July 2025
Question & C/Answer
with Stephanie Kemp
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You look different. Did you choose that hair style?
No. A Women’s Shakespeare Company parody production of Mel Gibson’s Hamlet is not what I would have actively chosen as my Coming Out of Baldness Coiffure Kick Off. (Although I did like last week’s Rosemary’s BabyMama and am already optimistically moving toward Peter Pan via that nice lady with short hair from The Walking Dead.)
While I am obviously grateful for any hair growth at all, this has been humbling, to say the least.
I’m not sure how well you know me, but my old hair was sort of famous. (And the fact that my current Hamlet Head also looks like she just got a perm is a bit of a double whammy.)
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Speaking of double whammies, can you explain your cancer?
Not really. I can only type the words “Double Hit Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma” and “Blood Cancer.” Outside of that, I am sick of talking about (and living) it. Feel free to google it, but it sounds pretty scary. (I try not to google anything that really matters or doesn’t matter at all.)
You didn’t even tell most people you had cancer. Don’t you think some people might want to ask you about it or see how you’re doing?
Yes. That is why I am doing this fake Q&A.
Wow. You sound sort of ripe.
I am. I was having a great time (outside of the world crumbling and melting and warring and people being really mean to each other all over the place) in March of 2024. I was living and writing at an amazing artists’ residency in a French chateau with the ancestors of The Little Prince and several dozen other fantastic people.
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At the crack of dawn each day, I took a solo walk in the woods with a cup of coffee and my rain boots no matter the weather, wondering how I’d tricked my way in there.
On day three of my morning promenades, I noticed a foreign fatigue in the middle section of my body that seemed to have a designated space (my abdomen) and its very own pulse (dramatically slow and rhythmically steady). There was also something that felt a little slithery happening inside of me, but I’m not sure I want to include that detail because it sounds gross and also sort of melodramatic. Either way (and every day), I ignored my fatigue and kept walking through the forest and writing in my gorgeous chateau with my new friends, pawning it off as an American problem. (I have always been unstoppable in France.)
What happened when you got back to America?
I spent the rest of spring pouting in English and wondering if my fatigue (and evolving ulcer-like symptoms) may actually have been related to a French snake or Antoine de Saint-Exupéry after all.
Mostly I just worried that this was the price of admission for a really lucky (but not paying that much attention), wine drinking, crusty bread and delicious cheese eating, 56 year old post menopausal human being living on the planet Earth who knew she should be exercising more.
From there, summer was wobbly, as my fatigue and ulcer (“or it might be acid reflux”) symptoms grew like a rolling snowball on a downhill slope during an off-season white out. I had completed almost every medical test known to (modern) man, but nothing showed up in my blood or anywhere else. It (and I) was a medical mystery.
Despite being very scared (and having turned a year older), I tried to act recognizably as The Real Stephanie Kemp through the fall, when I wrote the following letter to my doctors (upon request) describing my ever evolving symptoms (again):
September 14, 2024
Dear Doctor/s,
This is what it feels like:
They are picketing by the thousands - in a space (this would be my stomach) designed to hold much fewer people, preferably holding no spiky signs.
I am too tired to fight them.
They are screaming and facing out in all directions, trying to push into terrain that is more hospitable and accepting of their insatiable needs. I want to accommodate them, but they are being cagy about their demands and unclear about just what it is they feel they have not been getting.
As an added bonus, they do not seem to be united:
I am hungry!
I am full!
I have cramps!
I am trying to push my way out of this shit hole!
I just want to rest!
I am going to throw up! Again!
I am looking for an organ to take a nap in (or invade)!
Swallowing is not as simple as it looks.....without gagging.
I want you to wear different pants!
I am unsure if all of my body crackles are related to the ongoing strikes, but they will likely need to be included in negotiations moving forward….(especially since they are the main reason I took all of that Aleve, which I now know can cause ulcers or other bad things to happen in your stomach).
I am still able to take walks, although the strikers don’t like stairs or uphill climbs and I find myself increasingly needing to rest in our living room’s red chair while forcing myself to stay calm...
Please doctor/s......I just want to know what they are protesting.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Ps/On a background note for any/all new doctors, in case my old ones cut and run:
• I am a healthy 57 year old on no meds (outside of minimal dosages of estrogen and progesterone and the aforementioned Aleve sometimes, or maybe half of a Tylenol PM if my husband snores).
• I admittedly haven’t had a check up in a while but am up to date on mammos and paps, not to mention (but possibly, to overshare) a recent Ladyparts Only Ultrasound. I regularly get my blood pressure and iron levels checked when I give blood at CHLA. (For the record, or in case you need blood, I am O+, but it has been more than a few months since my last donation, first because I was in France and now because I don’t feel so hot.)
