Why is this so hard to write? I guess it is because I’m trying to find the humor in the situation. That’s just me. I prefer a giggle or a good laugh. I don’t cry over silly shit. In fact, yesterday in the doctor’s office, I was rubbing my daughter’s back as she teared up. I told the doctor, “You don’t know me, but I’m pretty tough. I’m ex-military, and I don’t quit.” Or something close to that because I didn’t exactly record the moment for posterity.
And it’s not like my daughter and I didn’t see this coming.
In May and June, I did those annual checkup/bloodwork/x-ray things you do. EVERYTHING came back glowing. All my labs were trending great, see you next year, nothing to follow up…
Then, four weeks ago, I started having a dull, nagging pain in my right upper abdomen. Naturally, I consulted Google. I thought: Dang, must be my gallbladder. So, I made an appointment. The doctor started thumping my stomach where the pain had been centered, then thumped lower. “Let’s get some scans to make sure it’s not your appendix.”
The scans came back with a healthy gall bladder, healthy appendix, but omental caking, something I’d never heard of. So, back to Google. My daughter and I started getting concerned. Really concerned.
What followed was a different sort of blood panel, which showed the presence of cancer markers. Then there was the PET scan, followed the next day by a biopsy. These happened last week, and we scoured my online chart every day for new postings, translating the medicalese and arriving at the conclusion that I was in deep, deep trouble.
Before yesterday’s appointment, my daughter already had the diagnosis figured out, including the prognosis.
When the doctor pulled up the PET scan for us to see in his office, the thing we knew we’d see was there. My abdomen was lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.
Metastatic adenocarcinoma of mullerian origin. Sounds pretty, right? Basically, my cancer is all over my uterus and ovaries, and it has spread to the omentum—which I won’t define here. It’s a body part you should never know about because it’s not that significant except when it’s diseased.
He mentioned beginning chemo next week. My daughter asked, “Why wouldn’t we try surgery to get that stuff out of there first?” He responded by saying he didn’t know a surgeon who would be willing to operate with so much cancer there.
Then he said something that centered us. “It’s not curable, but it’s treatable.” Best case, they “debulk” the cancer with chemo then we see whether it’s operable at that point.
My daughter asked, “How much time are we talking?”
He said, “It won’t be months. I think you have years. We can manage this. We will hope for remission, but we can manage this.”
Before the end of this week, I’ll have a chemo port installed, and come Monday morning, I’ll begin chemo. I should have my hair for a few weeks, but I’m already eyeballing chemo hats and scarves. I have a round head. I told my dd we can just paint my head for Halloween in a solid color and add some black round holes so I can go about as a bowling ball. See? I found some humor.
What does that mean for my work? I need a purpose. I may slow down the writing pace, but I’ll continue editing. There will only be a few days a month when I’ll be knocked on my ass from the chemo. I want to “do” normal things—make the 11-year-old’s lunches for school, watch movies with my family (last night I watched Damsel with the 15 and 11-year-olds), swim while the weather holds out and in between little surgeries, like the one to install that port, eat good food. Maybe I’ll paint more.
The thing is…I’m here. I have time. I’m going to fill it with what I love. So, no doom and gloom. It’s not allowed here.
So, question for you. My chemo will last 4-5 hours. What should I pack so I don’t get bored?
