leukemiasurvivor.com

An old, not particularly flattering picture, probably taken during the last month or two of 1989, or the first month or two of 1990. I'm sure this was after a Beck's or two or five.

I've included it for a couple of reasons: first, I need a haircut in the worst way. Second, it's probably the last picture on record where I've got any kind of acne. It's not like my face was ever cratered, but a zit or two, here or there, were one of those steady facial accessories of my teen years (and even into my twenties).

Sometime during the summer I realized that my face had never been smoother. Chemotherapy and complete hair loss (no shaving!) had something to do with that. A few months of antibiotics, though, meant no more pimples, either. Excellent.

You won't find me recommending chemotherapy and antibiotics as a form of acne treatment, but at the same time, I'm not about to complain about a little silver lining.

Two of the few photos anybody took of me while I was in the hospital. These would have been March, or maybe April. I had to look cool. Sunglasses. Leather jacket. Not sick. Definitely looking cooler, healthier, hipper than tired, dragging, sick. We will not photograph the latter.

On the left side of the photo with all of my various antibiotics (the larger yellow bag is actually food/nutrients, since I couldn't eat anything for awhile) you can see some adhesive tape strips attached to my chest. That's where my Hickman catheter ran into my body -- the main entry point, the highway, Route 66 for any chemicals or medicines that needed to get inside.

At the old house in Renton, on or around my 21st birthday. Ian and I had been friends since I don't know, fourth, fifth, sixth grade, and it was a fortunate twist of fate (luck? chance? a plan between ian's parents and mine that nobody ever told me about?) that he was in town the day Mom and Paul were throwing a party for me.

I weigh 145 pounds. I've been out of the hospital for a week. It feels fucking great to be out, even though it's hard work walking up and down the stairs, and I still get tired very easily.

I'm on the left, Aaron on the right. The picture is taken in the staircase in Fourth Davis, October, 1991. It's the same shirt I wore at my 21st birthday, although I've managed to put on about twenty pounds since then.

October 8th, 2000. The end of a clear, cool Twin Cities Marathon. It wasn't a blazing finish, but I wasn't expecting rocket speed. Ten years after everything, however, it was unbelievably satisfying. A great way to celebrate a milestone anniversay.