• I had a Myxoid Liposarcoma removed from my right leg in 2011. There were very clear margins and I needed no radiation or chemotherapy. (And yes, I know that these are rare and scary tumors, especially with round cells involved. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.)
• I had a stillborn son in 2007. I (still) can’t really talk about him (ever), unless I know you really well or don’t know you at all.
• Largely because of these last two notes, I can go dark very quickly. This is (one of) the reason(s) I write things down.
• And last but not least, I hate going to the doctor (even though I love all of my doctors).
That sounds fucked up. What happened next?
Funny you should ask! (And good thing I wrote another letter…..)
October 8, 2024
Dear Doctor/s,
I think things are looking up.
I feel like I might live (and like I might want to live) more often than I did three weeks ago, when I wrote you my first letter.
I have not missed a single dose of my (Eat Before Breakfast) Pantroprozole and have (now seriously) cut out:
Dairy
Gluten
Alcohol
(Most) Caffeine
My food intake has been very mindful, as has all movement and most breathing. This mindfulness across the board has actually helped a lot. I will remember this for the rest of my life, however long that may be and no matter what happens from here. (Please remind me that I said this.)
I have also taken sporadic antacids as needed when something really bad happens.
My pee is clear.
My pipes are working (although not playing varsity).
My sleep is not great (ever - separate essay).
I have a(nother) physical today at noon.
I am hoping things will become clearer.
For instance, (Doctor/s), shouldn’t I:
Have an endoscopy?
An ultrasound?
Be feeling better by now?
Just how urgent is this situation (outside of my own head)? I only ask because “The next available appointment for an esophageal scan is February 5th at 10:30am.” doesn’t sound excellent and no-one seems to be taking me seriously.
Possibly even me.
The good news (there is always good news somewhere) is that I feel very grateful for every single thing, every single minute, of any single day that I get a fucking break from this.
Sincerely (still),
Stephanie
Ps. I really don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but I’m pretty sure this is more serious than an ulcer. I know none of us want to use the C word again (and nothing in the blood tests indicates its presence), but can’t we please do some sort of scan over my middle? I even think insurance would cover it, since I have had cancer before….and because we have MPI - thank God, Adam Bluming and Dr. Harry Vanderspeigle.
Not that this is (in any way) boring, but can you fast track it a bit so that anyone (still reading) can just know what the hell is going on with you?
I finally got an abdominal ultrasound a week before Halloween. My technician was a super cool woman named Wynona and she sang a Tyrese song as she rolled her jelly-led metallic wand all over my belly. At one point, she kept humming but stopped wandering her wand, spending far too much time in the space directly above where the snake (still) lived.
Despite having never heard (or heard of) Tyrese, I remember feeling grateful that Wynona kept singing, even though I could tell she was looping the chorus and fudging some lyrics.
This was very scary, but not nearly as scary as when the ultrasound couldn’t find my son’s heartbeat that time, 6,658 days ago. It is amazing how brave we (can) become after the worst thing happens.
I was finally (terrified and relieved to be) diagnosed with lymphoma in November, 2024.
While everyone was obviously disappointed that it wasn’t an ulcer after all, they were over the moon that it wasn’t a Return of the Sarcoma.
My lymphoma came in the form of a 4x4 inch localized tumor hiding behind my abdominal wall.(”Think of a grapefruit,” said a new physician’s assistant, trying to be productive.)
If you want more information, feel free to google “Jeff Bridges Cancer” and you will get the gist of my condition, even though:
• His tumor was bigger (and “felt like a rock,” not a snake)
• My legs never itched
• I wasn’t starring in a tv show called “The Old Man” (or called anything else) at the time of my diagnosis
• I didn’t contract Covid at my Infusion Center and almost die
• My weight loss actually looked pretty good on me, in a “you could almost be French!” sort of way
That said, here are just a few snippets of things you might hear when you find out you have lymphoma:
“If you have to have a cancer, lymphoma is the one to get.”
- Some People Trying to be Helpful
“You will need chemo and lose your hair.”
- All Doctors
“Shit. It’s Double Hit. That changes some things. It won’t be R-CHOP treatment, it will be R-EPOCH. You will have to be hospitalized. And I would like to get you in as soon as possible.”
- My Actual Doctor (I said the Shit part)
“It will be for the whole week of Thanksgiving, but at least you should be home for Christmas!”
-The Nice Girl at the Scheduling Desk
Are you going to live?
Yes. For now (just like any/everyone else). I finished my six rounds of chemo (and got to ring the bell) on March 14, 2025. Ever the optimist, I tried to upsell my pink chemical cocktail by naming the (24/7 for five days a week, every twenty one days, for each of six cycles) chemo bag “Rosie,” in honor of happier things, such as “Rosé All Day!” while also trying to distract myself from the nickname the medical professionals use for my chemo: “Red Devil.”
