March 2026
Question & C/Answer…redux
by Stephanie Kemp
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So how is it going, Stephanie? It’s been a while. I see you are still wearing your hat and also sharing it with stuffed animals.
It’s true. I am still wearing my hat. Not always, but usually. (I also continue to work on my sharing, even if it has to be with stuffed animals, as I still sometimes have a hard time being around people.)
I’ve worn through most of my hats and have only one black beanie left. The attached hair is sort of stuck together now, like an urban beaver tail. (This is only true when I don’t attempt to brush it at all. If I give it even the tiniest amount of care it can still look like I spent a day at the beach before riding my imaginary motorcycle up the PCH for a chowder bowl at Neptune’s Net until the Reel Inn is rebuilt 🤞 and I can go back to having my favorite fish tacos.)
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I am only wearing the beanie today because I woke up as Adrian Zmed, which is not a bad thing unless it is not 1985 and you are not Adrian Zmed.
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I’m happy to hear from you. I’ve been trying to figure out how to circle back to my friends. The last Q&C/A response was so overwhelming that I haven’t even answered everyone’s kind emails and calls (and old fashioned letters). Please tell any/everyone that I am going to, because IAM! am trying. (Also tell them they can skip down to the PS. below if they just want a medical update and not the 1384 words that are about to precede it.)
Will do. In the meantime, I understand you made it to New York with your daughter, got to go to your 40th high school reunion, and then took a big trip to Cambodia and Laos, is that right?
Yes! (And thank you for asking - I love to talk about things that are not cancer related.)
New York never disappoints. My daughter even wrote her Common App essay about the trip.(I’ll ask her if I can share it after she hears from all of her colleges.)
And the reunion was truly one of the happiest 72 hours of my life, still with the best friends ever. I’m actually just finishing a hometown PSA featuring favorite childhood haunts, me beating Scott S. (twice!) at ping pong, and the invincibility of lamb at Olga’s over hamburgers anywhere (unless it is The Hunter House). I’ll share that too, once I get some personal release forms signed and add a little piano tune I’ve been practicing.
The Cambodia and Laos trip is going to need its own personal essay, but I was over the moon to get the medical all clear to go. My parents in-law took us. I am always aware (but have been super aware over the past two years) of how lucky I am.
Hmmmmm. That’s great. Even if this Q&C/A is a little boring.
It is, isn’t it? To be honest, I am so sick of this ride that I don’t really even want to talk to you (now that I’m being honest, unlike at the beginning of this interview, when I was still lying).
Can I just give you the update and you can just sit back and relax and enjoy?
Sure. Have at it. In all honesty, I don’t really want to be here either.
I just hit the one year post chemo mark.
(Remember when the “super sensitive blood test” from the clinical trial said there was a 90% chance of relapse in the first year, then 50-60% the second year and then 5-10%, “just like any/everyone else on the planet,” after that?)
Well, I got to nine months with clear scans and clean everything else/s. (That said, the emotional and mental space a “remission monitoring” clinical trial takes up is insane. Just ask my husband or anyone who knows me, except hopefully, my daughters, as they were the intended recipients of any normalcy and fun I could conjure and distribute.)
But I felt physically strong the whole time.
So at the nine month trial appointment my doctor said, “It looks like you might be one of a subset of patients who doesn’t relapse. We’re going to publish some of the study results this summer. We’ll continue with the scan schedule and monitoring, but you could probably take your port out now. You are the exact reason we need a control group.”
I KNEW IT! I knew my cancer wouldn’t come back! (But still I left the port in because I didn’t want to jinx anything and also because I’m quite attached to it, and not just physically.)
Sure enough, at the very next (“big one year marker”) scan, two spots lit up like tiny forward facing flashlights. “Probably not big enough to do a needle biopsy, especially since they’re next to blood vessels and this is not mission critical.” said the doctor. “It could still be nothing,” he continued, “but my gut tells me this is progression. We will scan you again in 4-6 weeks and try to get you into an advanced trial where we could bump you up into 3rd level treatment rather than the 2nd level treatment you would be eligible for if you stay in our current trial. As discussed, it would be a combination of approximately three days of outpatient chemotherapy and then one week of CAR-T treatment which, unfortunately, you would have to be admitted for and then monitored closely for physical and neurological side effects. But let’s not go there yet. Let’s stay in the day we’re in and try to remain philosophical...You did say you left your port in, right?”
