Before the News...
Today was my third CT scan. I knew the drill...guzzle own two contrast-spiked Coka Colas for "breakfast", sit, wait, get jacked into the machine via my port (somedays, I pretend I am a cyborg), and get ready to pee my pants. They warn me every time that I won't, and I joke that I already have.
We have been trying not to break down as scans near. We have planned going out to eat, the movies...productive distraction. We try to mediate expectations. I watch them, like balloons, float into the sky. Aiming steady arrows - pop - pop - pop - to break them down so that they will fall closer to earth. If i don't sacrifice a few, all of them will burst in the end.
My biggest fear, to be honest, is that even "good" is not enough. That 30%, 15% reduction...they won't change my fate. I feel like I am chipping away at an iceberg. I am impatient, I want more, a clear path out.
I think we can all relate to the wait. The anxiety of much needed news. A few simple words that alter the course of your life forever. It is a powerful moment.
...After.
We have assumed that the exercise, the energy, the small liver pains were signs of good progress. Unfortunately, my scan came out worst. We haven't lost a lot of territory, so to speak, but the tumors were "more pronounced" this time, and a lymph node nearby showed marked swelling. We hoped to ride out the current regimen for some time, but no such luck. I am on a new drug now, full dose again, and I can expect the usual menagerie of symptoms, plus uncontrollably shitting my brains out. Yay. *sarcasm*
Luckily, we were able to catch it before much progress was lost, but it does put a dent into your moral. The vague delusions of control that you have...all my balloons sagged and dropped to earth. My husband and I try to deal with the irrational feeling of failure and chaos, wildly bouncing emotions back and forth between us. It's a sad day, I won't lie. But I still hold inside me a feeling of hope, the need to forge ahead. A bump in the road, sure, but at least we have an option available. And talks are starting about testing my tumor for possible future clinical trials.
I sit here, morose perhaps, but in a few days I will try anew to populate my skies with beautiful colors.
Today was my third CT scan. I knew the drill...guzzle own two contrast-spiked Coka Colas for "breakfast", sit, wait, get jacked into the machine via my port (somedays, I pretend I am a cyborg), and get ready to pee my pants. They warn me every time that I won't, and I joke that I already have.
We have been trying not to break down as scans near. We have planned going out to eat, the movies...productive distraction. We try to mediate expectations. I watch them, like balloons, float into the sky. Aiming steady arrows - pop - pop - pop - to break them down so that they will fall closer to earth. If i don't sacrifice a few, all of them will burst in the end.
My biggest fear, to be honest, is that even "good" is not enough. That 30%, 15% reduction...they won't change my fate. I feel like I am chipping away at an iceberg. I am impatient, I want more, a clear path out.
I think we can all relate to the wait. The anxiety of much needed news. A few simple words that alter the course of your life forever. It is a powerful moment.
...After.
We have assumed that the exercise, the energy, the small liver pains were signs of good progress. Unfortunately, my scan came out worst. We haven't lost a lot of territory, so to speak, but the tumors were "more pronounced" this time, and a lymph node nearby showed marked swelling. We hoped to ride out the current regimen for some time, but no such luck. I am on a new drug now, full dose again, and I can expect the usual menagerie of symptoms, plus uncontrollably shitting my brains out. Yay. *sarcasm*
Luckily, we were able to catch it before much progress was lost, but it does put a dent into your moral. The vague delusions of control that you have...all my balloons sagged and dropped to earth. My husband and I try to deal with the irrational feeling of failure and chaos, wildly bouncing emotions back and forth between us. It's a sad day, I won't lie. But I still hold inside me a feeling of hope, the need to forge ahead. A bump in the road, sure, but at least we have an option available. And talks are starting about testing my tumor for possible future clinical trials.
I sit here, morose perhaps, but in a few days I will try anew to populate my skies with beautiful colors.
Stay hopeful. I know this is hard. You are loved and cherished. Hope and love are powerful things.
ReplyDeleteI hope the CT scan procedure is not uncomfortable for you. I think you are a very brave person, and I can understand wanting to keep busy with going out to the movies and restaurants. I am glad you were able to catch the tumors before losing a lot of progress, and I wish you the best with this journey.
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