I (and everyone who loves me) was very happy, if physically (me) and emotionally (all of us) shredded. We even had a post treatment Thank You Drinks & Appetizer Party for all the friends who made food for my family thanks to something excellent called a Meal Train.
I couldn’t wait to have more parties to roll out the news that my cancer was in remission, especially to all of the people I never even got to tell I had cancer in the first place. (It’s hard and tiring, not to mention ultimately impossible, to tell all the people you love - or even like - that you have cancer.)
In the meantime, (and while planning our massive party roll out, starting with a Dinner for all the Friends who Sent Me Cards after a Brunch for our Fantastic Neighbors), my beloved infusion nurses even agreed to come over for French Bread Pizzas and Ping Pong with me.
The Real Stephanie was back! (Even though this one had somehow convinced herself that she liked parties.)
And then what happened?!
My “Double Hit” status made me eligible to participate in a clinical trial to monitor my remission and help “Fuel the Science.” Basically, I was asked (and agreed) to have a super sensitive blood test each time I had a follow up scan, to see if my blood might be able to show something a scan could not.
“Oh.” I said. “Sort of like Theranos, but for real? Sure. I’ll do it.”
(I love to help…..People and Science. After my sarcoma experience, my husband and I even made a fundraising film for Stand Up 2 Cancer to help fight the good fight.)
That really is truly and totally amazing, but can we just stay focused on the clinical trial?
Of course. Yes. Right…..
Just eight short and sweet weeks after all of that celebratory bell ringing, the super sensitive blood test came back positive for “Minimal Residual Disease.”
“This means there is active lymphoma somewhere in your body. The scans aren’t picking it up (yet), but there is a 90% chance you will relapse within the next 12 months.”
- My Clinical Trial Doctor
“Let’s hope you get randomized into the treatment arm of the trial. You would probably have three days of additional chemotherapy and then CAR-T treatment. The bad news is that it would have to start next week. The good news is that we could put you up in a nice hotel right near the hospital and you won’t lose your hair this time.”
- Still my Clinical Trial Doctor
What is CAR-T?
AI would tell you (and me) that:
“CAR T-cell therapy is a cutting-edge form of immunotherapy that reprograms a patient’s own immune cells to fight cancer…..”
It would also tell us a bunch of other things, but it doesn’t matter because I wasn’t randomized into the “treatment arm,” I was randomized in the “observation arm.” This means I have to “wait until the traditional scans pick up ‘measurable disease’ and then go back into whatever treatment makes the most sense from there.” Some people call this “Clinical Trial Limbo.” Other people (including me) call it “Emotional Purgatory.”
“At least you still get to go to New York with your daughter and enjoy your summer!”
- The Same Clinical Trial Doctor
“….but you might want to cancel that appointment to take out your chest port.”
- My Clinical Trial Nurse
(“Did I actually sign something saying that her hair wouldn’t fall out this time?”)
- Clinical Trial Doctor, to Clinical Trial Nurse
“Yes. In her blue notebook. She asked you about it and made you sign on the dotted line near the X during the initial consult.”
- Clinical Trial Nurse, to Clinical Trial Doctor
(Actually, the nurse only said “Yes.” I added everything else.)
“……………………………………(total silence.)”
- All of Us
Jesus, that sucks. But I’m sure you’re just exhausted and scared and disappointed and angry that you can’t really be angry at anyone. Is that right?
Yes. Thanks for making it so clean and clear for me. It (almost) makes me wish I’d done this fake Q&A earlier, but I couldn’t because I had no attention span. On that note (and given that I just got really tired), maybe we should wrap it up…..especially because I still want to go for a bike ride at the beach with my daughter this afternoon.
Please feel free to share this with anyone we might mutually know (or anyone, anywhere, going through something similar or anything scary).
If anyone has any follow up (or real) questions, they can email me at:
stephaniekemp@nelafilms.com
Or they can call me………(if they have my phone number.)
On a final note, please include that there is also so much that has been beautiful during and throughout this shitstorm. But the beauty doesn’t get the writing time (or attention in writing) it deserves because it demands to be off the Cancer Clock.
(In other words, when I feel good I want to do things and go places and see people, not write about them.)
One last question. While your Hamlet Hair is not nearly as bad as you make it sound, those beanies you wore during chemo (with that synthetic hair attached) looked exactly like your real hair - only better! Where did you get them?
Thank you, I think. Those hats with hair saved me. They let me be Normal Me: Out in the World (or Normal Me: Just Sitting at Home). I never had to feel like someone I had never met before, no matter where I was. (And they let me go completely incognito, even when my skin was ash gray and I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, as long as I was also wearing my big sunglasses.)
