So, the results of my scan at the end of the chemo treatments showed only a partial response. Spots that were there before treatment started had gotten smaller, but a new growth appeared somewhere else. Small, contained to a single node. but new. in the back of my mind, I must have known that the spots wouldn't be completely gone, given that the tumor marker numbers had plateaued after about half the treatments.
But i hadn't let myself consider the possibility that there'd be new growth because, well, thinking about that was seriously unpleasant.
Something about the words "new growth" felt like another door slamming shut. Or a another wall closing in. Choose your metaphor. Now the possibility of me getting to remission is pretty unlikely -- not impossible!-- but not likely.
This could be the beginning of the descent into... well, my death. Or things could on like this for a few years, treatment after treatment, just trying to keep things stable. Now we play whack-a-mole with the cancer, throw everything i can tolerate at it, until it overtakes me or until my body gives out, whichever comes first.
Suddenly it all seems more real: I don't have a ton of time left. I don't know why it seems "more real"; it's been pretty fucking real for the last 2 years. But it does. Suddenly it feels like I better start getting my affairs in order, even though when I pointedly asked my oncologist, should I get my affairs in order, she was like, NO NO, we're not there yet.
My brain focused on the tiny horror of the "yet" hanging there at the end of her reply. Yet. As in, we WILL be there at some point. i cannot tell you when but I can tell you it's certain. And i mean, okay, it's certain for everyone, right? But with cancer it's closer, it's sitting in an unmarked car across the street, casing your house for the best time to break in. If that image seems dramatic, it's meant to. It feels like this every day.
i spent the day after receiving the news literally under a blanket on my couch. i knew that wouldn't be possible for days on end, but for one day, yeah ok. i wallowed, i self-pitied, i decided i'd cancel Christmas and Hanukkah in my house. i asked the stupid world what it fucking wanted from me, hadn't i tried to be a good person, hadn't my family been through enough? etc. etc. all the unanswerable things. Then i ordered a mushroom pizza for dinner, ate peppermint stick ice cream for dessert, and went to bed.
And i woke up today, and kept going. because honestly, the other option is not to, and despite my best efforts at wallowing, i guess i'm not there yet.
Oh, Andi, this is so awful. I'm so sorry. It's shocking (but not surprising, knowing you) that you can write so well about this experience. I hope it's possible to get small periods of distraction...I know when my grandma was in treatment for ovarian cancer when she was in her early 60s, and her diagnosis was grim (she made a full recovery and died at the age of 90), she watched a *lot* of funny movies and TV shows and it helped her get through the day, but I don't know if that works for everyone, and you didn't ask for advice, so ignore me if I'm out of line there. You *are* a good person, we hate it that this is happening to you, and we're sending our best thoughts your way.
ReplyDeleteI got to know Stace's grandmother pretty well over the last couple decades. Before I married Stace, she and her husband would drive from Illinois to the hospital at the University of Iowa for her treatments, and she told me once that things weren't going well at first and she was nearly ready to stop the treatments when she started going into remission. I'm grateful that she kept at it and I got to know her. She was an amazing person, much like Stace, people often say. Anyway, I'm sure you've heard many stories like this. There are obviously many out there. I hope that your oncologist meant, with her use of "yet," that yours may very well be one of them.
ReplyDeletePS Andi, I don't know why Gill's comment showed up under my name :)
Deletei love you both so much. thank you!
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