First, Rigo and I just returned from a week vacation to celebrate an early-anniversary. We are still on semi-vacation mode finding sand here and there and slathering on the aloe, day and night. I am grateful for all that Rigo brings to my life. But one of the greatest things he brings is his willingness to whisk me away every now and then (so long as it's not baseball season). Thank you for a blissful week, Rigo. I do.
Then, there is cancer. Or I should say, there is no cancer. The last few months have been a roller coaster ride for us in a
cancer-sorta way. As the onc put it yesterday, "after the trillion-dollar work-up, I don't think you have cancer." Bittersweet. "Don't have cancer" is amazing to hear. "I don't think" not quite as definitive as one hopes to hear. Nonetheless, I try not to get lost in the details.
How it all unfolds (warning: long version) - About three months ago, my lower back started bothering me, flaring up and progressively went from annoying to intolerable. Recently, things have been looking a bit better. The pain is not nearly as consistent, which is a nice sigh of relief (massages on the beach tend to help with back pain, sorry don't mean to rub it in).
About a month into this, I had a regular follow-up with my oncologist. As a matter of practice, my onc is a no-scan type of doctor meaning scans are not used absent symptoms. Since I was pregnant during my diagnosis and majority of treatment, I essentially have not ever really had a scan. Pro - less exposure to radiation and no scanxiety (needless worry). Con - no sneak peak for cancer in hard to find areas. Without scans, my standard follow-ups include blood work, clinical exams and chest x-rays, so I am still under a watchful eye. And I am ever so grateful that I am still on the 3 month follow-up schedule. Since I am 3 years post-diagnosis (2 1/2 years post-surgery), most patients move to follow-ups every 6 months or 1 year. I am certain I would need to be institutionalized from withdrawals if I had to wait 6 months, much less a year, to see Dr. Perkins. (Tangent ... returning.)
Onc decides to order up a bone scan. Unremarkable. (Good.) Back still hurts. Order up an MRI. Unremarkable. (Great.) Back worse. Order the CT. Unremarkable. (Excellent, even though it took three blown veins and 9 pricks to inject the contrast. I still have the track marks.) Finally, today I had a bone density test done. I don't expect much from those results. Even the worse news isn't as bad as cancer, so bleh. But I've spent much of my time the last few weeks in a whole lot of waiting rooms, under expensive and nerve-rackingly loud machines with scanners. So much so that with my latest scan today, I decided I am going to shop online for my own cute hospital gown. There is no sense in not getting my own gown, albeit cute, since I've been spending so much time in them lately.
And here we are. I think they have run out of tests to give me. He says "the trillion dollar work-up and I don't think you have cancer." Brilliant. I actually have my money on the good 'ol aging process, but I count this as a point for NED. But hey, thanks for the ride. (I'm still going shopping.)
Next, is the Central Valley Affiliate Race for the Cure, which is at the end of October. The buzz is beginning to brew in town as people start putting their teams together and registering for the Race. Lorenzo Neal is the Honorary Chair of the Race this year! This is such an exciting time of the year for me. My surgeryversy is October 12th, so it is quite astonishing to think I can run this year, when just three years ago, my family tried to insist I use a wheelchair. Register for the Race at komencentralvalley.org or donate to someone in the community who is participating.
Yes, a lot of great things to write about why today is a good day. Vacations, anniversaries, the Race and NED. I mean NED never gets old. Today is a good day.
How it all unfolds (warning: long version) - About three months ago, my lower back started bothering me, flaring up and progressively went from annoying to intolerable. Recently, things have been looking a bit better. The pain is not nearly as consistent, which is a nice sigh of relief (massages on the beach tend to help with back pain, sorry don't mean to rub it in).
About a month into this, I had a regular follow-up with my oncologist. As a matter of practice, my onc is a no-scan type of doctor meaning scans are not used absent symptoms. Since I was pregnant during my diagnosis and majority of treatment, I essentially have not ever really had a scan. Pro - less exposure to radiation and no scanxiety (needless worry). Con - no sneak peak for cancer in hard to find areas. Without scans, my standard follow-ups include blood work, clinical exams and chest x-rays, so I am still under a watchful eye. And I am ever so grateful that I am still on the 3 month follow-up schedule. Since I am 3 years post-diagnosis (2 1/2 years post-surgery), most patients move to follow-ups every 6 months or 1 year. I am certain I would need to be institutionalized from withdrawals if I had to wait 6 months, much less a year, to see Dr. Perkins. (Tangent ... returning.)