They are sold by a cool woman in Ireland who had cancer a long time ago, and she makes them now because nothing like them existed when she went through the shitstorm then.
Her name is Ciara.
(She also makes headscarves)
If you ever need beanies or bucket hats or baseball hats or something called a Panama Hat (all with hair), Ciara is your man. Please tell her I sent you. (And thank her again for me, because they are also really comfortable and never itchy.)
xxxxxxxx,
Stephanie
Ps. I had never even heard of “hats with hair” until I accidentally saw Jenna Fischer on the Today Show sharing her own cancer story one morning when I didn’t want to do the breakfast dishes.
I remember the interview because it was the moment I knew in my bones that whatever I had inside of me was cancer. In addition to talking about “hats with hair” and the importance of being able to feel normal sometimes, Jenna also said that during treatment she was able to sit at the table with her family every morning and have a cup of coffee. While she couldn’t help her husband make breakfasts or lunches (or do much of anything else except keep going), she could make sure her kids knew that she felt shitty from the treatment (because it was working), not from the disease (because their mom was not dying).
Jenna Fischer gave me a template.
Maybe I will reach out and thank her for doing that interview. I’m sure I’ll be able to find her because her husband once wrote a short film called “The Man Who Invented the Moon,” that my friend Garve was in. This feels relevant not just because I owe Garve a trillion calls and miss him like crazy, but also because Any Man Who Invented the Moon must also care about People and Science, just like I do. (I don’t really remember the film but I bet it was good.)
Clearly you are very tired……Good luck finding Jenna. (You could also just post this and tag her, you know.)
I know, but I am terrible at Instagram…Just ask my friend Beulah, or anyone else who was with me in France (or with me anywhere else).
Plus, that would be too easy.
Are you afraid to share your story?
Yes….But this is me trying.
Why?
Because what if someone else needs a template or thinks that cancer happens in a straight line?
Do you want me to call anyone?
Yes, please. Everyone. Tell them I love them and (probably) miss them.
Please make sure to include my childhood friends because I haven’t RSVP’d to our upcoming high school reunion yet, even though I really do want to try and get there.
And remind them not to skip any doctors’ appointments or check ups (and to advocate for themselves, still/always/no matter what).
What’s next?
• More of the best summer ever with my family. (This is true.)
• More hair styles I might not willfully choose, but will undoubtedly benefit from in unforseen ways.
• Lots of reading and writing (now that I can read and write again, as proven by this missive even though I should also probably work on remembering how to edit.)
• Parties that don’t promise so much. (I am trying to make peace with the fact that you never really get off the cancer train, once you have been on it. I think of it more as a puzzle now, that doctors are getting better at solving and less like a war that has to be won. This new thinking feels like something that deseves some sort of fun get together or an uphill walk with a friend.)
• More scans and blood work and physicals and consultations. I will remember to remain mindful and breathe deeply. This should be easier now that I’m eating (so many more) plant based foods. Hopefully many of these plants will be paired with a nice sauvignon blanc or bordeaux rouge, especially since I have never really liked rosé, if I’m being honest - and I am trying.
And, as always, I will continue to work on my sharing while also trying to figure out a way to get back to France as soon as possible (or maybe Never-Never Land, once I google it since I can’t really remember if it is a place I would want to live.................or visit).
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Mostly I’m hoping to get to my high school reunion.
Do you think some people will make fun of your hair?
Not if they remember what it looked like at our senior prom. (Even though I was the prom queen, in case you were wondering......or in case anyone forgot.)
Plus, my friends are (and have always been) really nice.
(Mostly.)
I love them.
(Totally.)
I guess it’s mostly me that I’m worried about being mean to me. Not that I would make fun of my hair (I am so proud of it for how it’s growing, just as I am so proud of and grateful for the rest of my body), but it’s hard not to compare this new ride to the one I had before. I loved my old ride. I miss the old me.
But anyone who tries to tell you, “It’s just hair, it will grow back,” might want to stop saying that and replace it with, “That sucks. Tell me more.....or absolutely nothing.”
We could start (or end) t/here.
Especially because I probably owe you a call...
I will try you after I schedule my slightly overdue mammogram (only late because of the still in there chest port!) and my (I can’t believe it’s already been a fucking year) papsmear.
This shit is not for sissies............................
To Be Continued………..Hopefully.
(Because I am still an optimist...)
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cc: Belinda and Heidi (the world’s best template sandwich people), and Av (my favorite oncological partner in crime, even though it’s more fun when he is just my father-in-law and I am showing him tricks on the rubik’s cube)
Question & C/Answer
with Stephanie Kemp
You look different. Did you choose that hair style?
