Susans Fight: Let's White Out Leukemia
Donation protected
Susan is fighting a tough battle with Leukemia. This support will help Susan and her family through this difficult time. Susan will be in the hospital for 100 days and out of school for the entire year. Your contribution will help to offset the costs surrounding her treatment, such as: travel expenses, hospital visits and lost work. Thank you! Together we can White Out Susan's Leukemia!
Chris has written about their journey below:
In April 2017, Susan received a breast cancer diagnosis. 8 rounds of chemotherapy over a 4 month period were followed by a double mastectomy. This period was marked by hair loss, fatigue and much time at home on the couch recovering in between treatments.
Then it was back to work in the fall, enduring first grade banter: “The teacher over there – doesn’t have any hair!” This was the best comic relief for Susan. She rocked the hats and head scarfs and cute short haircuts, claiming she’d never go back to long hair again.
Gradually getting her hair and energy back, and finally getting life back to normal, she settled into the busy routine of work and school and practices and games and homework and housework and husbandwork. Then came the additional surgeries in may 2018, as a preventive measure. It was strongly encouraged that she have certain organs removed that breast cancer sometimes spreads to. While not a desirable action, she wanted to do everything possible in order to put this behind us, and she did.
As a family vacation in June 2018, we ventured to Acadia National Park in Maine for camping, sightseeing and lobster rolls. The highlight was during a woodsy walk around a lake, we decided to climb a little mountain called bubble rock. Cresting this was a symbolic achievement in Susan's recovery. She was ready to move on. We all were. She returned to work last fall, working as she has for 22 years, as a first grade teacher. Life was back to normal.
Fast forward to June 2019. Sinus infection, fever, sore gums, tiredness, local doctor visit, antibiotics. Then the bruising, the bruising everywhere. Bloodwork indicates an urgent hospital visit to memorial Sloan Kettering, in New York City. This is also where she was treated for breast cancer. Susan was so impressed by the care she had received previously, but really had no interest in being there, especially when they say, “Welcome to MSK– you have leukemia now.” Blood cancer. And it was caused by the previous chemotherapy.
This sort of turned our world upside down, in part due to the seriousness and gravity of it and, in part, the fact that our family was going to endure another challenge. There wasn’t much time to think about it, because the professionals needed to act fast. Susan had alarmingly high white blood cells, the protector cells were overproducing to the point of creating sludge. Her platelets were so low that her body couldn’t clot, explaining the excessive bruising. An alert ER doctor was concerned about bleeding on the brain (seemed a little excessive at the time), ordered a scan, and that turned out to be true. After admission to ICU, she developed a fever and leg swelling. Then came the tests, fast and furious. They weren’t messing around. She had CT scans, MRI’s, ultrasounds, echos, EKG, blood work, platelet and blood transfusions, and finally, a bone marrow biopsy (which confirmed what everyone knew already– that it was leukemia). Not fun to watch.
She received a hardcore dose of chemo for 3 days and didn’t depart the hospital until 5 weeks later. After suffering with fever and a terrible leg infection with swelling, she needed a walker to get around. She hit “nadir”, which is the low point, marked by zero white blood cells or platelets. This time is scary because there is a period where Susan's immune fighting ability is gone. Zero.
During this time, the most highly skilled nurses kept her alive, monitoring every detail of blood work and managing symptoms until, finally, her body showed signs of producing white blood cells and platelets again. For about a week, the blood work numbers and spreadsheets become your world.
Then suddenly the numbers come back into a safe zone - the whites, the platelets, and then the neutrafils. Next thing you know they’re talking about going home. Crazy. It almost seemed premature, but we were all ready and she wanted, fiercely, to be home.
Susan was home for a month, then needed to receive a “mild” outpatient chemo.
It’s a “hold-you-over” treatment called consolidation therapy. It is designed as insurance that nothing comes back until BMT: bone marrow transplant. October 2019. But first, the grand introduction of 8 more days of chemo. Hair loss – whatevs, she’s been there before and is not concerned. All this poison is purposed with suppressing the immune system, so her own cells die (even killing the stem cells, the “babies” that become all different cells in our body). I’m trying to write matter-of-factually but this part is overwhelming to ruminate on.
Now, on the horizon, what they call: 100 days. After the chemo, BMT is called day zero, 10 days after arrival. A special shout out to the unknown donor that best matched – your kindness runs deep, I recognize your strength & I appreciate your sacrifice. The mental anticipation of the upcoming timeline is heavy, but I am astonished with Susan’s positivity. She has re-organized almost every area in the house to make life easier for us at home: the pantry, spice cabinet, bathroom closet, prepping and freezing meals, you name it. She even labeled the shampoo and conditioner with a “c” and “s”! She also made a free table at the curb every weekend for 5 weeks. We joked that it took two bouts of cancer to get rid of stuff! But if that doesn’t give a person perspective on what’s important, I’m not sure what will.
Her mental mantras inspire me: during scans, she’d silently repeat: “heal heal heal heal” to the beat of the MRI machine. When her white blood cells began growing back from zero, she envisioned them becoming a Penn State White Out and doing the wave! She has an inward confidence that tells her she will get through this because we have to. There’s no other choice.
Owen, Oliver and Ruby have been handling all of this in their own way, a way that seems to fit their personalities. We are trying to keep business as usual, to the extent possible. They have been busy with school, homework, sports and lawn mowing. They will be in regular contact with Susan and visit when possible.
