Demoted

Tags

cancer Chemo, Life

I admit going into the oncologist’s office I had hope.  I am recovering well from the operation – that part went great – got the tumor, removed lymph nodes and biopsied them – yay! they were CLEAR!

Then comes the news that during the CT scan, they noticed some spots on my liver.  Well, lots of people have fatty livers and live their lives just fine.  I had the second CTscan and an MRI to find out what they were and see if they impacted my status of Stage 3, Grade 1b cancer – curable with treatment.

Shift to yesterday – results of the scans:

Well, some of those little cells DID go a’ traveling – the cancer cells waved hello to the CT Scan and the MRI technicians from my liver AND my lungs.  In comparing the two CT Scans – more lesions had shown up on both my lung and liver while I was healing – so while I was doing all I could to recover from the surgery – these little monsters went traveling with their bags packed looking for a new home.

My mind kinda went blank as I was hoping for a completely different outcome.  My treatment of Chemo now would be to DELAY the cancer, not to cure it. And Radiation is out (part of the cure part).  So now I am at Stage 3, Grade 4 cancer.   Demoted.

Without treatment, I have weeks or a month, the doctor said.  That’s all I heard for about five minutes.  Weeks.  Month.  Me?  Can I see that report?  Weeks.  Month.  When I started paying attention again, the doctor said with Chemo, I can add some time – no, he wouldn’t say the quantity or quality of the time.  My type of cancer responds well to treatment – hates Chemo.  There have been “good results” – again, no promise of how long I can add by doing this.  I’ve been raking my brain trying to figure out what to do – it’s a nightmare when the clock is ticking and your fear paralyzes any logical thinking in your brain.

(Oh, and they want to scan my brain also.)  Great.  I am leaning toward taking the Chemo if I can get some more time.  I’ll see how I tolerate the sessions and if they can show a result that the nasty cancer is on the run.

Stay tuned.

 

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Seeking

I started researching my cancer as soon as I knew what it was.  It turns out that the original findings indicated an MMT – then that changed after the actual surgery when they could send specimens to the lab.

I had a large cell neuroendocrine endometrial carcinoma.  It is rare.  You can put a name to it, but when you had it inside of you, you react with primal fear.  I’ve had a lot of primal fear these past weeks.  This shook me to my depths and it was not a pretty picture.

You have this idea of brave people fighting cancer – I always knew I was not brave.  I’ve had traumas in my life, but I faced them – overcame them.  My way wasn’t always the right and accepted way, but I did the job.  But this pain and trauma has me walking my dark house at night, alone and scared.  The “recovery” is hard enough, but knowing there is more daunting procedures to come is daunting.  But they hold a chance for more years and I need to get that into my head.

I haven’t been a nice or good person.  I’ve lashed out over stupid stuff – you give up a certain amount of rights when you are this sick and there’s no time to come to terms with it in your heart or head.  You just yell or cry or stew in your own anger.  Anger, not at people where you direct it, but to the insane situation.  I remember whining that I wanted my old life back – that normal life where I set my path and figured out how to get there.  Now I have people deciding things for me and setting the path because I am too sick to make good decisions.  And thank goodness they are. I am so lucky to have them – I think sometimes of the people who don’t have the supporting circle I have – it breaks my heart.

I am grateful for my care-givers.  It has not been a picnic for them.  I hope to do better on my end.  I argue, I get stubborn, I pity myself, I want it to be over.  I want to dress myself – but my injured body won’t let me.  Chill, Jan.

Being this close to dying hasn’t made me a better person yet.  Maybe it will eventually.

It’s here again

It’s been months since I’ve written

Caught up in change, I whirl from one to another

And then I realize

It’s HERE.