No. A Women’s Shakespeare Company parody production of Mel Gibson’s Hamlet is not what I would have actively chosen as my Coming Out of Baldness Coiffure Kick Off. (Although I did like last week’s Rosemary’s BabyMama and am already optimistically moving toward Peter Pan via that nice lady with short hair from The Walking Dead.)
While I am obviously grateful for any hair growth at all, this has been humbling, to say the least.
I’m not sure how well you know me, but my old hair was sort of famous. (And the fact that my current Hamlet Head also looks like she just got a perm is a bit of a double whammy.)
Speaking of double whammies, can you explain your cancer?
Not really. I can only type the words “Double Hit Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma” and “Blood Cancer.” Outside of that, I am sick of talking about (and living) it. Feel free to google it, but it sounds pretty scary. (I try not to google anything that really matters or doesn’t matter at all.)
You didn’t even tell most people you had cancer. Don’t you think some people might want to ask you about it or see how you’re doing?
Yes. That is why I am doing this fake Q&A.
Wow. You sound sort of ripe.
I am. I was having a great time (outside of the world crumbling and melting and warring and people being really mean to each other all over the place) in March of 2024. I was living and writing at an amazing artists’ residency in a French chateau with the ancestors of The Little Prince and several dozen other fantastic people.
At the crack of dawn each day, I took a solo walk in the woods with a cup of coffee and my rain boots no matter the weather, wondering how I’d tricked my way in there.
On day three of my morning promenades, I noticed a foreign fatigue in the middle section of my body that seemed to have a designated space (my abdomen) and its very own pulse (dramatically slow and rhythmically steady). There was also something that felt a little slithery happening inside of me, but I’m not sure I want to include that detail because it sounds gross and also sort of melodramatic. Either way (and every day), I ignored my fatigue and kept walking through the forest and writing in my gorgeous chateau with my new friends, pawning it off as an American problem. (I have always been unstoppable in France.)
What happened when you got back to America?
I spent the rest of spring pouting in English and wondering if my fatigue (and evolving ulcer-like symptoms) may actually have been related to a French snake or Antoine de Saint-Exupéry after all.
Mostly I just worried that this was the price of admission for a really lucky (but not paying that much attention), wine drinking, crusty bread and delicious cheese eating, 56 year old post menopausal human being living on the planet Earth who knew she should be exercising more.
From there, summer was wobbly, as my fatigue and ulcer (“or it might be acid reflux”) symptoms grew like a rolling snowball on a downhill slope during an off-season white out. I had completed almost every medical test known to (modern) man, but nothing showed up in my blood or anywhere else. It (and I) was a medical mystery.
Despite being very scared (and having turned a year older), I tried to act recognizably as The Real Stephanie Kemp through the fall, when I wrote the following letter to my doctors (upon request) describing my ever evolving symptoms (again):
September 14, 2024
Dear Doctor/s,
This is what it feels like:
They are picketing by the thousands - in a space (this would be my stomach) designed to hold much fewer people, preferably holding no spiky signs.
I am too tired to fight them.
They are screaming and facing out in all directions, trying to push into terrain that is more hospitable and accepting of their insatiable needs. I want to accommodate them, but they are being cagy about their demands and unclear about just what it is they feel they have not been getting.
As an added bonus, they do not seem to be united:
I am hungry!
I am full!
I have cramps!
I am trying to push my way out of this shit hole!
I just want to rest!
I am going to throw up! Again!
I am looking for an organ to take a nap in (or invade)!
Swallowing is not as simple as it looks.....without gagging.
I want you to wear different pants!
I am unsure if all of my body crackles are related to the ongoing strikes, but they will likely need to be included in negotiations moving forward….(especially since they are the main reason I took all of that Aleve, which I now know can cause ulcers or other bad things to happen in your stomach).
I am still able to take walks, although the strikers don’t like stairs or uphill climbs and I find myself increasingly needing to rest in our living room’s red chair while forcing myself to stay calm...
Please doctor/s......I just want to know what they are protesting.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Ps/On a background note for any/all new doctors, in case my old ones cut and run:
• I am a healthy 57 year old on no meds (outside of minimal dosages of estrogen and progesterone and the aforementioned Aleve sometimes, or maybe half of a Tylenol PM if my husband snores).
• I admittedly haven’t had a check up in a while but am up to date on mammos and paps, not to mention (but possibly, to overshare) a recent Ladyparts Only Ultrasound. I regularly get my blood pressure and iron levels checked when I give blood at CHLA. (For the record, or in case you need blood, I am O+, but it has been more than a few months since my last donation, first because I was in France and now because I don’t feel so hot.)
