Welcome to July. Let's get up to date: what showed up on the second scan was 3 tiny spots near (not ON) the intestines. The largest of the 3 is 1.6 cm, so... yes, things are pretty small, things are not in my brain or somewhere hard to get to. I'll give you that cancer, you have permanently changed my gratefulness meter.
But now that something has officially shown up on a scan, it's time for Chemo Experience, part 2. I'll get one of the same drugs as last time (Carboplatin, because platinum drugs are ovarian cancer cells' worst nightmare) and one different one called Doxil. Last year the other drug was Taxol, which you may already know as the "one that makes you lose your hair. Like, all your hair."
Doxil is explained as milder in terms of side effects (not that I'm necessarily looking forward to hand and foot blisters, mouth sores, and extra nausea). It is supposedly easier on the immune system (taxol wipes you out something fierce) so in theory, I will not be so dog-tired. Also, my hair will not fall out, which is a vain kind of relief. (But seriously, the hair loss thing is huge, vain or not, unless you're a man because then baldness is NBD. But that's another rant).
So I'll be getting this poison (no, wait, "healing energy") cocktail, once a month for 6 months, starting tomorrow. Not that the husband and I had planned any big excursions anywhere this year (I'm looking at you, COVID), but even without the virus, we just haven't had the fucking time to fucking plan fucking anything (I'm looking at you, universe).
Ok, I've gotten that out of my system for a few minutes. Maybe the hardest revelation for me during this whole shitshow of the last 16 months is the one where there is no finish line. When you first get diagnosed, it's all so overwhelming, so one thing people do is steel themselves for what's ahead, buckle in, hold on tight, etc. in order to march through the chemo, the surgery (or surgeries). Face forward, barrel through, onto the other side. Like that famous Winston Churchill quote, "when you're going through hell, keep going." And that can work.
If you are lucky enough to experience remission at all (some people do not), and if enough time without the cancer goes by, you can start bit by bit to reclaim some of what used to be your other life. It'll never be the same of course... but little by little, you get your energy back, you start to work again, move forward, participate in the world not as a patient but as someone who has been through something arduous, and emerged victorious. Finish line! Woot! You start to feel like maybe it's going to be okay, that you can make the arduous something a memory.
When cancer comes back you realize that the finish line is a myth. Cancer doesn't work that way. I could be fine for years, then have a quick and severe relapse and die suddenly. i could go on and on for years, in and out of treatment, until my body slowly becomes resistant to all the drugs thrown its way, and the cancer finally takes ownership. i could also go on for years and years and be okay, like that one story about your co-worker's friend's aunt's sister-in-law's daughter. that is the way this thing works.
And even if cancer never actually comes back, the possibility of its return takes up some serious brain space for a good long time if not forever. People push it away, say they've "beaten" it (cancer fucked with the WRONG bitch is one such t-shirt phrase i've seen), but the thought of its return, even if very tiny and relegated to a corner, is ever-present.
Does that mean you give up trying to stay alive? no. but you give up the notion that there's any kind of "winning" (for lack of a better word) to be had. you may survive it, outlive the statistics which are based on very old data for the most part, anyway, but always you know that living can be taken from you at any moment. Isn't that true for everyone, taffythief? Yes, yes it is. But the chances of it happening to a person with cancer, or a person who had cancer, are significantly higher.
Don't tell me, well I could walk out my door and get hit by a bus as a way to make me feel better or more included in regular life. technically yes you could. But your odds are significantly less, and you should acknowledge that before speaking. (oops, hit a nerve there).
On my drive to the infusion center tomorrow, I will pass this old-looking church, denomination undetermined, who has had this sign up on their front lawn since March: be not afraid. so I'll go with that for as long as I can.
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