Man, oh, man cancer is exhausting. I want to whine about it so bad, but I remind myself of the women fighting a stage 4 who will never be able to relax- who have no end to the doctor's appointments, the long drives, the theories, the blood draws, the medical bills, the questions. Still, I'm tired.
We had a second opinion on Monday from the wonderful man who was my Daddy's oncologist. He started the visit by asking me what the hell I was doing there and telling me how shocked he was to see me. I was so relieved when he told me that he shared my feeling that there must be a link to Daddy's cancer and that he would be looking for studies we could help with. I learned during that visit that my cancer started growing about two years ago. You know what that means, don't you? That I actually probably had cancer even before we knew about Daddy's. That is SO creepy. All of those hours in that chemo center and I had no idea that could be my recliner in a year. Part of me almost wishes that we had known, that Daddy and I could have shared our journey on an even deeper level, but I know that the stress of that would not have helped him. I'll settle for the thought that when I meet him again in heaven I'll have one hell of a story for him.
Dr. H also said that he will not make a determination on chemo until I have the Oncotype DX test. This is a relatively new technology that will determine my risk of reoccurance. He went so far as to give me a 70/30 chance that I WON'T need chemo. I think this freaked DH out. Chemo is associated with killing the monster and it seems that he's afraid that this technology could be wrong. For now we have to wait for pathology to come back on the tumor. The doc also said that the Tamoxifen is a must for 5-10 years and he wants me to have a hysterectomy. Right now I'm not terribly bothered by that idea. It will eliminate my chances of ovarian and uterine cancer so I know it's a necessary evil. I wonder, though, how I will feel when at age 34 I have virtually nothing of my own that makes me a woman. He is sending us to meet with a surgeon in a bigger city this week. We will explore whether her hospital performs any of the other "flap" surgeries and if I would be a candidate for them. I'm not holding my breath, but it should be interesting.
I'm in a place now that leaves me feeling a little numb. I'm somewhere between being resigned to the idea of this life change and terrified of what lies ahead. Over the last couple of weeks, though, I have been making note of the good things about having cancer. Yep, they exist.
-You never know how much you're loved until you're sick. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but if everyone could have the opportunity to feel as loved as I feel now, the world would be a much better place.
-The little things become much less important. The only things that really matter right now are my health and the well being of my family. Isn't that how we should all try to view life?
-Cancer forces you to learn how to say 'NO.' I am famous (or infamous) for saying yes until I am completely burned out. It has led to personal and marital distress more than once. There are so many things to which I would love to give my time, but right now there's barely enough time to get to doctor's appointments and raise the girls. While it has been an adjustment, it has also simplified things and given me a really good excuse to avoid distractions.
-I have a built-in excuse to go shopping. After all, I only have one button-down shirt and nothing in pink. I have to wear pink now, right?
-Cancer makes mean people nicer. True story. Especially older people. There's an exceptionally grumpy older man at my work who, prior to this week, referred to me as "that girl" (on a good day) and was wholly disapproving of my entire existence. After he found out about the cancer he began calling me "that pretty little girl" and telling me that I'm doing a good job. And yes, I am going to milk that one a little bit.
-Cancer has helped me grow a pair (and I'm not talking about boobs). Sorry, but it's true. I mean I had a pretty good pair before, but now they're really big. You wanna shoot dye into my arm and shove me in a giant machine? Cool. You wanna put a long needle in my chest and pull the trigger? Sounds good. Cut my boobs off and sew some plastic balloons in there? Let's do it. I don't want my girls to see a fearful person when they see me. I don't want to see that in myself. So I have no choice but to become stronger and more brave. (As I write this I realize that Daddy probably experienced this same feeling).
-I am humbled. I mean big, big time. It's not in the size of the things people give or do for us, but in the love they put into it. I am so amazed and humbled by the thoughtfulness people have shown me that I know I will come through this as a more thoughtful and loving person. Sometimes I am actually embarrassed by the love and attention, but receiving it is teaching me what it means to truly be humbled.
-Cancer makes you nicer. Those people closest to me might disagree because they have heard a great deal of profanity out of me lately, but truly it makes you so conscious of the fact that everyone is fighting a battle. That person in Wal-Mart or the car in front of you may be fighting a battle even worse than mine. We might as well be nice to each other.
-In my fear I have no choice but to try to become closer to God. I'm not really very good at it, but who else is there to hear my jumbled thoughts at one in the morning? God and I have some major work to do, but I know He's there and I'm working on intentionally building that relationship.
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