Oh, wait--I'm supposed to be writing about cancer, not movies! Also complicated.
I last posted two weeks ago from the windy city. I was very happy to come home to DC, sunny days, and azaleas in full bloom. Chicago was COLD. Coooold. In oh so many ways. OK, moving on from that.
My silence has not at all been for lack of news or thoughts to share--rather, I have too much. And if I can't make sense of it, how can I say it? Perhaps some clarity will emerge from my keyboard. For several weeks, I have been struggling to absorb new (to me) information about my long-term treatment-- its nature, its length, the unknowns. In addition to this ongoing theme, I came home to a PET scan, more chemo, and another period on short term disability (STD). Perhaps this STD is contagious--for me, anyway.
On April 26, I had a PET scan, as I had completed the originally scheduled six rounds of chemo. As some readers may recall, my "half-way through" CT scan (less precise than a PET, as I understand it), in February, showed that my four cancer sites had shrunk, by approximately 50%--a blog post noted with"Yaaay!! and "Hallelulah!" Loyal bloggees may also recall that I chose to consume pancakes (aka "scancakes") on PET scan day
The same technician waited on me (no, I'm not confusing him with the pancake server). Nuclear medicine tech A (NMTA) is very clever. Back in November, my PET scan was a follow-up to a problematic X-ray of my jaw. After the scan, feeling confident that this was just a cancer "scare," I asked him if he saw anything, and he replied "I didn't see anything in your jaw." I guess I was optimistic enough, confident enough, (stupid enough?) that I told perfect husband (Ph) that I would go to see my oncologist, Dr S, alone. An hour later, after a tearful phone call, Ph joined me at Dr S' office to hear the details of the metastases that was not in my jaw, but was in four other places.
So, this time, no questions for NMTA, just small talk--and not even so much of that. While I was lying in the PET scan machine, it was very quiet. Usually the techs talk . . . "Are you OK?" . ."keep very still" . . "only 10 more minutes . . ". I wondered if perhaps he fainted or left me there while he went to get coffee. Afterwards, I asked NMTA why he didn't chitchat, and he replied "oh, that's just for newbies. You're experienced." Great. I'm a pro at lying in machines that detect cancer. What a talent.
After pancakes and another fly-by doctor's appointment, Ph and I went to Dr. S's office. I no longer want to go alone to hear scan results. And . . drumroll: the results this time are good overall. My cancer spots are still there, but they have shrunken, again. I had to be talked down from this good news. Before Dr S came in, the nurse whose name is also a wine region (Nc) gave Ph and me copies of the PET scan report. Ph sat and read; I paced, in my hospital gown, reading, underlining, circling, freaking out as I read: "there is however a small lymph node noted . . with increased activity . . the largest and most active lymph node in the left periaortic region . . . slightly larger than the scan of February 2013 . . .continued close follow-up . . reassess with abdominal CT scan . . ." My heart was pounding. When Dr S came in, I said, "so, my cancer has spread to my abdomen, near my aorta??" "No, no. There is activity in your abdomen, enlarged lymph nodes. Abdomens have lots of activity. It could be many things . . . " . "So, I need to have a biopsy of my abdomen?". "No, no, it's just something to watch. You've got to keep perspective. This stuff can be crazymaking."
Tell me about it.
So, more chemo, said Dr. S. We want to get rid of those spots. We are hoping for complete remission. We don't know how many. Let's start with scheduling two. Ok. I walked back to the very familiar chemo room; said hi to the nurses; picked one of my usual chairs, and started right away. Why wait?
Ph left to do some work. That's OK, I'm fine. I'm used to this. I don't need company. After two hours of IVs dripping the same cancer-killing drugs into my veins, I was ready to go home, but had no car or ride. I decided to look for a taxi--flagged one, and got in, simultaneously flipping the lid off of my Starbucks latte, which spilled all over the taxi, my beautiful new J. crew purse, my clothes, my hair, even into my eyes, stinging. I burst into tears as I apologized to the driver & tried to wipe up the coffee with a napkin. I'm sure he thought I was crazy. "This stuff is crazymaking." On the short ride home, all I could think about was the sign, apparently in all Chicago cabs: "Cleaning up vomit: $50."
I got home, again happy to not be in Chicago, and gave the annoyed dtiver a huge tip.
So, there's more, much more--expert advice, possible clinical trials, doctors in NC, NY and Seattle, lymphedema status, yoga, meds and vitamins, shopping at J. Crew (many friends are incredulous that I've barely written about shopping!), reading, movies, music, how to approach life when you don't know what it will be like in 6 months, a year, five years. [I know, I know, none of us do . . . but I will explain . . ] But I'm tired of writing and you must be tired of reading.
And I have to pack. Because before all of that serious stuff, I just may write about . . GIRLS' BEACH WEEKEND!! Stay tuned.
Yours in crazymaking,
Cdiva
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