Onc decides to order up a bone scan. Unremarkable. (Good.) Back still hurts. Order up an MRI. Unremarkable. (Great.) Back worse. Order the CT. Unremarkable. (Excellent, even though it took three blown veins and 9 pricks to inject the contrast. I still have the track marks.) Finally, today I had a bone density test done. I don't expect much from those results. Even the worse news isn't as bad as cancer, so bleh. But I've spent much of my time the last few weeks in a whole lot of waiting rooms, under expensive and nerve-rackingly loud machines with scanners. So much so that with my latest scan today, I decided I am going to shop online for my own cute hospital gown. There is no sense in not getting my own gown, albeit cute, since I've been spending so much time in them lately.
And here we are. I think they have run out of tests to give me. He says "the trillion dollar work-up and I don't think you have cancer." Brilliant. I actually have my money on the good 'ol aging process, but I count this as a point for NED. But hey, thanks for the ride. (I'm still going shopping.)
Next, is the Central Valley Affiliate Race for the Cure, which is at the end of October. The buzz is beginning to brew in town as people start putting their teams together and registering for the Race. Lorenzo Neal is the Honorary Chair of the Race this year! This is such an exciting time of the year for me. My surgeryversy is October 12th, so it is quite astonishing to think I can run this year, when just three years ago, my family tried to insist I use a wheelchair. Register for the Race at komencentralvalley.org or donate to someone in the community who is participating.
Yes, a lot of great things to write about why today is a good day. Vacations, anniversaries, the Race and NED. I mean NED never gets old. Today is a good day.
But none of that comes close to why my heart is absolutely full of fireworks today. I am bursting with emotions today (which, for those of you that know me, is pretty atypical). I am still in utter awe and amazement everytime I think about it: Three years ago, after enduring six months of chemo with me in utero, Blake Michael was born. Blake was a month early, but he was healthy, happy and had a full head of hair. Blake arrived on his own and just in time for me to move forward with my treatment plan, like he knew how important it was. Truly remarkable because his timing was right-on. I meet people all the time who comment that they didn't know you could be pregnant and have chemo. My response is always the same - I didn't know that either. And, to be honest, even though I see Blake as a healthy 3-year old, I still don't quite get it. I fully understand the science and medicine behind it, but I just have a terribly difficult time grasping the concept of it all. Blake's beginning was so different than I would have ever imagined. And to watch him today try to "fly" off the bed or dive into the deep-end of the pool, you'd never guess it either.
At the time I was diagnosed, I prayed and asked God to help me keep my baby safe, healthy and happy, if possible. From my perspective, that was my one and only task - a happy and healthy baby (no crying - maybe the baseball wife in me). On July 14, 2007, my prayers were realized. Thank you God for the greatest blessing of the gift of life. Blake is the most amazing sign of hope and love, full of laughter and life. He is more than I could have ever hoped for. All this cancer bleh and I am blessed with B. Thank you.
On July 14, 2007, my focus became doing everything in my power to get Blake to kindergarten. Give me kindergarten. Blake's age tracks my years-from-treatment, so kindergarten is a pinnacle moment in both our lives. His for obvious reasons. Mine, well that will be my 5-year mark. In the world of triple-negative breast cancer, 5 years is huge. Please, give me until kindergarten. I'm not greedy. I know just how precious of a gift 5-years is; too many of my friends that have lost this fight would do anything for 5 years, 5 months, 5 minutes with their babies. That is why with each temper tantrum, with each upset tummy, with each "oops Mommy, I broke it," I find a way to freeze-frame the moment. The look in his eyes. The giggles from deep within his belly. The feel of his arms squeezing tight around my neck. Geez, I don't think I am being unreasonable. Please. Kindergarten. I need to get to kindergarten. (And then we can reevaluate.)
Blake Michael, have a wonderful birthday, bug. Mommy loves you, a lot.
Today is a good day.
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