Zoinks. That’s quite an update. How is the whole philosophical thing going?
Actually, pretty well. There is something strange that happens when you’ve heard the word cancer often enough as it pertains to your own body that allows you to find a new road to emotionally drunk drive on. (Don’t worry, there is no-one else on the road, it is only yours and you’re not really drunk, just swerve-y and a little out of control, and always incredibly grateful every time you wake up in your own bed, safely.)
Plus (and I didn’t go into much detail in our last Q&C/A, but), there is real beauty in the day to day that keeps knocking on your door or punching you in the head to make you pay attention to it:
I am grateful every day that I get another one.
I am grateful for: the clouds, the coffee, the carwash, the eggs, the walks, the returning words, the physical Sunday paper, the new store that sells old Levis, the old friends that still love me (plus even some new ones!), Casa Bianca Pizza Pie (always), books (again) beach days (whenever possible), cheese.
I am grateful that my doctors are still aiming at my treatment to be “curative.”
The Tatiana Schlossberg “A Battle with My Blood” New Yorker essay (not to mention her story and strength and life and loss) tipped me sideways for months:
“My first thought was that my kids, whose faces live permanently on the inside of my eyelids wouldn’t remember me.”
(She was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia while in the hospital after giving birth to her daughter and went straight from the maternity ward to the oncology floor. Her essay was published in November 2025, she died the next month. Her daughter is now two and her son is four.)
I am beyond grateful that my daughters are 21 and (almost) 18. That they have what they need from me inside of them. That they will remember their mom. (The first time I had a different kind of cancer they were 6 and 3.)
My mom has been gone for six years and still shows up for me every day, even if it is only in my excessive use of butter, always being nice to strangers, or making up (excellent) songs. I never take for granted that I (get to) remember her.
I am also so grateful that my body (if not yet fully my attention span and ability to focus) has bounced back the way it has. This thinking (and feeling) will never change, although you might have to remind me that I said this.
I am grateful that since I (I mean we!) did the original Question & C/Answer, friends and colleagues and neighbors and strangers have come out of the woodwork sharing their own stories, their own journeys and fears, their own losses and grief and maps (and even once, socks), to keep going. It is truly amazing how many people battle this. And how brave people can be.
I’m in a new writing group where we all introduced ourselves and almost half of us started with:
“I have Breast Cancer…Lymphoma…Ovarian Cancer…Prostate Cancer…Breast Cancer…Breast Cancer…Breast Cancer…I just lost my…I am currently in remission…I find out next week…I just rang the bell…” (And it is not even a cancer support group!)
Then most of us ended with, “But that’s not why I am here.”
Except that for many of us it is.
Not because we necessarily want to tell our cancer stories, but because we want to tell our other stories.
And figure out what those are.
(One of mine will be, “Why Are So Many People Getting Cancer?”.....maybe.)
But for now, to quote my daughters (from a much earlier time in life, and possibly, the next time I cook them dinner):
“Can I be done?”
Sure. Good luck, Stephanie. Maybe next time you can show us your hair?
I’ll just show it to you now (with a poem, given that it is almost National Poetry Month):
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I guess all of those brave people are making me brave, too…(especially because these pictures were taken on a really good hair day, if you can imagine......and because this is still very scary.)
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
PS. It is April now. I do need more treatment, but am still hearing the words “treatable and curable,” in case you were worried or wondering. I am both, but also feeling optimistic and beyond lucky, as I move through what often feels like a high stakes game of never-ending medical whac-a-mole.
On a positive note (there is always something positive if you look long or hard enough), my relapse supports the Big Picture/ Do It For The Science! Idea that the “super sensitive blood test” does actually work, which is awesome. (Even if it sucks shitballs for me and my family or, possibly, anyone else who is still reading this.)