The date that you died – 28 years ago

How can this pain be so fresh at a memory’s touch

I can be there in the parking lot when I found out

I can see the cars parked and feel the sun on my face

And I now witness from afar my world caving in

and my knees giving out

and the scream in my throat

Suddenly, witness turns to actor

The sadness sets in – sadness of the lonely vigil

I keep every year that you are gone

It all so selfish – it’s all about my loss

You lost the rest of your life

the what would-have-been scenarios I play in my head

never to be

I’ll have to dig deeper this year

to acknowledge the pain and get through it.

and go on to next year.

 

Nature’s Way

Tags

foot pain, no hereo, sad

The trees are showing their colors
Slowly, bringing winter closer
The pain in my foot has been sharp
These past few weeks
Stopping me from walking around
Casually
To compound matters
I used a walking stick to help relieve the pressure
On my heel
And pulled a muscle in or around my shoulder
On the same side as the painful foot

Getting out of bed or a chair is a task
I am not a hero about pain
It colors my whole day
I try to push past it
Using the mild exercises
And applying the cream the doc ordered
But my mood is like a spoiled child

I want to feel better now. Not tomorrow
But now
I’ve got things to do, pictures to take
Pain and poetry
Come out sounding like whining
I know people deal with more pain
Than this on a daily basis
I applaud their stamina and their strength

And think, maybe if I took better
Care of myself
I wouldn’t be paying for it now.
Or maybe it is me telling myself
To slow down
Take a load off
Do some thinking
About a plan for being a healthy me.

Essay – Connections

Tags

albuquerque nm, complications, death, health issues, memory

I dusted off an old essay I wrote seven years ago.

Connections

Lila stretched out on the couch adjusting her hip to fit more closely to the back cushion. The light from the sunset was failing through the big windows in the living room and she was watching the far wall so intently she could see it fade in its brightness.
It was a yellow wall next to the front door. Over the door, the huge logs called vigas were turning a shade of red from the sunlight. The front door depressed her.
She told herself she was on “a break.” There was art to do, articles to write, a blog to keep up and a million other things she could be doing. She was here on the sofa not doing much but thinking about the sadness in her life.
It happened suddenly over 19 years ago, but it could be two minutes ago, the emotions were still so raw. Do you ever really forget the day your child died? It was a totally paralyzing agony she went through when he died. It moved her life so radically that she became several other people during her grieving time. She always started this remembrance by going over the little memories in her mind. They were her only memories and sometimes she feared they would fade and she’d have nothing.
She hugged herself a little more as she moved her legs into a more comfortable position. She sighed – she was getting older and her legs hurt.
She had parked at the Flying Star while meeting Susan for lunch – a day out of the house.
When she walked back to her car, a big delivery truck had squeezed its way into the parking space beside her driver’s side door. She could open the door, but could not move her bulk into the door to get to the seat.
There was no driver in the truck, so she had walked to other side and got into the passenger side door. She sat there for a moment and looked at the gear shift and the brake in her way. She wasn’t as flexible as she used to be. She wrestled a leg over the shifter and the brake and got stuck lifting her self up and over the console. She wiggled into the driver seat with one leg still over on the passenger side. It was her bad leg. She turned and looked out the back window – were people watching? No, didn’t look like it. She was unable to lift it to where it needed to go. She grabbed her jean pant leg and pulled her foot up to the shifter. There was not enough room to move it down on the floor. She wiggled farther back in the seat and it was enough the put her leg down. She pulled herself into her seat to get into her driving mode and breathed a sigh of relief. She was embarrassed by the wrestling maneuvers she needed to do to get into the seat. She couldn’t fit in the door. She was so out of shape that the mere instance of getting in from another side was a major physical problem. All this started her on the road to self-pity – or that’s what she called it.
She turned over and faced the back of the sofa and had to adjust her butt so it didn’t fall off the side. She bent her knees to ease the bruised thighs that mashed into the shifter. She could still see his face, her son who died. She began to panic that she forgot what he was wearing during that memory of his face, but she told herself it didn’t matter. Another part of her validated the fact that she was forgetting really important stuff.
Like taking care of herself.