The storm

At a time when I couldn't possibly articulate what the past few weeks have been like- I stumbled across this video and feel it delivers, powerfully, what living with stage iv cancer feels like.  It's two minutes of a poem, read by a man, with images that marry the words well.

Type, delete.  Try again.  These words?  No.  Definitely not.  Try again.  And again... and...

So many times the past few weeks I've sat here trying to figure out something to say.  To me, there is no clear answer to how I am doing.  I have figured out in a way, how to look ok when I'm in public, or with friends, visitors, etc., for short durations of time.  I can muster something, from somewhere, that has a semblance of "oh, she is doing just fine."

But am I?  I don't know.

I saw Dr. Panwalkar about two weeks ago.  He noticed the sound of more fluid in my lungs, but not to the point of needing to drain them yet.  He also said my blood counts had really bottomed out, so he was going to try something I haven't done in 6 years- ever.  He wanted me to have a Neulasta shot, a week after chemo.  I was told the scale they use for the bone pain you may feel from the shot, goes from "general aches in the bones"- all the way up to "bone-crushing pain."  Oh my!

But, Neulasta has the power to regenerate those healthy blood cells that you need to restore your immune system and keep your counts high enough to do the next chemo treatment.

So last week, I dragged myself into the clinic for my shot.  I could feel my counts were low already, after that first week of treatment.  Plus, we increased my dose of Doxil.  So I was chronically battling taking a deep breath.  That dry, hacking, cough I had years ago when my lung tumors were growing, is back in full force.  My heart races- despite the Metoprolol I take for it.  Thankfully, the shot slipped into the muscle in the back of my arm, and truly was a breeze.  A bit of aching, and some tenderness in the small of my back, but really, not too bad overall.

And I'm learning to just live with the constant ache in my side.  Morphine takes the edge off enough, and we'll bump it up if need be- but then my already foggy head, may not really work much at all.  For now?  I'll just be ok with where I am.  Um, mostly ok.

Because some days?  I truly wonder how I'll manage whatever lies ahead.  I have those days where I can just "go" and "do" and "be."   Yet, other days?  On Father's Day, just hours after getting out of bed- I went back.  I was nauseous and hungry.  I couldn't breathe, but boy could I cough.  I was tired, but couldn't sleep.  I was miserable.  And I was mentally just done.  I sent the men off for a Father's day lunch at the lake and some time for fishing.  Surely, I could muster a few hours alone?

Uff da.  I just couldn't, after all.  Between the dog demands,  and trying to find some food, and little everyday things, I was gassed- back to bed, every time.  Shortly after they returned home, and I requested some food- when I couldn't even form the words to tell them what I could eat?  I burst into tears... and then sobbed.  And sobbed.  It had been a very long time.  And Superman, held me again, and let me- let go.

I had earnestly prayed on and off all day.  I simply needed Him to know, I'd go if he asked.  Was this what He has been leading me too?   But I'd stay and live out His way for me- I just needed a little something.  Anything- to help me through.  I was deeply surrendered.

 We were all spent that night, and tumbled into bed early.  My sleep meds kicked in and I slept well.

It was the early morning sun bursting through my window that awakened me yesterday.  I moved over into the recliner in our bedroom, and was struck by how my breath stayed with me.  I took my meds, and moments later, also noticed my heart slowing down for the first time in a long time.

And then that smell tickled my nose.  Freshly.  Brewed.  Coffee.  It smelled wonderful for the first time in a long time!  Thank you, God!   I sipped and sipped, most of it, and enjoyed it. The light, that seemed to be flickering off in the distance, was starting to steady itself.

"This"- whatever you call it- "this" is exactly what I've yearned for- longed for.  Just a little bit of me, returning to me.


This Thursday I will have a Pet scan at 3 pm at Roger Maris.  Next Monday,  I will have a Brain MRI at 2pm.

How can I pray for you?  I will bring lists with me to the clinic in the hours of wait time, and sedation time I will have.  Focusing on YOU, truly helps me.

My gratitude continues to fill and spill, when the distant hum of life beats at my front door.

My love and blessings to you all.

Thank you for even just showing up here!

The results...

Good Shepherd, our lovely church was the last stop we made before heading home Monday night.  It was another glorious sunset and it left me with such peace in my heart.

Earlier I had taken a few pics of something else that spoke to me.  My hydrangea plant has been barren all spring and summer.  It had so many blooms last year, and I longed to have them again this summer.  It had started to green up early, filling me with hope, and then we plunged into below freezing temps a few days, late this spring.  It seemed the flowers were not going to bloom this year at all.  But we never stopped watering the plant somehow, nurturing it, loving it, while we waited.

