Tag Archives: breast cancer

New Year, New Me

breast cancer conscript

As I approach the anniversary of my three-year median survival rate, I realize I still have a lot I’d like to accomplish.

I’m rather goal oriented. I’ve spent the last week writing out my resolutions, filling in with action plans, reaching out to accountability partners and putting together an overall strategy for success.

My overriding theme is this: How do you accomplish big, hairy, audacious goals while juggling the interruptions of a chronic disease?

I started toying with this idea while battling cellulitis this past fall. I’d been humming along with blog posts and sticking to an editorial calendar when some rogue bacteria slammed me to the ground. All work ground to a halt as I tended to fevers and daily trips to a distant doctor for IV antibiotics.

When I finally overcame the illness I was stuck for a way to get my work life back on track. I know this isn’t unique. One of my mentors lost her job in October and spent the fall and early winter in a frantic search for a new one (which turned out to be a plum assignment at the New York Times).  But for those of us with chronic illness, those life bumps are a constant.

Already I’m resigned that at some point this year my treatment will change. My tumor markers are starting to creep up again even though CT scan results from a few weeks ago show no progression. Still, each CT scan is a game of Russian roulette. The barrel may be empty this time, but one of them has a bullet in it. One of them will be treatment altering and with it a new round of  time-consuming tests, procedures and new side effects to get used to.

On top of the fits and starts of chronic disease, I have the frustration of believing I deserve better outcomes for all the limbs I’ve climbed out on. I deserve success. I knew I was starting to get better this fall when my frustration turned to anger. And anger makes me want to do something different, make a change.

So I compiled a mini-MPA  program- Masters of Philosophical Arts. Thanks to Coursera, a Web site that offers free college courses, I took classes on Resilience, Success, Becoming a Changemaker and Digital Storytelling. They were intriguing and helped me fill in the potholes that keeping me from moving forward on the road to success.

Now I’ve developed a cheat sheet of tools, questions, exercises I can do to refocus my thoughts, chase away the anxiety, regroup and reset. It’s a different approach, one that hopefully leads to different outcomes.

Because this year I do have big, hairy, audacious goals. I plan to finally finish and publish that novel I keep talking about and move on to writing a new one. I plan to launch a podcast, interviewing authors who will be appearing at local bookstores.  I intend to launch a new toy on Amazon. And once I learn how to do that, I intend to launch even more products.

I intend to run a half-marathon with my husband, my sisters and their husbands. And in the summer, there will be triathlons – emphasis on the word “try.”

I intend to become an expert at a few things this year. One is options trading, an adventure that my husband and I have both embarked on learning.  The other is digital marketing.

I intend to be grateful for the things I have, including good health and a stable disease. Statistically, my lifespan is only a matter of months and I have watched sister warriors fight shorter battles and lose.

Most of all, I intend to stay healthy despite what this disease and its side effects may throw at me. Because I still have a lot to do.



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Uncertainty Casts Grotesque Shadows

uncertainty-casts-grotesque-shadowsCancer has declared a stand-off. Not moving forward, not moving backward.
In some ways, this is the worst possible news. Had my numbers gone up, I’d be making appointments for scans, plotting my next move to enter a clinical trial.
Had my numbers gone down, I’d relax and coast. Get back to writing my novel and creating a new normal, instead of haunting medical research sites and online drug dictionaries.
Instead, my numbers stayed the same, holding me hostage in uncertainty. Rubbing my nose in my vulnerability.

When you’re feeling vulnerable, there are two roads you can take: Victimized Avenue or Pioneer Boulevard. Early on, I chose the Boulevard. But I have to admit, sometimes the Avenue appears like a shortcut, and I can’t help turning down it.

Yesterday I presented my clinical trials chart to my oncologist. He seemed impressed with the work I’d put into it. His practice is in the process of aligning with MD Anderson and will soon be offering that cancer research institution’s clinical trials. Four of my top five choices are MD Anderson trials.

