For more than I month, I have known that a scan would be coming up to evaluate how treatment was working. I was very anxious during this time, as my head raced between all the possibilities. It could get better, worst, stay the same...
I can try to remain positive and upbeat, but I can't outright control what my body actually does. I have tried. In the quite still of the night, when nothing is around but your thoughts...I contemplate what this all entails, my future, those I love, and often find myself indulging bizarre notions.
I imagine...the white blood cells in my body all taking attention, being directed to my liver, and destroying the tumors with a flash of white light, sparkles, and the *ting* of a fairy's wand. It isn't something beautiful or mystical in a zen kinda-way, it looks more like those 1950's commercials for toothpaste or floor cleaner, where a little animation flashes and the housewife beams at her so shiny linoleum floors.
"Mr. Clean can make even the ugliest livers sparkle again!"
The nurses tried to prepare me to expect no change. The fact that it wasn't growing was a triumph in itself. But that wasn't good enough for me. It felt like the longer I fought this, the lower my chances. I wanted this out NOW. 5% shrinkage? 10%? 80%! My mind teetered between the meager and the impossible in a matter of seconds.
When we started, I was informed I had a KRAS mutation: in simple terms this meant my tumors would be somewhat resistant to chemo. I was told surgery would not be possible. Every bit of news I got during the initial prognosis felt like another nail in the literal coffin.
At that point, I committed myself to defying them. It wasn't that I mistrusted the doctors, but I knew they could only speculate what my outcome was against the statistics. Someone wins the lottery despite the crazy odds, but you got to play to win, no? I refused to ask for odds when I spoke to the doctor (I have seen them online without meaning to, ugh) but he spoke his words slowly: "possible....but a long-shot" and nodded as if to add "You understand...no?"
Pardon the French but... Fuuuucccck that! I got a husband to love, family to spend time with, and a goddamn elephant to ride in Indonesia or India.
Thursday morning was my CT scan. If you have never had one, its a big donut that whirls around you and takes pictures of your guts. They inject a contrast in you that makes it feel like lava is flowing through you and they warn you that you will feel like your pissing yourself, but no worries, your not. Your swimsuit area is on fire, but no worries.
The doctor saw us that same day.
1/3rd he said.
Almost 30 percent smaller.
One of the largest tumors had gone down by inches! Such a dramatic response in only three months in was a great sign. He said that in two months I have another cycle and this would determine if I could potentially go into surgery for a liver resection. Or, we could do an ablation and fry or freeze them. (The caveat though, is that more than six months of chemo makes you a bad candidate for surgery, but it's not necessarily impossible.)
You have to understand:
I was told that surgery was my only option for a "cure".
And I was told it wasn't possible.
And here we were, talking about surgery.
We were ecstatic. I'm not out of the woods obviously, and I have no guarantee that in two months surgery will get a green light, but having proof that things can change was a revelation. It no longer felt like hope was build from a foundation of pure defiance and unicorn farts, but had a real medical possibility. All the sucky chemo days, they were doing something. Progress existed and so did good news.
Finally, my linoleum floors are looking much brighter.
I can try to remain positive and upbeat, but I can't outright control what my body actually does. I have tried. In the quite still of the night, when nothing is around but your thoughts...I contemplate what this all entails, my future, those I love, and often find myself indulging bizarre notions.
I imagine...the white blood cells in my body all taking attention, being directed to my liver, and destroying the tumors with a flash of white light, sparkles, and the *ting* of a fairy's wand. It isn't something beautiful or mystical in a zen kinda-way, it looks more like those 1950's commercials for toothpaste or floor cleaner, where a little animation flashes and the housewife beams at her so shiny linoleum floors.
"Mr. Clean can make even the ugliest livers sparkle again!"
The nurses tried to prepare me to expect no change. The fact that it wasn't growing was a triumph in itself. But that wasn't good enough for me. It felt like the longer I fought this, the lower my chances. I wanted this out NOW. 5% shrinkage? 10%? 80%! My mind teetered between the meager and the impossible in a matter of seconds.
When we started, I was informed I had a KRAS mutation: in simple terms this meant my tumors would be somewhat resistant to chemo. I was told surgery would not be possible. Every bit of news I got during the initial prognosis felt like another nail in the literal coffin.
At that point, I committed myself to defying them. It wasn't that I mistrusted the doctors, but I knew they could only speculate what my outcome was against the statistics. Someone wins the lottery despite the crazy odds, but you got to play to win, no? I refused to ask for odds when I spoke to the doctor (I have seen them online without meaning to, ugh) but he spoke his words slowly: "possible....but a long-shot" and nodded as if to add "You understand...no?"
Pardon the French but... Fuuuucccck that! I got a husband to love, family to spend time with, and a goddamn elephant to ride in Indonesia or India.
 |
| This elephant right here...mine. I'll call him Tiny. |
Thursday morning was my CT scan. If you have never had one, its a big donut that whirls around you and takes pictures of your guts. They inject a contrast in you that makes it feel like lava is flowing through you and they warn you that you will feel like your pissing yourself, but no worries, your not. Your swimsuit area is on fire, but no worries.
The doctor saw us that same day.
1/3rd he said.
Almost 30 percent smaller.
One of the largest tumors had gone down by inches! Such a dramatic response in only three months in was a great sign. He said that in two months I have another cycle and this would determine if I could potentially go into surgery for a liver resection. Or, we could do an ablation and fry or freeze them. (The caveat though, is that more than six months of chemo makes you a bad candidate for surgery, but it's not necessarily impossible.)
You have to understand:
I was told that surgery was my only option for a "cure".
And I was told it wasn't possible.
And here we were, talking about surgery.
We were ecstatic. I'm not out of the woods obviously, and I have no guarantee that in two months surgery will get a green light, but having proof that things can change was a revelation. It no longer felt like hope was build from a foundation of pure defiance and unicorn farts, but had a real medical possibility. All the sucky chemo days, they were doing something. Progress existed and so did good news.
Finally, my linoleum floors are looking much brighter.
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