Until one day late in August, out of the blue, I stooped down as I watered, and look what I saw?  One single blossoming flower- in a lovely purplish bluish hue.  

Its fitting for the kind of summer I've had.  These minuscule moments of joy, hidden in a landscape of   hard and heavy.  But the light seems to always find a way to shine through, doesn't it? 

Dr. Panwalkar strode into the exam room yesterday morning right on time.  But stopped right at the door and...

maybe, for one of the first times I've seen in a long time...

He looked right into my eyes, and he was beaming.

He shook hands heartily with Rick, then with me, smiling as he greeted us pleasantly, and sat right down.

He fired up the computer, and we sat waiting for the images of the scans to load.  

"Oh come on..." he said impatiently.

For whatever reason, I was really calm.  

Slowly the images began to load.  

PET scan first.  He orients me to the direction, and puts the oldest and newest side by side.

He syncs them together, so that slice by slice, we can see the differences.

And let me just say, friends, oh my!  They were SO different!!

The old one, glowed yellow.  That disgusting, gut wrenching, glowing cancer activity that seemed to inhabit every slice we worked our way through.

But that isn't where we focused...

my eyes were glued to the spots, not even showing up on the other side.

Smallish splashes, mere hints of yellow, here and there.

But nothing in comparison to what it had been!

From my lungs, to my uterus, my bowels, my colon, my pelvis, etc., minimal signs of disease.  

Then we looked at the CT scan in black and white where its easier to see the cancer spots in white.  Side by side, we watched as some spots on one scan would completely not show on the other- some were gone!  Others, were definitely smaller.

But we still had one scan to go- my brain MRI.

Slowly they loaded, side by side- old and new.

I had a rather hard time with the scan on Tuesday.  They couldn't find a vein in my arm, to inject the contrast dye.  I quit counting the pokes, at 7 or 8.  Two techs, and no sweet spot on the only arm they can use.  Its so covered in black and blues spots... but I'd do it all over again... because...

For whatever reason... my two brain spots?

SHRUNK!

Even though, chemo is not supposed to cross the blood-brain barrier?

Somehow, it must have!  

Dr. Panwalkar said, sometimes chemos do cross the barrier, but its such a small percentage that they don't taut chemo as a good treatment option, especially when radiation has such a high rate of success.  

I'm smiling and nodding, and really, I'm thinking... it isn't just the chemo or the radiation- I think 

it's prayer that gets through.  It's prayer that passes muster.  

I think of my prayer list, that I gripped all the way through my MRI scan.  Over and over I prayed for all those who asked.  And for those who didn't?  I prayed gratitude for all you've done for me.  Over and over again.  

“Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.” 
― Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

So Dr. Panwalkar suggests we simply keep going on with the 3 chemo drugs- but he will somewhat reduce the Taxotere.  

Big sigh...

With the laundry list of symptoms I have in my hands, knowing I will have to keep enduring all of them, is overwhelming.  Plus knowing, that living with metastatic disease, I am not likely to ever go into remission.  But knocking the cancer back, squelching its ability to grow for awhile, is truly a God given gift- more time. 

Plain and simple- it's working.  Amen! 

And so Dr. Panwalkar asks, "Any other questions for me?"

And I smile big.

"Could I give you a hug?"

And he is quickly standing,  as I rise up to meet him, and he hearty laughs while saying "of course," as his arms encircle me all the way around.  He hugs me tight, and I manage to whisper, "I'm so grateful for all you do for me, Dr. Panwalkar. Thank you." And he answers back, "you're welcome."

We slip out the door, and he ushers me into the waiting room chairs, but like always, he rubs my back as he then turns to saunter off into the depths of the infusion center.  

“It is in the dark that God is passing by. The bridge and our lives shake not because God has abandoned, but the exact opposite: God is passing by. God is in the tremors. Dark is the holiest ground, the glory passing by. In the blackest, God is closest, at work, forging His perfect and right will. Though it is black and we can't see and our world seems to be free-falling and we feel utterly alone, Christ is most present to us...” 
― Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

"This much I know is true…"

April 15, Jesus Calling, Sarah Young

"Trust Me, and don't be afraid.  Many things feel out of control.  Your routines are not running smoothly.  You tend to feel more secure when your life is predictable.  Let Me Lead you to the rock that is higher than you and your circumstances.  Take refuge in the shelter of My wings, where you are absolutely secure…"

My phone lays quietly, often in some remote spot I left it in.  No need to hover anymore for her call.  Mom's call.  It would come at 10, then 3, and then 9 pm when I was readying for bed.  I startle now, when the phone rings.  My heart leaps for a brief instant, and then I pause, realizing I no longer have any idea who it might be.  