My chart is in an Excel spreadsheet which can be hard to read on paper. So while I handed a copy to him, I also told him I’d email him a version. It would be easier to read and more importantly, easier to locate for a phone call he said he had with MD Anderson folks the next day. I grabbed a business card from his desk while he nodded earnestly.

When I got home, I went to email him the info, but his card didn’t have his email address. So I called his office. The receptionist told me she’s not allowed to give doctors’ email addresses out.  Her name is Anita. I’ve renamed her We Need A – as in we need a lot more like her. She mentioned that I could go online and find it.  I thanked her for the suggestion.

His email address isn’t online, but it wouldn’t take a third grader more than a blink to decode it based on the email addresses I could find. Within a few moments, I’d emailed him the chart.

But then I started to wander down the Avenue. Why hadn’t he told me about the email Cone of Silence? Why hadn’t he just been honest and either given it to me or offered me another solution? Was he just blowing smoke about the whole thing? Did he even have a phone call about clinical trials set up?!? Or the moment I left, did he just throw my chart in the trash and move on to the next patient? Most of all, mired in my vulnerability, I began to wonder, can I trust my quarterback to have my back?

Uncertainty casts grotesque shadows and the Avenue looks like a straight, well-paved road, before it veers off into ruts and potholes.  This part of the journey seems unbearable. My mind monkeys have taken the steering wheel while I dive in the back seat to subdue my nausea that’s intensified by the taste and stench of chemicals exuding from me, the result of drugs I’ve just been infused with. Drugs that may or may not be working and demand a lot from me in the meantime. Mind monkeys are poor drivers. It’s a wonder I ever give them the wheel. In my weakness, though, the offer of letting someone else drive is too tempting. I can’t resist. I hold my stomach as they careen over every bump and hole along the Avenue – and this far in, there are plenty. I pray we get back on the Boulevard soon, even though, at the moment, I’m not feeling much the pioneer.

This morning, I got an email reply from my doctor. A short thank you sent from his cell phone letting me know he’d received my info. It’s enough to make me park the car and wait until I’m feeling better to take back the steering wheel as we both head out onto the Boulevard.

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Compiling My Clinical Trial Playbook

I’m standing under the street light on the corner of Win and Win. I’m sure it casts a shadow behind me, but today I choose to look into the swath of light that shines ahead of me.
I got a call back from Serena who heads one of the clinical trials I’m interested in. Serena was easy-going and fun. It turns she’d transposed numbers from my first call – or I’d gone too fast – which is why she hadn’t responded quickly. She called right back after my second message.
Yes, the trial is open. Yes, I’ll qualify if the drugs I’m on aren’t working.  Yes, because it’s a clinical trial, it’s completely paid for. Yes, it’s as I understood it. They’ll biopsy my tumor, send it to a lab at MD Anderson in Texas to test if for more than 400 mutations (think: doors and windows the cancer cell has on it for the drugs to get into). If the tumor tests positive for any of them, then they have 24 different drugs to throw at it (I wouldn’t be on all 24, just the ones that will “unlock” the door or window they find for my T-cells to get in there and do their job to kill the cancer).
My next step, said Serena, is a CT scan to see what effect the drugs I’m on have had on the tumor. More importantly, it gives the trial folks a starting place where they can measure it and compare it so they know if their drugs are working.
She follows up by emailing me something called an Informed Consent, which I learned at the conference every trial must offer after you speak with them. It tells you in plain English what the trial is about, what’s expected of me, what’s expected of them. It tells me things like they’ll pay for the treatment and in exchange, everything I undergo as part of it, I have to do through their medical team, that I have to let them know right away about side effects so they can respond, that I can jump out of it at any time and that I can always go back to standard treatment (think FDA approved drugs) if I choose and that even though we’ve had this phone call and I have this form, it doesn’t mean we’re moving forward just yet. The consent form is several pages long, but easy to read and understand and I feel much better about the whole thing having it. Somehow it makes me feel like I’m moving forward.
In the meantime, I am putting together a chart in Excel listing all 20 of the trials I am eligible for (I’ve found a half dozen more since the conference). I’m ranking them in the order of most appealing to least. It’s time consuming because the description of each trial is mind-boggling. I have to look up each drug they’re testing to see what it does, what it targets (is it my immune system or the cancer cell? What will it do to it? What side effects might I have because of it?)
Gratefully the National Cancer Institute has an online dictionary that I can plug each drug name or number into. It takes a bit of fiddling, but I don’t give up until I understand it. Then I write a sentence synopsis in my chart about the drug and what it will do. In another column I list where the trial is being held, in another column who is sponsoring it (is it a drug company? A research company? A hospital?). I don’t know if this is important, but it might be a factor worth weighing in on later, so I add it. I have a column for next steps (like the scan or another biopsy or a blood draw or a mouth swab). It’s amazing the different ways they can retrieve cancer cells from the body. I have a column for the type of study – whether it’s a Phase 1, 2 or 3 or just a research trial. Phase 1 trials are searching for tolerable doses of the drug. Phase 2 looks to see how effective the drug is. Phase 3 hones it down even further. Many drugs today are so effective that they’re receiving FDA approval during Phase 2.  Still, as a patient, it’s important to know what I’m signing on for. Phase 1 studies are bigger and will take in more patients, but as they’re looking for tolerable dosages, there’s a good likelihood there will be side effects. That’s usually the trigger point when researchers say “OK, enough. We’ve found the right dosage.” This is a conversation we’ll elaborate on once I’ve been accepted into the study, so I’m only concerned about it now as a way to narrow my choice on the best trial for me.

