Today, I found out that I have a new tumor. Un-freaking-believable.
Or rather, given my health history of the last two years, it's totally believable.
When I had my first tumor removed in 2010 and my doctors told me the treatment plan (scans every 90 days for the first five years, then if there was no recurrence, they may relax and scan me every six months), I thought they were being a little overzealous. Honestly, I could not wrap my head around the likelihood that I would need to have an MRI every three months. The thought of my body growing another tumor - ever, let alone in the space of one 90 day interval - was just too much for me to process.
I went six months between radiation and tumor #2 showing up (one clean scan). I went nine months between tumor #2 being surgically removed and tumor #3 making a grand entrance (two clean scans).
This afternoon, I got the results for the MRI that I had on the 3rd. Jo went with me, because she can't handle the thought of me possibly getting bad news when I'm by myself. (Bless her sweet mothering soul.) My doctor came in, all happy and bubbly as usual, then sat down, looked me in the eye, and told me that he was sorry to have to tell me that I have a dime-sized spot just under my left kidney. Jo was shocked and visibly upset, as she'd had herself convinced that I'd have another clean scan.
- Jo's the eternal optimist and had convinced herself that, as long as she went to the doctor with me, the results would always be negative. (Which is to say, positive.) She was with me in May 2010, when my primary care physician gave me the results of the CT showing that I had a large tumor in my abdomen. The doctor told me it was likely a terratoma, which are almost always benign, and referred me to a surgeon. When I met with the surgeon later that week and he told me that he was almost 100% certain that it was a liposarcoma, which are almost always malignant, I was alone. Jo kicked herself for months for letting me go to that appointment alone. In February of 2011, I went to what I had hoped would be a routine appointment - alone - and was told that the MRI had shown a spot on my left kidney. After that, Jo vowed she'd never let me go to the doctor alone, just in case it was bad news. Mind you, I can handle the bad news when I'm alone, but she can't stand the thought of anyone having to hear that sort of thing without someone there to share it with. She's been saying for almost a year now that she's my lucky charm and that as long as she's there, the cancer won't be. She's adorable. Also, a little bit delusional, in that I think she really had convinced herself that the news would never be bad news as long as I had the support of a friend. -
Jo sat across the room, in the chair under the window, with tears streaming down her face while I asked questions about what the treatment plan would be, discussed disability options and talked worse case scenario with my doctor. She cried while I held it together, for as long as I could, and then we traded emotional places and I cried until she offered to buy me an ice cream.
Because I think Rocky Road is the cure for all that ails a person - even cancer - we went to Cold Stone on the way home. We sat on the patio furniture at Tempe Marketplace while we talked and cried and laughed and cried and then talked some more. Jo has saved me (literally) in the last 18 months. She has been my driver and my personal shopper. She's sent her children here to clean. She let me hold her baby for months on end, because I think baby holding is the cure for almost everything. (Anything ice cream can't fix, a baby can.) She has listened to me cry and she has made me laugh. I'm so glad she's my friend.
Before we knew it, it was dinner time. Jo went home to feed her family. I came home to make some hard phone calls. As I was walking in to my apartment, I had the thought "I don't think this will kill me." I stopped for a minute and thought about that, and I marvelled, because almost every cancer survivor I've talked to has, at some point, been afraid that their fight would end in their death.
I closed the door behind me and stood in my living room, thinking about that and I was amazed. Amazed, because this is my third time going into this, and, again, I am not afraid of death. And what's truly incredible and what, I believe, has been one of the single biggest blessings through this whole ordeal, I have never been afraid of it.
Am I afraid of other stuff? Yes, I sure am. I'm afraid of how sick chemo will make me. I'm afraid of what a toll this will take on my already tired and achey body. I'm afraid of how financially devastating this time around could be. I'm afraid of how cold I'll be without hair on my head. I'm afraid that I'll have to take Zofran twice a day (again) just to keep what I eat inside my body. I'm afraid that I'll have to have another surgery.
I could go on and on.
Trust me, I am afraid. There are a lot of things that are scary, and right now the unknown is the scariest thing in all of this. But I am grateful for the comfort that comes from knowing that death is not at the top of my list of Things I'm Afraid Of.
I'm so incredibly grateful for the clarity that knowing that I am not afraid to die gives me.
I don't know what the months ahead will bring, but I am grateful every day for doctors who felt that they needed to have such an aggressive treatment plan in place for me. I am grateful for friends and family who I know love me and will help me and support me in any way they can. I'm grateful for hope and the peace that comes with knowing that the Lord has a plan for my life. (If I could get a peek into what the plan is, I might like this a little better... But still, I know there is a plan, and that brings comfort.)
So, I have cancer. Again. ... But I also have hope. Still. (And I'm pretty sure that hope will make all the difference.)