• I had a Myxoid Liposarcoma removed from my right leg in 2011. There were very clear margins and I needed no radiation or chemotherapy. (And yes, I know that these are rare and scary tumors, especially with round cells involved. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.)
• I had a stillborn son in 2007. I (still) can’t really talk about him (ever), unless I know you really well or don’t know you at all.
• Largely because of these last two notes, I can go dark very quickly. This is (one of) the reason(s) I write things down.
• And last but not least, I hate going to the doctor (even though I love all of my doctors).
That sounds fucked up. What happened next?
Funny you should ask! (And good thing I wrote another letter…..)
October 8, 2024
Dear Doctor/s,
I think things are looking up.
I feel like I might live (and like I might want to live) more often than I did three weeks ago, when I wrote you my first letter.
I have not missed a single dose of my (Eat Before Breakfast) Pantroprozole and have (now seriously) cut out:
Dairy
Gluten
Alcohol
(Most) Caffeine
My food intake has been very mindful, as has all movement and most breathing. This mindfulness across the board has actually helped a lot. I will remember this for the rest of my life, however long that may be and no matter what happens from here. (Please remind me that I said this.)
I have also taken sporadic antacids as needed when something really bad happens.
My pee is clear.
My pipes are working (although not playing varsity).
My sleep is not great (ever - separate essay).
I have a(nother) physical today at noon.
I am hoping things will become clearer.
For instance, (Doctor/s), shouldn’t I:
Have an endoscopy?
An ultrasound?
Be feeling better by now?
Just how urgent is this situation (outside of my own head)? I only ask because “The next available appointment for an esophageal scan is February 5th at 10:30am.” doesn’t sound excellent and no-one seems to be taking me seriously.
Possibly even me.
The good news (there is always good news somewhere) is that I feel very grateful for every single thing, every single minute, of any single day that I get a fucking break from this.
Sincerely (still),
Stephanie
Ps. I really don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but I’m pretty sure this is more serious than an ulcer. I know none of us want to use the C word again (and nothing in the blood tests indicates its presence), but can’t we please do some sort of scan over my middle? I even think insurance would cover it, since I have had cancer before….and because we have MPI - thank God, Adam Bluming and Dr. Harry Vanderspeigle.
Not that this is (in any way) boring, but can you fast track it a bit so that anyone (still reading) can just know what the hell is going on with you?
I finally got an abdominal ultrasound a week before Halloween. My technician was a super cool woman named Wynona and she sang a Tyrese song as she rolled her jelly-led metallic wand all over my belly. At one point, she kept humming but stopped wandering her wand, spending far too much time in the space directly above where the snake (still) lived.
Despite having never heard (or heard of) Tyrese, I remember feeling grateful that Wynona kept singing, even though I could tell she was looping the chorus and fudging some lyrics.
This was very scary, but not nearly as scary as when the ultrasound couldn’t find my son’s heartbeat that time, 6,658 days ago. It is amazing how brave we (can) become after the worst thing happens.
I was finally (terrified and relieved to be) diagnosed with lymphoma in November, 2024.
While everyone was obviously disappointed that it wasn’t an ulcer after all, they were over the moon that it wasn’t a Return of the Sarcoma.
My lymphoma came in the form of a 4x4 inch localized tumor hiding behind my abdominal wall.(”Think of a grapefruit,” said a new physician’s assistant, trying to be productive.)
If you want more information, feel free to google “Jeff Bridges Cancer” and you will get the gist of my condition, even though:
• His tumor was bigger (and “felt like a rock,” not a snake)
• My legs never itched
• I wasn’t starring in a tv show called “The Old Man” (or called anything else) at the time of my diagnosis
• I didn’t contract Covid at my Infusion Center and almost die
• My weight loss actually looked pretty good on me, in a “you could almost be French!” sort of way
That said, here are just a few snippets of things you might hear when you find out you have lymphoma:
“If you have to have a cancer, lymphoma is the one to get.”
- Some People Trying to be Helpful“It’s sort of like the common cold of cancers.”
- Other People, also Trying to be Helpful“This is treatable and curable!”
- Lots of Doctors“You will need chemo and lose your hair.”
- All Doctors “Shit. It’s Double Hit. That changes some things. It won’t be R-CHOP treatment, it will be R-EPOCH. You will have to be hospitalized. And I would like to get you in as soon as possible.”
- My Actual Doctor (I said the Shit part)
“It will be for the whole week of Thanksgiving, but at least you should be home for Christmas!”
-The Nice Girl at the Scheduling DeskAre you going to live?