I’m looking at this chart as my new playbook. Here’s where we’re going if the drugs I’m on aren’t working or once they stop working (and they’re virtually guaranteed at some point to stop working). This feels empowering to me, like I’ve thrown in the Hail Mary pass for a running game.

I’ll see my doctor again in two weeks, where I’ll hand him our new playbook. The way I see it now, he’ll either tell me my numbers are dropping which means the drugs I’m on are starting to work and I can coast for a while, get back to my life. Get back to managing cancer rather than it managing me. That’s a win.

Or he’ll tell my my numbers are still rising, which means the cancer cells are changing quickly to adapt so the drug doesn’t kill them. Fast-changing cells are perfect targets for clinical trials and the drugs they’re testing. So it will be another win.

Which is how I’ve come to be standing under the street light on the corner of Win and Win, changing my outlook so I’m no longer focusing on the shadows being cast behind me, but the brightness that’s in front of me. For now, it’s a great place to be.


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Fourth and goal and in need of a win

cancer goalsIt’s early September, the beginning of the final quarter of the year, and I’m looking at where I am in accomplishing my goals.

This year’s goals were pretty much the same as last year’s: Finish my novel. Finish renovations on our 1860s home.  Complete a few side projects like faux graining a cabinet or putting a quilt applique on some threadbare bedding. I admit, I know nothing about the last two, which means there’s a learning curve involved that’s slowing me down. Truth is, there’s a learning curve to all of this.

My inbox is filled with advice, templates to download, steps to take to move me forward. Everyday I take time to read those emails or fill out the forms, put a plan together. For a week or two I even put the time into acquiring the habits I need – whether it’s blogging or spending a half hour writing 500 words in my novel or making dinner at home every night for a week with fresh vegetables from my garden. Then I’m all high-fiving myself over finally getting through the mire and moving on with my life.

Until…I get to my monthly oncologist’s appointment. And then, my life gets derailed. January was “Let’s look under the hood.” February was scans, March results, April why don’t we try something new, May was getting health insurance approval, June dawned a day of promise as my number shot down, pain shot up with the new drug. July was managing side effects and trying a lower dosage, August was the reality that July’s strategy didn’t work so we’re back up to a higher dosage and looking for new alternatives, like clinical trials.  And here I am in September wondering where the year went and why I haven’t accomplished anything.