At least I am out of limbo (half full - there’s my mom again!) and it is now actually National Poetry Month:
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To be continued….... gratefully (again)
cc(xo):
Dave / Heidi / Belinda / Maples / Doctors / Nurses / Science / You
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Question & C/Answer…redux
by Stephanie Kemp
So how is it going, Stephanie? It’s been a while. I see you are still wearing your hat and also sharing it with stuffed animals.
It’s true. I am still wearing my hat. Not always, but usually. (I also continue to work on my sharing, even if it has to be with stuffed animals, as I still sometimes have a hard time being around people.)
I’ve worn through most of my hats and have only one black beanie left. The attached hair is sort of stuck together now, like an urban beaver tail. (This is only true when I don’t attempt to brush it at all. If I give it even the tiniest amount of care it can still look like I spent a day at the beach before riding my imaginary motorcycle up the PCH for a chowder bowl at Neptune’s Net until the Reel Inn is rebuilt 🤞 and I can go back to having my favorite fish tacos.)
I am only wearing the beanie today because I woke up as Adrian Zmed, which is not a bad thing unless it is not 1985 and you are not Adrian Zmed.
I’m happy to hear from you. I’ve been trying to figure out how to circle back to my friends. The last Q&C/A response was so overwhelming that I haven’t even answered everyone’s kind emails and calls (and old fashioned letters). Please tell any/everyone that I am going to, because I
Will do. In the meantime, I understand you made it to New York with your daughter, got to go to your 40th high school reunion, and then took a big trip to Cambodia and Laos, is that right?
Yes! (And thank you for asking - I love to talk about things that are not cancer related.)
New York never disappoints. My daughter even wrote her Common App essay about the trip.(I’ll ask her if I can share it after she hears from all of her colleges.)
And the reunion was truly one of the happiest 72 hours of my life, still with the best friends ever. I’m actually just finishing a hometown PSA featuring favorite childhood haunts, me beating Scott S. (twice!) at ping pong, and the invincibility of lamb at Olga’s over hamburgers anywhere (unless it is The Hunter House). I’ll share that too, once I get some personal release forms signed and add a little piano tune I’ve been practicing.
The Cambodia and Laos trip is going to need its own personal essay, but I was over the moon to get the medical all clear to go. My parents in-law took us. I am always aware (but have been super aware over the past two years) of how lucky I am.
Hmmmmm. That’s great. Even if this Q&C/A is a little boring.
It is, isn’t it? To be honest, I am so sick of this ride that I don’t really even want to talk to you (now that I’m being honest, unlike at the beginning of this interview, when I was still lying).
Can I just give you the update and you can just sit back and relax and enjoy?
Sure. Have at it. In all honesty, I don’t really want to be here either.
I just hit the one year post chemo mark.
(Remember when the “super sensitive blood test” from the clinical trial said there was a 90% chance of relapse in the first year, then 50-60% the second year and then 5-10%, “just like any/everyone else on the planet,” after that?)
Well, I got to nine months with clear scans and clean everything else/s. (That said, the emotional and mental space a “remission monitoring” clinical trial takes up is insane. Just ask my husband or anyone who knows me, except hopefully, my daughters, as they were the intended recipients of any normalcy and fun I could conjure and distribute.)
But I felt physically strong the whole time.
So at the nine month trial appointment my doctor said, “It looks like you might be one of a subset of patients who doesn’t relapse. We’re going to publish some of the study results this summer. We’ll continue with the scan schedule and monitoring, but you could probably take your port out now. You are the exact reason we need a control group.”
I KNEW IT! I knew my cancer wouldn’t come back! (But still I left the port in because I didn’t want to jinx anything and also because I’m quite attached to it, and not just physically.)
Sure enough, at the very next (“big one year marker”) scan, two spots lit up like tiny forward facing flashlights. “Probably not big enough to do a needle biopsy, especially since they’re next to blood vessels and this is not mission critical.” said the doctor. “It could still be nothing,” he continued, “but my gut tells me this is progression. We will scan you again in 4-6 weeks and try to get you into an advanced trial where we could bump you up into 3rd level treatment rather than the 2nd level treatment you would be eligible for if you stay in our current trial. As discussed, it would be a combination of approximately three days of outpatient chemotherapy and then one week of CAR-T treatment which, unfortunately, you would have to be admitted for and then monitored closely for physical and neurological side effects. But let’s not go there yet. Let’s stay in the day we’re in and try to remain philosophical...You did say you left your port in, right?”