Yes. For now (just like any/everyone else). I finished my six rounds of chemo (and got to ring the bell) on March 14, 2025. Ever the optimist, I tried to upsell my pink chemical cocktail by naming the (24/7 for five days a week, every twenty one days, for each of six cycles) chemo bag “Rosie,” in honor of happier things, such as “Rosé All Day!” while also trying to distract myself from the nickname the medical professionals use for my chemo: “Red Devil.”
I (and everyone who loves me) was very happy, if physically (me) and emotionally (all of us) shredded. We even had a post treatment Thank You Drinks & Appetizer Party for all the friends who made food for my family thanks to something excellent called a Meal Train.
I couldn’t wait to have more parties to roll out the news that my cancer was in remission, especially to all of the people I never even got to tell I had cancer in the first place. (It’s hard and tiring, not to mention ultimately impossible, to tell all the people you love - or even like - that you have cancer.)
In the meantime, (and while planning our massive party roll out, starting with a Dinner for all the Friends who Sent Me Cards after a Brunch for our Fantastic Neighbors), my beloved infusion nurses even agreed to come over for French Bread Pizzas and Ping Pong with me.
The Real Stephanie was back! (Even though this one had somehow convinced herself that she liked parties.)
And then what happened?!
My “Double Hit” status made me eligible to participate in a clinical trial to monitor my remission and help “Fuel the Science.” Basically, I was asked (and agreed) to have a super sensitive blood test each time I had a follow up scan, to see if my blood might be able to show something a scan could not.
“Oh.” I said. “Sort of like Theranos, but for real? Sure. I’ll do it.”
(I love to help…..People and Science. After my sarcoma experience, my husband and I even made a fundraising film for Stand Up 2 Cancer to help fight the good fight.)
That really is truly and totally amazing, but can we just stay focused on the clinical trial?
Of course. Yes. Right…..
Just eight short and sweet weeks after all of that celebratory bell ringing, the super sensitive blood test came back positive for “Minimal Residual Disease.”
“This means there is active lymphoma somewhere in your body. The scans aren’t picking it up (yet), but there is a 90% chance you will relapse within the next 12 months.”
- My Clinical Trial Doctor“Let’s hope you get randomized into the treatment arm of the trial. You would probably have three days of additional chemotherapy and then CAR-T treatment. The bad news is that it would have to start next week. The good news is that we could put you up in a nice hotel right near the hospital and you won’t lose your hair this time.”
- Still my Clinical Trial DoctorWhat is CAR-T?
AI would tell you (and me) that:
“CAR T-cell therapy is a cutting-edge form of immunotherapy that reprograms a patient’s own immune cells to fight cancer…..”
It would also tell us a bunch of other things, but it doesn’t matter because I wasn’t randomized into the “treatment arm,” I was randomized in the “observation arm.” This means I have to “wait until the traditional scans pick up ‘measurable disease’ and then go back into whatever treatment makes the most sense from there.” Some people call this “Clinical Trial Limbo.” Other people (including me) call it “Emotional Purgatory.”
“At least you still get to go to New York with your daughter and enjoy your summer!”
- The Same Clinical Trial Doctor“….but you might want to cancel that appointment to take out your chest port.”
- My Clinical Trial Nurse(“Did I actually sign something saying that her hair wouldn’t fall out this time?”)
- Clinical Trial Doctor, to Clinical Trial Nurse“Yes. In her blue notebook. She asked you about it and made you sign on the dotted line near the X during the initial consult.”
- Clinical Trial Nurse, to Clinical Trial Doctor (Actually, the nurse only said “Yes.” I added everything else.)
“……………………………………(total silence.)”
- All of UsJesus, that sucks. But I’m sure you’re just exhausted and scared and disappointed and angry that you can’t really be angry at anyone. Is that right?
Yes. Thanks for making it so clean and clear for me. It (almost) makes me wish I’d done this fake Q&A earlier, but I couldn’t because I had no attention span. On that note (and given that I just got really tired), maybe we should wrap it up…..especially because I still want to go for a bike ride at the beach with my daughter this afternoon.
Please feel free to share this with anyone we might mutually know (or anyone, anywhere, going through something similar or anything scary).
If anyone has any follow up (or real) questions, they can email me at:
stephaniekemp@nelafilms.com
Or they can call me………(if they have my phone number.)
On a final note, please include that there is also so much that has been beautiful during and throughout this shitstorm. But the beauty doesn’t get the writing time (or attention in writing) it deserves because it demands to be off the Cancer Clock.
(In other words, when I feel good I want to do things and go places and see people, not write about them.)
One last question. While your Hamlet Hair is not nearly as bad as you make it sound, those beanies you wore during chemo (with that synthetic hair attached) looked exactly like your real hair - only better! Where did you get them?