To be fair, I have accomplished some things. I did run a half-marathon with neighbors who became better friends in April. I did a triathlon in June and several 5K runs with a new group of friends.

Another good friend reminds me that I’ve continued to work on my novel, interviewed several famous people for stories I got paid to write, kept up with friends, have launched a campaign to run for borough council, researched cancer treatments and signed up for a conference to educate myself about clinical trials. I’ve mentored kids who live on my street. Volunteered to help judge a baking contest so I could write about it in my novel. I’m taking an online college course on doping, as the issue is a prominent theme in my book.

Still, I have a pile of magazines beside my bed that I can’t seem to get to read. And while I’ve had a lot of great lunches with friends who have helped me craft a plan or make a connection to move me closer to my goals, I still don’t feel like I’m making any progress.

So as I sit down to figure out how I’m going to accomplish in the remaining three months of the year what I couldn’t seem to do in the past nine months, I also ask myself how do I live alongside this disease and stop it from running my life as I’ve let it? How do I send it to the corner for a timeout so peace can reign in my classroom for the remainder of this period? And when will I be done with this lesson so I can move on?


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Hope, the Ship We Sail Upon

breast cancer hope Hope. That’s really what this blog is meant to be about. I think sometimes I forget that as I struggle day-to-day with the newness of recurrence and how I am trying to fit it into my life.
Hope is the raft that promises that there’s a shoreline awaiting me after cancer has torn my boat to splinters. It fuels the belief that I will live into my 90s despite the threat of this disease. And that I will be active and healthy until my last day.
Hope drives my optimism that something like a cure lies around the next bend. It may not relieve me of this condition, but it will allow me to live with it.
Hope is what allows me to smile, even when I smell like a refinery from the chemicals injected into my body to defeat those pernicious cells and everything tastes like metal.
Hope allows me to make plans – like running for town council or writing a novel or finishing renovations on our historic home.
Hope reminds me to enjoy the sunshine and focus on the things going right in my life – like making a living as a writer in a small, river town with neighbors who are supportive and friendly, the golden threads woven intricately into the fabric of my life.
Hope has drinks with me at outdoor patios with my family and friends as the sun sets on the river on a Friday night, when I speak giddily about the people I’ve talked to that week, whose story I’m grateful to have been able to tell.
Hope is that quiet voice on the bad days that says “you’ll get through this. You will prevail, no matter what.”
Hope is the belly laugh I have with good friends about days gone by, that at the time seemed dangerous and dark and now, looking back, seem hysterical.
Hope are the neighborhood children who knock on my door wanting to go for a walk with me and my dogs, to make a fire and go for ice cream, reminding me that life is too short not to stop, take time out and enjoy it.
In then end, these forces remain: faith, hope and love. The greatest may be love, but hope is the ship that we sail upon and faith is the wind that fills her sails.

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Another Call of Duty

cancer call of duty

I’ve spent the day writing apology emails to the people I blew off this week after being called up for active duty as a Breast Cancer Conscript. While I expect to battle this disease for a very long time, learning to manage it is another matter entirely.

The battle requires aggressive medicine that’s guarranteed to stop working at some point, which means moving to another aggressive medicine with its numerous side effects that seem to play out differently in my body than those who have gone before me.

As a Breast Cancer Conscript, I patrol cancer’s parameter under mostly peaceful circumstances until I come under fire. The higher ups (that would be my doctors) move in new artillery (that would be the new drugs), allowing better targeting of the enemy. But getting used to using it is a bit like a sniper who ends up battered and bruised from the recoil of the high-powered rifles he’s using until he gets used to the way it fires.

That’s been me this week, as I juggle my non-cancer life (and believe me, I do have one) with my cancer tour of duty.