Zoinks. That’s quite an update. How is the whole philosophical thing going?
Actually, pretty well. There is something strange that happens when you’ve heard the word cancer often enough as it pertains to your own body that allows you to find a new road to emotionally drunk drive on. (Don’t worry, there is no-one else on the road, it is only yours and you’re not really drunk, just swerve-y and a little out of control, and always incredibly grateful every time you wake up in your own bed, safely.)
Plus (and I didn’t go into much detail in our last Q&C/A, but), there is real beauty in the day to day that keeps knocking on your door or punching you in the head to make you pay attention to it:
I am grateful every day that I get another one.
I am grateful for: the clouds, the coffee, the carwash, the eggs, the walks, the returning words, the physical Sunday paper, the new store that sells old Levis, the old friends that still love me (plus even some new ones!), Casa Bianca Pizza Pie (always), books (again) beach days (whenever possible), cheese.
I am grateful that my doctors are still aiming at my treatment to be “curative.”
The Tatiana Schlossberg “A Battle with My Blood” New Yorker essay (not to mention her story and strength and life and loss) tipped me sideways for months:
“My first thought was that my kids, whose faces live permanently on the inside of my eyelids wouldn’t remember me.”
(She was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia while in the hospital after giving birth to her daughter and went straight from the maternity ward to the oncology floor. Her essay was published in November 2025, she died the next month. Her daughter is now two and her son is four.)
I am beyond grateful that my daughters are 21 and (almost) 18. That they have what they need from me inside of them. That they will remember their mom. (The first time I had a different kind of cancer they were 6 and 3.)
My mom has been gone for six years and still shows up for me every day, even if it is only in my excessive use of butter, always being nice to strangers, or making up (excellent) songs. I never take for granted that I (get to) remember her.
I am also so grateful that my body (if not yet fully my attention span and ability to focus) has bounced back the way it has. This thinking (and feeling) will never change, although you might have to remind me that I said this.
I am grateful that since I (I mean we!) did the original Question & C/Answer, friends and colleagues and neighbors and strangers have come out of the woodwork sharing their own stories, their own journeys and fears, their own losses and grief and maps (and even once, socks), to keep going. It is truly amazing how many people battle this. And how brave people can be.
I’m in a new writing group where we all introduced ourselves and almost half of us started with:
“I have Breast Cancer…Lymphoma…Ovarian Cancer…Prostate Cancer…Breast Cancer…Breast Cancer…Breast Cancer…I just lost my…I am currently in remission…I find out next week…I just rang the bell…” (And it is not even a cancer support group!)
Then most of us ended with, “But that’s not why I am here.”
Except that for many of us it is.
Not because we necessarily want to tell our cancer stories, but because we want to tell our other stories.
And figure out what those are.
(One of mine will be, “Why Are So Many People Getting Cancer?”.....maybe.)
But for now, to quote my daughters (from a much earlier time in life, and possibly, the next time I cook them dinner):
“Can I be done?”
Sure. Good luck, Stephanie. Maybe next time you can show us your hair?
I’ll just show it to you now (with a poem, given that it is almost National Poetry Month):
I guess all of those brave people are making me brave, too…(especially because these pictures were taken on a really good hair day, if you can imagine......and because this is still very scary.)
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
PS. It is April now. I do need more treatment, but am still hearing the words “treatable and curable,” in case you were worried or wondering. I am both, but also feeling optimistic and beyond lucky, as I move through what often feels like a high stakes game of never-ending medical whac-a-mole.
On a positive note (there is always something positive if you look long or hard enough), my relapse supports the Big Picture/ Do It For The Science! Idea that the “super sensitive blood test” does actually work, which is awesome. (Even if it sucks shitballs for me and my family or, possibly, anyone else who is still reading this.)
At least I am out of limbo (half full - there’s my mom again!) and it is now actually National Poetry Month:
To be continued….... gratefully (again)
cc(xo):
Dave / Heidi / Belinda / Maples / Doctors / Nurses / Science / You
