I’m posting this early because I’ll probably be asleep when the clock dings at midnight! Here’s wishing you all the best in this new year!

I also wanted to say thank you all so much for your support, prayers, and best wishes over these past months. I really do think they made a difference. At the very least, you have kept me from feeling like I’m fighting this battle on my own. Bless you all!

Sorry this is long, but I have so much to share.

Yesterday was my last scheduled day for chemotherapy—and it almost didn’t happen. When I arrived, I met briefly with a nurse who told me that my last bloodwork indicated my platelet count was critically low (70, when normal range is 150 to 400), so they wanted me to head straight to the nearby hospital for another blood draw to see whether the number had moved enough for it to be safe for me to undergo treatment. I had been dropped off for my appointment, so I called home, and the 20-year-old hurried back to town to ferry me to the hospital and back to the clinic. Thankfully, the hospital quickly took the blood and ran it. I was sitting at 117, so still sweating whether they would allow me to go through with it. When I returned, my oncologist said it was high enough for us to proceed.

Now, it’s not like I ever look forward to a day spent with medicines rushing through my body, all with side effects, some unpleasant, but I am still hopeful the treatments will give me what I need—more time. So, I blew out a breath and smiled back at him and said, “Let’s do this.” He also mentioned as I headed out the treatment room door, “Did you see your latest antigen test?” That same set of stats that said my platelets had tanked had shown that my Cancer Antigen Test number was 23—down from 1100—and well within normal range. I told him I had and moved down the corridor to the infusion treatment room.

It was packed. I didn’t get my favorite chair. I know that sounds silly, but I like the one next to the door so I’m not sitting sandwiched between two people and because the chair is easiest to maneuver it to lie back so I can rest. I don’t like asking for help to adjust my chair. But I sighed and moved to the only empty chair. Jimmy the tech, who always takes care of me, inserted my IV (remember, my port was removed last month). Then the infusions began. Hours later, after I had napped and listened to The Beatles, The Stones, and CCR through my headphones, I was done.

Jimmy removed my IV. As he was leaving, he gave me a smile. “It’s going to be easy from here on out. Just an hour in the chair, and you won’t even feel it afterward.”

The doctor had hung around to make sure there were no issues. I rarely see him a second time in the day, but he entered, smiling widely.

“You know you’ve made amazing progress,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes to tease him and said, “Amazing compared to what?” Was this a line he gave all his patients?

He shook his head. “No, your number dropped so fast, and the fact we could already see a 50% reduction in the size of your cancer after the third treatment gives me real hope for remission.”

My heart thudded in my chest, but I kept quiet. Remission does not mean a cure. Remission does not mean a cure, I reminded myself.

“We’re going to set up a PET scan before we begin immunotherapy, but after that, I’m going to refer you to some terrific surgeons at UAMS who specialize in your kind of cancer.”

That stunned me because he has repeated to me three times over the months since this all began, that he didn’t believe I’d be a good candidate for surgery to remove my cancer because it was too…big. That I’d be looking strictly at maintenance infusions for the rest of my life to keep the cancer contained, if possible. The fact he thought I would be a candidate for surgery to remove the source of my cancer had me blinking and then giving him a huge smile.

He did give me a caveat. “I think they can remove your ovaries and uterus, but I’m not sure about the omentum. That’s more complicated, but they’re the surgeons. That’s not what I do.” He also said, “Once you begin immunotherapy every six weeks, you can take a vacation, live your life, get back to normal. You can grow back your hair!”

So, friends, things are looking up. I might be able to add more years to that original prognosis of one to three years. I’m sure he wouldn’t like to hazard a guess until his colleagues agree to do surgery and I make it safely to the other side, but I’m feeling pretty damn good—even though I’m facing a miserable two weeks of recovery now.

I have hope for more time to spend with my family. More time to write books. Time to put together another anthology. Dang, I need to redo my 2025 plans!