In my non-cancer life, I am a freelance writer, which suits me well, both because I enjoy the vocation and because I can adjust my schedule when I need the downtime to acclimate to new meds and their side effects or for a day’s worth of scan’s or tests to see if they’re working. My current goal is to shift from selling the stories I write to becoming a published author, so that instead of getting paid one time for my work, I can generate residual income. That’s not a lesson of cancer, but of the financially successful. It’s just that cancer makes it all that much more necessary.

I’m no longer a new recruit to this war, but I am new to the warfare tactics. So when I started having side effects from the Ibrance – namely bone pain – I shrugged it off and decided to just grin and bare it. When it got intense, I went out and exercised, which kicked up enough endorphins to make the pain unbearable.

With normal pain from aging or overuse, your mind wraps around it and can tune it out, so the intensity fades and you can get on with your day. Or you know or have learned how to manage it with an ice pack, laying off of it for a while or downing a pain reliever like an aspirin or Ibuprofen.

With cancer medication side effects, it’s a whole new world. Sometimes the pain will disappear after a few minutes. Then, it will crop up in another body part, from say the leg to the arm or shoulder, a sort of Whack-A-Mole of pain surges. Sometimes it will be a dull ache, other times an intense burning. Sometimes something as simple as an allergy relief tablet such as Claritin will take it away. Other times, even doses of a high-strength painkiller like Oxycodone don’t work.

And there’s no rhyme or reason to it. I can go a day or two with no pain, then suddenly a flare up, which can bring on nausea and irritability. I’m amazed at how pain affects my moods.

My doctor has been sympathetic and liberal when it comes to offering drugs to counter the pain. The problem is, those drugs are addicting. In my age group the leading cause of death isn’t cancer, but overdose from opiods or suicide because of dependency. A few in my circle have suggested medical marijuana, which can alleviate pain, nausea, act as a mood booster – and most promising – is a possible cancer killer. Of course, our puritanical medical and political establishments frown on this. I have yet to have the conversation with my doctor. For now, he’s agreed to lower the dosage of the Ibrance. We both agree it’s too effective – bringing down my tumor marker numbers quickly, but obviously doing damage to the healthier parts of my body.

Yes, there are many promising drugs out there that give me hope for a long, healthy life. But I’m learning they all come with a price tag, each one heftier than the last. And while I win the battles, it’s still a long, draining war.




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You Can’t Go Home Again

The Me I New

           THE ME I ONCE WAS

As hard as I try, I can’t go back to who I was. There’s nothing like a bad haircut to remind me of that.

I’ve had short hair since chemo ended, now four years ago. My body rebelled after being doused for months in that chemical wash. My nails and hair particularly made their dissatisfaction known, splitting and breaking and refusing to grow. I tried nail hardener and special shampoos, but the only thing that helped was time. My nails at least have started to grow again and have stopped splitting. My hair, though, remains fine and limp and every so often I panic, sure I have a bald spot. It’s no longer the lush locks I had.

I gave up bangs I’d worn since kindergarten for a side-swept pixie cut when my hair finally started to grow back after chemo.  It looked cute and was a departure from the curly, salt and pepper mane that replaced the long, golden hair I’d lost.

Over time, I let it grow in a bit thicker, going for the Robin Wright look in House of Cards. It suited me, even though I never quite felt I recognized the woman looking back from the mirror.

For the first half of this year, I let my hair grow.  I found a haircut that looked something like my old look, albeit a shorter version. And it had the bangs I’d forsaken. I was sure it would be the perfect cut for growing it long again.


         THE ME I THOUGHT                        I COULD BECOME

So today, I went to my hair stylist – who rescued my wigs from over-washing-frizz-out as I cried and talked me in off the ledge of vulnerability during my baldness – and showed her the picture of the new look I wanted.  She sized it up, told me I’d need to go a bit shorter in the back, but agreed it could be done.

Except it couldn’t. My bangs no longer sit right on my forehead and the shag layers are flat, making my hair look more like a helmet than tresses. I came home, threw water on it and parted it back on the side, giving it the pixie look I started with four years ago.