The support of family and friends has been enormous. Prayers and thoughts and conversations and meals and offers of help and play dates and rides and dog sitting and looking out for the kids and housecleaning and creating a garden for her. These have sustained us.
Next up: 100 days…
Chris has written about their journey below:
In April 2017, Susan received a breast cancer diagnosis. 8 rounds of chemotherapy over a 4 month period were followed by a double mastectomy. This period was marked by hair loss, fatigue and much time at home on the couch recovering in between treatments.
Then it was back to work in the fall, enduring first grade banter: “The teacher over there – doesn’t have any hair!” This was the best comic relief for Susan. She rocked the hats and head scarfs and cute short haircuts, claiming she’d never go back to long hair again.
Gradually getting her hair and energy back, and finally getting life back to normal, she settled into the busy routine of work and school and practices and games and homework and housework and husbandwork. Then came the additional surgeries in may 2018, as a preventive measure. It was strongly encouraged that she have certain organs removed that breast cancer sometimes spreads to. While not a desirable action, she wanted to do everything possible in order to put this behind us, and she did.
As a family vacation in June 2018, we ventured to Acadia National Park in Maine for camping, sightseeing and lobster rolls. The highlight was during a woodsy walk around a lake, we decided to climb a little mountain called bubble rock. Cresting this was a symbolic achievement in Susan's recovery. She was ready to move on. We all were. She returned to work last fall, working as she has for 22 years, as a first grade teacher. Life was back to normal.
Fast forward to June 2019. Sinus infection, fever, sore gums, tiredness, local doctor visit, antibiotics. Then the bruising, the bruising everywhere. Bloodwork indicates an urgent hospital visit to memorial Sloan Kettering, in New York City. This is also where she was treated for breast cancer. Susan was so impressed by the care she had received previously, but really had no interest in being there, especially when they say, “Welcome to MSK– you have leukemia now.” Blood cancer. And it was caused by the previous chemotherapy.
This sort of turned our world upside down, in part due to the seriousness and gravity of it and, in part, the fact that our family was going to endure another challenge. There wasn’t much time to think about it, because the professionals needed to act fast. Susan had alarmingly high white blood cells, the protector cells were overproducing to the point of creating sludge. Her platelets were so low that her body couldn’t clot, explaining the excessive bruising. An alert ER doctor was concerned about bleeding on the brain (seemed a little excessive at the time), ordered a scan, and that turned out to be true. After admission to ICU, she developed a fever and leg swelling. Then came the tests, fast and furious. They weren’t messing around. She had CT scans, MRI’s, ultrasounds, echos, EKG, blood work, platelet and blood transfusions, and finally, a bone marrow biopsy (which confirmed what everyone knew already– that it was leukemia). Not fun to watch.
She received a hardcore dose of chemo for 3 days and didn’t depart the hospital until 5 weeks later. After suffering with fever and a terrible leg infection with swelling, she needed a walker to get around. She hit “nadir”, which is the low point, marked by zero white blood cells or platelets. This time is scary because there is a period where Susan's immune fighting ability is gone. Zero.
During this time, the most highly skilled nurses kept her alive, monitoring every detail of blood work and managing symptoms until, finally, her body showed signs of producing white blood cells and platelets again. For about a week, the blood work numbers and spreadsheets become your world.
Then suddenly the numbers come back into a safe zone - the whites, the platelets, and then the neutrafils. Next thing you know they’re talking about going home. Crazy. It almost seemed premature, but we were all ready and she wanted, fiercely, to be home.
Susan was home for a month, then needed to receive a “mild” outpatient chemo.
It’s a “hold-you-over” treatment called consolidation therapy. It is designed as insurance that nothing comes back until BMT: bone marrow transplant. October 2019. But first, the grand introduction of 8 more days of chemo. Hair loss – whatevs, she’s been there before and is not concerned. All this poison is purposed with suppressing the immune system, so her own cells die (even killing the stem cells, the “babies” that become all different cells in our body). I’m trying to write matter-of-factually but this part is overwhelming to ruminate on.
Now, on the horizon, what they call: 100 days. After the chemo, BMT is called day zero, 10 days after arrival. A special shout out to the unknown donor that best matched – your kindness runs deep, I recognize your strength & I appreciate your sacrifice. The mental anticipation of the upcoming timeline is heavy, but I am astonished with Susan’s positivity. She has re-organized almost every area in the house to make life easier for us at home: the pantry, spice cabinet, bathroom closet, prepping and freezing meals, you name it. She even labeled the shampoo and conditioner with a “c” and “s”! She also made a free table at the curb every weekend for 5 weeks. We joked that it took two bouts of cancer to get rid of stuff! But if that doesn’t give a person perspective on what’s important, I’m not sure what will.
Her mental mantras inspire me: during scans, she’d silently repeat: “heal heal heal heal” to the beat of the MRI machine. When her white blood cells began growing back from zero, she envisioned them becoming a Penn State White Out and doing the wave! She has an inward confidence that tells her she will get through this because we have to. There’s no other choice.
Owen, Oliver and Ruby have been handling all of this in their own way, a way that seems to fit their personalities. We are trying to keep business as usual, to the extent possible. They have been busy with school, homework, sports and lawn mowing. They will be in regular contact with Susan and visit when possible.
The support of family and friends has been enormous. Prayers and thoughts and conversations and meals and offers of help and play dates and rides and dog sitting and looking out for the kids and housecleaning and creating a garden for her. These have sustained us.
Next up: 100 days…
Organizer and beneficiary
Elizabeth Farnsworth
Organizer
Easton, PA
Chris Fairchild
Beneficiary
