Cancer camp

 This week I am up north at Cancer Camp, which is a misnomer, as it's actually a lovely retreat for people with ovarian cancer. Started by two lovely women a decade ago, it's a 4-night stay at a "fancy camp" in Maine, with the purpose of providing recreation and pampering for women dealing with or have dealt with the disease. 

I hemmed and hawed when someone in my support group suggested it. Mostly out of social awkwardness, I guess, having never really been that good in groups, and requiring hoards of alone time. But also DELTA. Everyone there would vaccinated and have had a negative COVID test within the last 72 hours, but still I was hedging. 

At my friend's urging, I applied, figuring I could always elect not to go at any point. I need lots of alone time, it's true, but also, cancer of any kind -- or any disease or chronic illness, really, comes with a very specific kind of isolated feeling. Even with the most amazing support group around you, it is, as they say, hard to understand the specifics unless you've walked in the specific shoes. 

So the part of me that craves understanding on that level kind of wanted to go. Also, wanting to see a landscape other than the sleepy suburban town I live in, where my whole life happens in like a 5-mile radius. Then I read some line in the acceptance letter describing the experience in detail and I had to read no farther than the line "being sung to sleep by lake loons" when I knew I'd probably go. 

Yesterday I drove up here, 3 and 1/2 hours on a sunny day with the perfect playlist and a hopeful mindset, if not a bit of unease because DELTA. Each woman would have a roommate and share a bathroom. Could I sleep with my mask on maybe? 

Anyway it's beautiful here as you might imagine. "Fancy camp" in my mind is a camp where the very wealthy send their children every summer. Every water sport imaginable is available, as are land sports, all the meals are carefully prepared with attention to both allergies and deliciousness. Little houses instead of tents or rustic cabins. Wifi.  

For this retreat, everyone (almost) is housed in a main building overlooking the lake, with giant porches, screened in and not, and hoards of Adirondack chairs to enjoy it in. I am sadly in the annex on a hill behind the main building. It is quieter when sleeping, but lacks the luscious lake view and sound of the loons. I can't pretend I'm not bummed, but everything else is so lovely, I just can't complain in earnest.

Every day we wake to a gift outside our doors, small sweet things like colored pencils or handmade cards, and a gift hung on the porch clothesline. We are encouraged to sign up for the free facials, massages, reflexology sessions, art, and yoga classes. To take out the kayaks, swim, forest-bathe or whatever that term is... a more mindful nature walk? But you get the drift. 

So I'm writing to you from said Adirondack chair on said deck, watching a rainstorm come in and fall through the tall pine trees. Blissful. And yet (why there is almost always a "and yet" with me I may never know), I am finding it hard to work my way into the small circles of other women talking about their family lives and treatments and such. Listen, I'm trying!! Small talk is not my forté by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm trying. 

Most of these women, I'm discovering, live in my home state and wouldn't it be great to leave this place with a few emails or phone numbers of people who really understand this cancery stuff? Alas, my social awkwardness is making it difficult at the moment. I mean okay, it's only the first full day and everyone is nice enough and approachable, but still. It's hard for me to reach out for some reason. 

And nice as it is, it's also a bit weird. There's no escaping the subject that gathers us. And when you sit in a circle of 25 or so people and hear their stories, it's hard not to want to carry a small part of each of them. That's what support is, right? And hard not to compare, as different as each story is. 

No apologies for being a solitude queen, amirite? Maybe it just takes a while to get the hang of retreat-ing, not trying so hard. I'll report back after my facial. 😀

Stable talk

So this was my scan result: stable. Is stable good? Stable is always a silver-medal result to me, at least concerning cancer. Like, it's good it's really good, and it definitely isn't bad, but let's not pretend we weren't hoping for gold. 

I suppose because the first scan was so very unexpectedly positive, I couldn't help but want that to keep going, to smash records (even tho there are only 85 trial patients), to be the earliest positive responding patient ever! But also, I would have been okay with even a small improvement. 

The deal is that we can't know what any of it means because I didn't get the full dose of the second drug during this last cycle. It could mean that it's the combination of the 2 drugs that really delivers the punch. It could be that the second drug is the only drug that works. And of course, it could mean that after a spectacular entrance, none of the drugs are working. 

It also means the NEXT scan (after cycle #3) will be even MORE nerve-wracking, hooray! But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

In cancer, stable is always good. Nothing has changed. You may go on with your little life until the next scan, knowing that The Evilness isn't running rampant through your body. Isn't remission better, tho? Of course it's better! But I think sometimes there's so much pressure to get there, it's easy to forget that stable is still ok. Stable can go on for years. 

What I'm working on now (in addition to freelance and organizing my tremendous buzzkill of a book of cancery poems), is not automatically defaulting into the worst-case scenario in my head. I come from a long line of worst-case-scenario thinkers, so this isn't easy. But it does seem necessary. 

So, in an attempt to reframe, here is a small list of good things from this week. Please know that while writing each good thing, my brain was holding back writing an equally not-so-good thing. My brain was a proverbial dam. 55 years of default negativity is not going to change overnight, right? 

Here's where I begin:

1. The scan result was "stable." Status quo. Nothing monstrous is on the move. I am holding steady. Maintaining equilibrium, etc.

2. With the help of my good friends Benadryl and Ativan I was totally able to tolerate Investigative Drug AGEN1181, the one that previously gave me that allergic reaction. I was also able to sleep for an entire day and drink gallons of water to rehydrate. 

3. From a side effects standpoint, I feel physically really good. Why, I'm ready to start my pressure-washing project on the back patio this afternoon. Win!