Back then, it made me happy. Today, it makes me feel stuck, like the movie Groundhog Day. Every time I think I’m ready to move forward, life takes me back to where I was to start all over again. Whether it’s a cancer recurrence or a starting a new drug treatment or a bad haircut. It’s like a merry-go-round I can’t get off of and there’s no brass ring to grab.

So here I am, back to being a woman I don’t recognize, but no longer having a meltdown over it. Sometimes you walk through a time warp and there’s just no going back. I’m living in such a time.




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Ibrance Romance

clinking glass


An oversized brown box arrives on the front porch. Inside is a plastic bag. Inside that, is a small bottle, maybe three inches big. Inside that are 21 Ibrance capsules which will take me through the next month of this leg of my cancer treatment.

The bottle of pills cost $10,000 a month, so I imagine it doesn’t seem indulgent to the specialty pharmacy to send it out overnight in this oversized package. The plastic, resealable bag is thick. I can think of a million reusable ideas for it if it didn’t contain the ominous skull and cross bones and a warning that reads: Dangerous. Toxic. Chemotherapy drugs. Do not handle.

I wonder what my trash men will think of me. And I realize I now live in a toxic world, one where I can no longer recycle or repurpose. One where there’s no turning back.

According to my first pathology report five years ago, my cancer cell was an estrogen-hungry fool, making her easy to decimate. I agreed to an aggressive IV chemotherapy treatment that shrunk my tumors to mere slivers, and the surgery and radiation that followed erradicated them entirely. I endured baldness, bone pain, nausea and weakness that I thought I’d never recover from.  For my efforts, my doctors were sure I was cured, free of the pernicious cells.


But it turned out, one survived. My onocologist would later explain that tumors are like jars of pebbles and the first pathology report told of a larger rock in the jar. What was left was a grain-like piece of sand. This cell didn’t eat much estrogen. She was very slow growing. I called her my Crack Whore cell, because it was amazing she existed, let alone thrived in the Country club setting that’s my body. My Muffy and Buffy cells were outraged that she’d gained admittance. They want her banished.

I agreed, of course. And so we sought to oust her with a combination of drugs. One, called Xgeva, fortified my bones, which is where she took residence, relegating her to a cardboard bed existence outside a barred –bone entrance. The other, called Faslodex, filed the edges off the estrogen the Crack Whore feeds off of so she couldn’t grasp them when they floated by her. The third, called Arimidex, leeched the estrogen out of my body, in an effort to starve the Crack Whore completely.


In the beginning, the new hostile environment worked. The Crack Whore stopped having babies and Muffy and Buffy filled in with their own children.

Then after about six months, the Crack Whore realized she didn’t need as much food, didn’t mind the cardboard bed and started pimping herself out again. Judging by the CT scans I had last month, she hasn’t given birth, but she’s likely pregnant along with her other Crack Whore offspring.

So last month, I started  a new approach. Nix the estrogen leeching drug and replace it with the Ibrance, a drug that blocks proteins the cancer cell needs to replicate. A Crack Whore cell tubal ligation of sorts.


I call it the Ibrance Romance. When I started taking the drug, it seemed so much better than anything else I’d been on. I was in love. Three weeks into it I crossed the matrimonial threshold and suddenly thought  to myself “What have I gotten myself into?”  Now I wonder if I can endure living with it the rest of my life or if I’ll scratch its eyes out.

While my doctor told me I shouldn’t experience any side effects from the Ibrance, he explained that the drug suppresses my bone marrow – that’s the place where red and white blood cells are made – so I will likely see my blood counts go down. I need to go in for tests to be sure they don’t go too low, in which case I’ll need to take a break from the drug or go off it completely. For that reason, I can only be on the drug for three weeks at a time, with a week off to give my body time to replenish the damaged bone marrow.

