Surveillance is a good thing!

When it comes to breast cancer at least. 

MRI check in.  So nervous I was literally nauseous with dread.  I go in thinking,  two out of three outcomes are potentially bad: 1) I have cancer and I have to start chemo and all that again; 2) I have cancer again but they don't find it and I die; or 3) I don't have cancer again and I am going to be fine, at least till the next scan. A pessimist would see only the first two. 

Hospital fashion is improving though,  note the light grey socks go much better with my multi gown scrub outfit.  I also have hair on my head.  Not enough for a ponytail yet because I am evening out the ear notch from my March 2015 pixie/haircut from hell, and my hair has only grown out far enough to be a short, non mulleted bob.  I tell myself I am not a pessimist. 

Kokeb who conducted the process for me was a prince. Thoughtful, kind, thorough, and warm-hearted.  Good kidney function, lovely. I hang out on the table, in superman pose, dressed like Wonder Woman in scrubs having a wardrobe malfunction.  Then, 20 minutes of whirring super photography, a little radioactive rare Earth mineral right through my veins, chilled of course, and 5 more minutes of fancy photography listening to some snazzy classical music, and I was done. I told myself I would not think about it. Work was busy,  so that helped.

My results weren't supposed to be back till Wednesday.  I got an electronic records alert today as I left work. I had an immediate feeling this is a "gift" from my oncologist, who is equal parts major perfectionist and deeply compassionate and caring soul,  aka, the best kind of doctor.  She is just the type to say, behind the scenes, "hurry it up, I need to know." If things had been bad, she would have called me on Wednesday as I was told,  and she would already have developed a game plan.  As soon as I saw the alert was for the MRI and not some random blood work, I recognized her handiwork. I knew I was fine, and yet I still had to read the report. 

I read many descriptive words re findings. Very well written. Thorough. I briefly wonder if I am getting anonymously presented at Tumor Board again, that doctor gaggle where they all talk about cancer cases.  Skim skim skim...where is the determination?

And then, there they are, the magic words-- "No evidence of malignancy." Boom. Another 6 months is mine.  I realize I have 6 months till the next surveillance exam, a mammogram next time. (Who doesn't love the experience of becoming your very own breast panini? I kid, but only slightly. I will take it!)

Of course, I cried when I read it, the second time to be sure.  Grateful, relieved, and so much more jumbled up inside. But, the next 6 months are mine. Emotional weight is falling off me like a ton of bricks, hour after hour since finding out.

What can I do in the next 6 months to live fully and savor every moment? What was I afraid to do that I am not afraid of now? What living have I been putting off till now? What could make this little bit of time MORE?

I revel that this time is mine.  It's mine.  The future is mine.  All mine.  Maybe only six months till the next round of torture and chaos, or maybe it will be years and years.  I don't know.  No one knows.  But the next sunrise is mine, and I am willing to bet the one after that. I am really excited to see what the future holds again, finally. Finally, it's mine. My life is mine again. Not the same, but still mine.

Cancer-versary

Two years ago, today, I got my diagnosis.

Now, I have no evidence of disease.

My hair is growing back.  I have just graduated from multiple stages of mullet to a super short bob.  A ponytail is in my future.

I still take a pill everyday.

I still get a shot every 4 weeks.  It's like getting swatted with a stapler.  I've missed it sometimes. I hate and dread going back to the hospital, even though everyone is so nice and beyond supportive.

I feel as if I am fighting a cold war.  Every headache, bruise or cough, I worry that the cancer has returned and spread. And I know treatment for a recurrence would be even harder.  So I worry, but there is nothing to be done. I remember people diagnosed after me who are not here to still fight.  I wait and watch for signs the enemy has returned, its influence spread, and a resurgence lurking around every corner. It's not as if I am actively looking for it, but it is always in the back of my mind, like when I realize I am getting nauseous just from driving down the same street I used to take to chemo, even though I am not going to the hospital at all this time.

Nevertheless, I am here.  I am still here. There are parts of my life that are very, very good. Better than before.  In some ways,  I worry less.  "It's not cancer.  No one is dying.  Let it go."  And, I savor more.  The wind on my face and the leaves of the trees gently stirring. I am still here.

But, it doesn't feel over.

Still fighting.