such as the American Society of Clinical Oncology and the American Society of Hematology wrote letters of concern. CMS, in its final ruling, swept those comments under the rug by saying, "given that the Medicare population is such a dominant portion of the population to which these services are targeted, we do not believe that hospitals will cease to provide the service." Unfortunately, CMS admits it based these reimbursements on faulty claims data in the same document, stating some claims were "incorrectly coded" and thus "unlikely to represent claims for treatment with the products described as A9543 and A9545" (Zevalin and Bexxar respectively). Although CMS says it removed these "likely incorrectly coded claims in the ratesetting process," CMS cannot be sure which claims were coded correctly and which were not. Using data that was known to be flawed, the new rate could not have been set accurately.

As many of you know, I received radioimmunotherapy (specifically Bexxar) earlier this year, and it's deeply troubling that this promising therapy may be killed by bureaucracy; more than 500,000 Americans are currently living with lymphoma, and this is the only effective therapy for many who fail standard chemotherapy.

I offered comments during the open period, but now that the ruling is final, no member of the public is able to speak directly to anyone at CMS about the issue. That's why I've contacted both my senators, and asked them to intervene on behalf of lymphoma patients everywhere by telling CMS to reverse its ruling. That's why I'm hoping that you will do the same. It has to be done now, if we're to get this ruling reversed. If not, people will die needlessly. It's that brutally simple.

For more information, please see these links:

Background provided by Patients Against Lymphoma (PAL)

http://www.lymphomation.org/CMS-call.htm#background

http://lymphomation.org/wordpress/?p=14

The ruling is contained in CMS-1392-FC; a draft of the document is available at:

http://www.cms.hhs.gov/QuarterlyProviderUpdates/downloads/cms1392p.pdf

Today marks six months since I first heard the dreaded "L" word for the first time. (For you hopeless romantics, "Love" isn't the "L" word in this case. It's "Lymphoma.")

For such a momentous event, it feels pretty noneventful.

I've gone through some definite peaks and valleys in that six months. Okay, mostly valleys. Deep, deep valleys.

But you know what? I'm okay. I've come to terms with this whole lymphoma thing, and I've learned some positive things from it. I've researched and completed the treatment I felt was best for me. And so, I've done what I can to battle it. Now, I just have to trust that I've done the right things. So I'm in a good place. My happy place.

I have a blood test tomorrow, then another oncologist appointment on November 15th. That will be a month since completion of my Bexxar therapy, and the time when my white blood cell counts are starting to bottom out.

But since I haven't done anything medically-related for several days, I think it's good to reflect back on this whole experience, and to give a bit of thought to what I've learned along the way. And one of those things I've learned is, we all have certain preconceptions about cancer. (That includes me, of course...or it did, until I found out I had cancer.)

And so, I think I'd like to take on a few of those preconceptions in the coming weeks, and tell you why cancer isn't always what we think it is.

And the first preconception can be summed up nicely in the one question I've been asked more in the past six months than any other:

How are you feeling?

Seriously, anyone who knows I've been diagnosed with cancer asks me this whenever they see me. Sometimes, I get asked more than once in a single conversation. Obviously, we feel anyone who has been diagnosed with cancer must be feeling sick.

Well, I've never felt sick. At all. My cancer was discovered by a fluke, and I've never had any symptoms.

I think this might be a bit scary for some to ponder. I think we want to feel that we'll know when we have cancer, because cancer is bad, and so we'll feel sick when we get it...and thus, we'll be able to catch it early and get it treated.

Unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way. I'm proof of that.

Don't get me wrong; I know people are being concerned and all when they ask how I'm feeling. It's the cancer equivalent of "What do you think of the weather?" It's an innocent, safe, conversation-starter. I really do understand all of that. But when you get asked how you're feeling for the 800th time, well, you start to get a complex about it. I'm not saying this because I feel I never want another person to ask; it's no big deal, and I do appreciate the kind thoughts of all. I'm merely making an observation that we seem to thinik "having cancer" = "feeling sick." That's all.

However, the evil part of me is starting to think I should come up with horribly inappropriate answers, just for fun. A few options:

1) "Fine right now. But the doctors told me I'd feel better right before I die."
2) "I'd be better if I could find a liver donor...what's your blood type, by the way?"
3) "Just taking it a day at a time, because I'm told a sudden aneuryism could take me at any---GAAAAAAHHHHH!"
4) "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

Let's all hope the evil part of me doesn't win.