It’s a bit like going into Muffy and Buffy’s den and messing with their Netflix streaming. But knowing that Muffy and Buffy are the Country Club set, I kept them preoccupied with activities. I make lots of dates with friends – many who are in the same boat – to run, bike, swim, walk. Keep our endorphins up, the dopamine pumping, the serotonin flowing. For Muffy and Buffy, it’s a cocktail party and they didn’t miss NetFlix.


Then came the hangover. Searing pain in my bones that were rebuilding themselves, from a restless aching in my toes up through my long, leg bones to a burning in my rib cage and pounding in my head like I’d been hit with a baseball bat. I took a pain reliever, which didn’t much help.

I decided to respond to pain with pain, longer runs that inflame my hip flexors, cancelling out the bone pain, which works until I have to go to sleep.  And then, even that stops working.

The pain is so great, I call my doctor for an answer, something stronger to relieve the pain. And while I wait for him to return my call, I begin to cry. I cry because it hurts. I cry because I know I now live in a toxic world where I can’t recycle or repurpose and there’s no going back. I cry because my body has to work so hard to heal itself and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I cry because I know this is the tip of the iceberg, that I’m in the rabbit hole and down is the only way I can go.

I cry until I hear a knock at the door. I wipe my eyes, as I hear giggling and clinking glasses on the other side. It’s Muffy and Buffy.

“Cocktails anyone?” I hear them yell on the other side.

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The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Interval healing. That’s what my scans revealed.

I’m still trying to figure out what it is or maybe where it is. Somewhere between not where I want to be and not where I’ve been. Yet heading in the right direction.

It’s still a place of uncertainty, although  I realize, no matter where I go any longer, uncertainty is a certainty.

My doctor and my body are like my childhood Magic 8 Ball these days in their cryptic analysis: Outlook cloudy, try again later.

What did I want my scans to reveal? What would make me happy? Something definitive. Something numeric. An upward number or a downward number. Scans, though, are read by radiologists who write about what they see and then their “impression.” Somehow impression doesn’t sound definitive. It sounds very Magic 8 Ball.

My doctor looks worried (although a nurse reminds me he always looks worried, so you can’t go by that). I ask him what it means. He shuffles papers, pulls out a few snippets from the radiologist’s report, then hands it to me. I realize he hasn’t really read it. That’s why he’s worried. He’s a student caught without having done his homework.

I take the report and start reading my own snippets. “Healing response.” “Interval healing.”

“This sounds good, right?” I say.

He looks at his computer, then at me. “Well, yes,” he says. “But we’re still going to change meds.”  He goes on about biochemical changes as a way of justification. I nod in agreement, even though I know at this moment we’re not quite on the same page about what’s going on inside my body. It’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s like a piano key slightly out of tune.

When I ask what the radiologist means when he writes the tumor is “filling in” I realize that healing is a new world, with different rules, different terminology that I still don’t quite understand. That I still haven’t distilled meaning from.

The corpses of dead cancer cells build up, making the tumor seem denser or “filled in.”  He calls them blastic. I call them blasted. Either way, they are more dense than the living, breathing, pernicious cancer cells. Death is heavy. Life is light. And the unbearable lightness of being, I discover, is trying to make sense of where the balance lies. This is the weighty process of healing. It’s interval healing.

It’s where I imagine the Syrian refugees live. Out of the reach of an annihilating government and warring terrorists and yet still in search of a final safe haven. Still living in the clutches of uncertainty. Still looking to a Magic 8 Ball for answers in a senseless world that offers none.

Later, a nurse goes over what it will take for me to transfer over to new meds. Life saving meds. Expensive meds.

She’ll need to get an authorization from the insurance company. There may be a fight. There will be lots of paperwork. The doctor will have to justify the change of course. It could take days, maybe a week. We’ll have to wait and see.

I ask her about blastic cells and get a different answer then the one the doctor gave me. I realize I’m going to need a course in microbiology to figure out the answers I’m looking for. Maybe a course in miracles as well.

We seem to be miles apart in our concern about my interval healing and the headaches it’s about to bring.

All we’re able to agree on at the moment is the uncertainty.





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