Remission is a funny word

I don't think oncologists like this word.  Oh, sure they like their patients responding to treatment and getting better -- otherwise, why would they do what they do -- but that word carries a heavy load.  There are undefinable expectations that come with it.

I like my new oncologist a lot.  She's this bouncy little thing with jet black straight, thick, bobbed hair that she has the habit of running her fingers through to push it off her face.  She's probably a bit younger than me, but I'm getting to that age where that's no surprise.  While I find her charming, I don't let her girlish behavior disarm me.

Yesterday, during my consultation with her, I outright asked her the question...with two clear PET scans behind me, can I be considered to be in remission?  "Yes, I think you can say that."

Her bet-hedging response didn't bother me.  I feel the same way.  Yes, today, I can say I'm in remission.  And, at least until my next PET scan a little less than six months away, I'll still be considered to be in remission.  And then, I'll either still be in remission, or the cancer will be back.  Simple as that.

Last night as I was lying in bed, I had this thought.  Really, we're all in remission, all of us.  All of humankind.  We're all on a limited budget of time, whether it's six months or sixty years.  Something gets all of us in the end.

Most of us don't have a problem with that.  We just live our lives.  We work.  We vacation.  We have kids.  We care for our aging parents.  We cook.  We clean.  We laugh.  We cry.  We struggle.  We submit or overcome.

I don't know that I'll ever get back to that point of just living my life again.  I'm not feeling very determined today, and I realize that this is a very strange post from a stage IV cancer survivor who's beating the odds.  And I feel guilty that I'm complaining and not rejoicing.

Perhaps this is a normal response.  Right now, it just feels ungratefully weird.

Also

Today is the eight-week anniversary of my lung surgery.  To properly commemorate the occasion, I'm wearing an underwire bra, which transverses the thoracotomy scar.  I might make it another hour before I must make other undergarment arrangements.

That is all.

Empathy

Some of you may have seen this from my Facebook news feed, but I thought it so moving I wanted to include this video on my blog.  (Thanks, Helen Joyce, for originally sharing it with me.)

My first job out of college was in administration at Emory University Hospital.  I didn't have much contact with patients, but one morning while walking down the main corridor of the hospital, I saw my surroundings in a new light.  Most of the patients who came to Emory were really sick and needed extra expertise that their primary care doctors couldn't provide.  Many of the patients and patient families that I passed in the corridor that day were having the worst day of their lives.

This realization was sobering for my 23 year-old self.  I was simply headed to the snack bar for a Diet Coke before getting back to the next stack of papers on my desk.

Of course, now I can relate to this video as a patient, but it still gives me added valuable perspective.  

As the quote that begins the video says:  

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?               -- Henry David Thoreau 

P.S.  Don't mean to be an advocate for the Cleveland Clinic necessarily.  They just happened to produce the video.

 

Also, it looks like the video might not download on mobile devices...at least not my iPad.  Sorry.

Just make the cowlicks go away

Tomorrow, I go for my first post-chemo hair cut...trim...shave?  It's been three months today since I had my last chemo treatment.  It's time to see what a professional can do.

I've got a half curl, probably more of a cowlick (do you Brits use that word in this context?), poking out from behind each ear.  And I've mentioned previously the sideburns that must go.  (Why are they called "burns"?)

I kinda hope she recommends shaving it all down to the same length to promote faster, even regrowth...or some such Glamour magazine-like urban legend.  I have to admit that I've enjoyed just washing my head with Dove soap and simply rubbing a towel over it for the styling portion of my beauty routine.

I've even Googled "post chemo hair styles" just to see what others have done.  Not much help, but interesting.

Wish me well.  Maybe you'll get a picture tomorrow of the new, new, new, new me.  I guess that's the  great thing about hair.  You can always reinvent yourself.

This cancer stuff is just full of life lessons

"Magnolia?"

"Nope, definitely gardenia," I pointed to the neighbor's bloom-laden bushes.

Paul and I are padding along our street for our nearly nighly walk.  We're both just wearing our Crocs, because I'm still far from needing a shoe to support much distance or impact.  At the Croc outlet store a couple of weeks ago, I found a pair of teal colored ones in the bargain bin.  Now, even my comfy, clown-like shoes support the cause.

I'm up to a half-mile, still breathless during most of the time.  But, I can now carry on a conversation limited to a few words at a go.  I'd expected to be further along by now, but the process is what it is.  Patience.  I've not really exercised in a year's time, and I've never had my chest cavity cut open and chunks of my lung removed.

I used to be worried when I'd get so easily breathless, like it was the sign of another pleural effusion and trip to the ER.  But now I know it's just part of the process.  I'm pushing my pulmonary limits, and it's the only way to get better.  The anxiousness is gone, a good thing...panic only makes the breathing more labored.  Slightly labored breathing is what you want.  You runners out there know what I mean.

"Tiger lilies?"

"Day lilies."

I'm not entirely sure Paul is really that interested in the horticulture of the neighborhood.  I suspect he's trying to engage my mind with something else other than the task at hand.  But, perhaps I'm not giving him enough credit.  Rather endearing either way.

My hair has grown out about three-quarters of an inch in the front...perhaps more in the back, where it's coming in very curly.  I'm getting brave enough now to go out without some fashion of head cover.  (The summer heat's a motivator too.)  Every now and then a neighbor will drive by and stop to chat for a few minutes.  "It's good to see you out and about!"  "Like your new summer 'do!"  It feels good to be social again.

Unfortunately, with the regrowth of my hair, comes other hairy changes.  Since my estrogen is practically gone, the normal amount of testerone that all women have circulating in their bodies is free to work its magic.  I'm developing nice sideburns.  Lovely.  And the chin hairs are becoming beard-like.  Waxing is my solution for now...but I see some laser work in my future.  TMI?  Sorry.  Just part of the journey.

As hard as it is sometimes to motivate myself to round Paul up for our walk, I always feel good while I'm out and when I get back.  When we first started, I'd have to hold on to his arm for stability, and we perhaps might only make it 50 yards before needing to head home.  I need to remember those days.

I look forward to celebrating my first one-mile stint.  I did make it two-thirds of a mile once, thinking that one-mile goal wouldn't be far away, but the next week my stamina dropped back to my half-mile jaunts.  Two steps forward, one step back.  This cancer stuff is just full of life lessons.

So, if you're local and you fancy a slow, short walk some morning, come on by.  My limits may far from equal your exercise routine, but I promise you a nice cup of coffee or tea afterwards...and some breathy conversation.

Just the facts, ma'am

Well, it's been a while.  I'm going to share just a few facts in this entry, but I'm working on a more reflective piece I'll share soon.

I had another PET scan last week that came out perfectly clear.  I'm still having trouble relaxing about it, but I'm getting there.

I'm nearly healed entirely from my thoracotomy.  The incision is now only a little sore, though I've still got to work on getting my full pulmonary function back, and that just comes from walking and time on the elliptical...and patience.

I did decide to change gynecological oncologists.  I've already had several pleasant experiences with her and her staff.  They actually return phone calls...and the oncologist herself called to give me my PET results.

No more chemo for now.  Since I've had two clear PET scans in a row and since my body could stand to heal more from surgery, we're giving it a rest.

So, we get to settle into a fairly normal summer.  There's something very comforting about that.