Because of Cancer... Results Day

Today is results day. We wake. Getting out of bed on any other cold, dark December morning is difficult enough. Today, it is torture. Brian gets ready. I get ready. We eat breakfast. We act normal. Brian goes 45 minutes before his appointment time to get blood drawn. “Meet you there.” Blood. On Monday at his MRI, they had to have 3 different people poke him to try to find a vein. That hasn’t happened in years. What does that mean? Is chemo taking over his blood now? Great, another test result we have to analyze and account for when making decisions on what to do next. Jan, Brian's mom, comes over. I leave her a note with the bus pick up time. She will feed the boys and get Gavin on the bus, awaiting my return home with news. What news? It’s all any of us think about.

The whole drive I fight back the wandering thoughts going to the worst places of my mind. I audibly tell myself to stop and remind myself of God’s provision in my life. I have a conversation with God and I hear Him remind me that He is the Same in good times and bad. Will I praise Him in the good times but renounce Him in the bad? He loves me even when I am hurting, probably even more. The same way I feel more love and compassion flowing from me when my child is hurt by something that I want to protect them from, but that they will learn and grow from. I am reminded not to worry just as the lilies of the field do not worry and the sparrows do not worry; yet God provides for their needs. Am I not more important than they? Then I remember countries where people do not have enough food to get through a day. I remember people who just lost their loved ones to lunatic shootings in malls and churches and how December will be a painful month for them forever. I feel blessed. I pray for them. I feel peace surround me. Then I feel it leave again as I approach the building.

I drive up to the building – Oncology and Hematology Associates. I focus on that part of the sign and not Comprehensive Cancer Center of Central Illinois. For some strange reason, I can tolerate the word oncology, unlike cancer and tumor.

I come in after Brian. No sense in spending an hour there before the actual appointment. I wait in the first waiting pod outside the laboratory. I hate this part. Brian walks behind the curtain to get poked. I hope they find a vein. Maybe Monday was a fluke. I look over at the complimentary coffee. Next to it – mind-numbing brochures about drugs that are supposed to help with the side effects of chemo, pamphlets about hair loss and wigs, booklets about losing a breast and cosmetic surgery, medical journal articles about new treatments. Yeah, free coffee really helps ease that pain. I look away from the constant reminders and articles in front of me instead at a picture on the wall and next to it a placard in memory of Jane Doe. Another picture, then more placards stating in memory of John, Joe, and Jack Doe. I think of all the people who have sat here like me waiting for the love of their lives, the father or mother of their children, their brothers, sisters, parents, whomever, come out from behind that curtain where you are known by name and where the process of the day begins. There is no escaping sickness and death in this place and is it so wrong of me to resent free coffee trying to disguise this fact? Let’s see if anyone tries to make idle conversation with me today. I don’t wish to befriend anyone here. What is wrong with me? I don’t want to talk to some person about their side effects and surgeries as the patient or their experiences as caregiver to their loved one. I don’t want to know, and I don’t know why. Will I get the usual...

Stranger: “You look too young to be in here, sweetie?”
Me: (NO KIDDING! I AM TOO YOUNG! HOW DO YOU THINK WE FELT 10 YEARS AGO AT OUR FIRST VISIT IN OUR MID 20’S! OH YEAH, AND MY KIDS ARE TOO YOUNG TO WATCH THEIR DADDY GO THROUGH THIS! WHILE WE’RE AT IT, MEDICAL EXPENSES COST US 20 TIMES WHAT THEY DID 10 YEARS AGO DUE TO CORPORATE COST SHARING WITH EMPLOYEES, WE ARE UNDER-LIFE-INSURED BECAUSE BRIAN HAS BEEN UNINSURABLE SINCE WE GOT MARRIED AND I AM A STAY AT HOME MOM! SHALL I GO ON? LEAVE ME ALONE SO I WON’T CRY IN FRONT OF MY HUSBAND, PLEASE! ) Oops, make mouth move: “Oh, yeah, cancer doesn’t discriminate on age, it seems. We will keep fighting, though. It is our lot in life. What brings you here?”
Stranger: “Oh, Sweetie, you’re husband is lucky to have you. You are so strong. How do you do it?”
Me: (I fake it half the time. I am scared out of my mind on the inside.) Wait, speak: “We have a lot of faith.” (Also true)

Brian comes out. Move on to next waiting area. Ascend staircase knowing it is getting closer. Teeth start to chatter. Make nervous idle chit chat with Brian. Or just hold hands and look into space. Try not to notice additional placards on the wall, each one memorialized to someone. This place is like London; the whole place is a memorial. Notice large puzzles on the tables and fish tanks scattered throughout. All meant to have something to do to pass the time, to ease the fact that you are probably going to be here for a while. Why am I so ungrateful that someone is trying to make me comfortable? I do not want to be here.

Brian gets called back. Weigh in. Blood pressure. Temperature. Go to the next waiting area – examining room. Teeth chatter harder. Trying to hold it together. Trying to control my mind and the countless scenarios it has laid out. Hold onto the moment of just being alone with Brian. In comes the doctor. No beating around the bush. He knows why we’re here and that we want the news right away. What is the news?

The results: This time MRI looks pretty good. There is increased enhancement around the surgical cavity again. Probably residual tumor, just like last time, but could also be scar tissue or radiation effect. Spectroscopy doesn’t show any abnormality to make them think anything significant is going on. This is decent enough news considering Brian has one of the most aggressive forms of cancer known. CBC on the blood looks all within normal range. The lab techs taking the blood at this place had NO problem finding a vein. We'll chalk it up to a fluke on Monday.

The plan: another round of Temodar for the next 5 days. I would like to give Brian a couple day break, but he wants to get it started right away so he is done by Christmas. Also, he wants to hit it hard early after diagnosis, he tells me, and spread it out later. This round, though, Brian felt a lot more fatigue than usual and is having some pain in his shoulder. He fell during one of our ice storms recently and if the pain continues, he will need an MRI of the shoulder to see if any muscles or ligaments were affected. It is getting better he tells us and he is feeling overall stronger than he was even a week ago. That is why I hate that he has to take chemo again right away.

Summary: All in all, this is good news. Barring any contradiction from Stanford when we hear from them, it should be a pretty Merry Christmas, and the honeymoon begins again until 6-8 weeks from now when we anticipate the next Test and Results Week.

Leaving today, the jingle jangling Santa roaming the halls passing out candy canes is tolerable. I suddenly hanker for a free cup of coffee, and doing a puzzle when I get home doesn’t sound half bad. I tell myself I should note one of those names on the placards and pray for that family. I can’t help but wonder if any of that would be the case if the news were different. It doesn’t matter. The news isn’t different and I get to go home and spend the afternoon with my kids without trying to hold back tears. Praise God!

KEEP BELIEVING