Thank you, I think. Those hats with hair saved me. They let me be Normal Me: Out in the World (or Normal Me: Just Sitting at Home). I never had to feel like someone I had never met before, no matter where I was. (And they let me go completely incognito, even when my skin was ash gray and I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, as long as I was also wearing my big sunglasses.)
They are sold by a cool woman in Ireland who had cancer a long time ago, and she makes them now because nothing like them existed when she went through the shitstorm then.
Her name is Ciara.
(She also makes headscarves)
If you ever need beanies or bucket hats or baseball hats or something called a Panama Hat (all with hair), Ciara is your man. Please tell her I sent you. (And thank her again for me, because they are also really comfortable and never itchy.)
xxxxxxxx,
Stephanie
Ps. I had never even heard of “hats with hair” until I accidentally saw Jenna Fischer on the Today Show sharing her own cancer story one morning when I didn’t want to do the breakfast dishes.
I remember the interview because it was the moment I knew in my bones that whatever I had inside of me was cancer. In addition to talking about “hats with hair” and the importance of being able to feel normal sometimes, Jenna also said that during treatment she was able to sit at the table with her family every morning and have a cup of coffee. While she couldn’t help her husband make breakfasts or lunches (or do much of anything else except keep going), she could make sure her kids knew that she felt shitty from the treatment (because it was working), not from the disease (because their mom was not dying).
Jenna Fischer gave me a template.
Maybe I will reach out and thank her for doing that interview. I’m sure I’ll be able to find her because her husband once wrote a short film called “The Man Who Invented the Moon,” that my friend Garve was in. This feels relevant not just because I owe Garve a trillion calls and miss him like crazy, but also because Any Man Who Invented the Moon must also care about People and Science, just like I do. (I don’t really remember the film but I bet it was good.)
Clearly you are very tired……Good luck finding Jenna. (You could also just post this and tag her, you know.)
I know, but I am terrible at Instagram…Just ask my friend Beulah, or anyone else who was with me in France (or with me anywhere else).
Plus, that would be too easy.
Are you afraid to share your story?
Yes….But this is me trying.
Why?
Because what if someone else needs a template or thinks that cancer happens in a straight line?
Do you want me to call anyone?
Yes, please. Everyone. Tell them I love them and (probably) miss them.
Please make sure to include my childhood friends because I haven’t RSVP’d to our upcoming high school reunion yet, even though I really do want to try and get there.
And remind them not to skip any doctors’ appointments or check ups (and to advocate for themselves, still/always/no matter what).
What’s next?
• More of the best summer ever with my family. (This is true.)
• More hair styles I might not willfully choose, but will undoubtedly benefit from in unforseen ways.
• Lots of reading and writing (now that I can read and write again, as proven by this missive even though I should also probably work on remembering how to edit.)
• Parties that don’t promise so much. (I am trying to make peace with the fact that you never really get off the cancer train, once you have been on it. I think of it more as a puzzle now, that doctors are getting better at solving and less like a war that has to be won. This new thinking feels like something that deseves some sort of fun get together or an uphill walk with a friend.)
• More scans and blood work and physicals and consultations. I will remember to remain mindful and breathe deeply. This should be easier now that I’m eating (so many more) plant based foods. Hopefully many of these plants will be paired with a nice sauvignon blanc or bordeaux rouge, especially since I have never really liked rosé, if I’m being honest - and I am trying.
And, as always, I will continue to work on my sharing while also trying to figure out a way to get back to France as soon as possible (or maybe Never-Never Land, once I google it since I can’t really remember if it is a place I would want to live.................or visit).
Mostly I’m hoping to get to my high school reunion.
Do you think some people will make fun of your hair?
Not if they remember what it looked like at our senior prom. (Even though I was the prom queen, in case you were wondering......or in case anyone forgot.)
Plus, my friends are (and have always been) really nice.
(Mostly.)
I love them.
(Totally.)
I guess it’s mostly me that I’m worried about being mean to me. Not that I would make fun of my hair (I am so proud of it for how it’s growing, just as I am so proud of and grateful for the rest of my body), but it’s hard not to compare this new ride to the one I had before. I loved my old ride. I miss the old me.
But anyone who tries to tell you, “It’s just hair, it will grow back,” might want to stop saying that and replace it with, “That sucks. Tell me more.....or absolutely nothing.”
We could start (or end) t/here.
Especially because I probably owe you a call...
I will try you after I schedule my slightly overdue mammogram (only late because of the still in there chest port!) and my (I can’t believe it’s already been a fucking year) papsmear.
This shit is not for sissies............................
To Be Continued………..
(Because I am still an optimist...)
cc: Belinda and Heidi (the world’s best template sandwich people), and Av (my favorite oncological partner in crime, even though it’s more fun when he is just my father-in-law and I am showing him tricks on the rubik’s cube)