Its so quiet.  How do you fill the silence? And that space.  That "Mary Ann," shaped space in my life that refuses to fill right now, with anything else.  

I numbly stumble my way into Dr. Panwalkar's exam room on Tuesday.  When he asks how I am, I blankly answer, "Okay, I'm okay."  

He pauses, searching my face for clues.  "Why just okay?"

The tears rimming my eyes, threaten to slip, as my voice hushes and I barely squeak out a reply "My mom died a week ago."  

We sit in silence a moment or two.

Dr. P's face registers compassion, and understanding.  As usual, his understatement speaks volumes to me.

"I'm sorry."  

But I already feel it, hovering in the space between us.  

And really?  I'm still in that haze of grief and loss and what just happened to us?  

Suddenly, I see we've moved on as I shift my focus again.

But when we go over the PET scan?  And he shows the 3 tumors that have grown?  

"Oh well,"  I think.  Because I can't multiply sadness any longer.  I just can't add more + more + more.

The news barely registers.

At the end of our conversation, I remind Dr. Panwalkar its been 4 years.  He smiles, in acknowledgement.  

Then says, "You are a trooper," while shaking his head.

And I tell him, I am lucky, and beyond grateful, and have a deep desire to keep going on.

He walks me to infusion and as he reaches over to side hug me- I reach my arm back around his side and hug him right back.  

Even though I have no earthly idea how I am going to do this.

This much I know is true.

I deeply desire moving forward.

Today, I am going to have my brain MRI with sedation.  I am bringing you all with, to pray over.  

I'll be back with results soon.

I also long to come back and share about my mom's funeral.  

Her dollar story.

The word "come," and my Uncle Ernie.

And the gem of a quote my mother wrote on a small square of paper she carried with her.

It lightens my heart to come here and share.  This is one way, I know, will help me find my way back from the grief filled haze that obscures my days right now.

...grace and healing...

“I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the silence, in the dark.” 
― Anne Lamott, Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith


Thursday's mess of swelling and pain in my shoulder and under my arm, turned into a another fitful night of sleep.  When I willed myself upright Friday, I instantly felt the surge of the contents of my stomach rise up.  I ran to the bathroom and vomited, over and over again.  Each time I'd manage to keep a few ounces of G2 down, they'd come hurtling right up at some point.  I called off radiation that morning.  How could I lie still for 30 minutes straight in the midst of my constricting and threatening stomach?

The radiation nurse called and did her best to try and convince me to come in, but I was cranky and having none of it.  It was noon the second time she called to see if I might try to come in.  But still no.  I couldn't fathom dressing, or standing upright, when I was weak and dehydrated.

I'm not even sure what time the next call came.

"This is Panwalkar... you need to come in," he says in to uncertain terms.  "You need fluids, and meds to rehydrate you and stop the nausea.  If you don't come soon, the clinic will close, and then you will end up in the ER and then they..."

I realize "they" could then admit me to the hospital... I interject... "okay... I will come in."

If Dr. P is telling me I need to come in, I know that I do.  Plain and simple.

Superman and I gather up "vomit" provisions, just in case.  I throw on a hat and sweats and run a toothbrush over my teeth.

I'm taken right back to the infusion center and an iv is started in through my port.  The anti-nausea is added in, they flip the lights off and tell my to try and sleep. I'll be there a few hours.

I'm startled awake when I look up and see the radiation team of nurses who have come to ask me one last time if I won't please come back and get my treatment done.

They'll take me by wheelchair and I can receive fluids and get zapped all at the same time.

I have become one of those.

The ones I see too weak to walk on their own.  That vacant and helpless look in their eyes as their ravaged bodies, try to fend off the beast.

Where is my gratitude?

Where is my grace?

Where is my gumption?

Why is this suddenly so foreign and hard for me to do?

I pray during radiation for grace to find me.

I'm taken back to the infusion center with merely 20 minutes left in my iv.  My nurse is leaving and the extended stay nurse is taking over.  I have had her before.

She leans over me and says "The look on your face tells me you don't want to be here."  

  “That which tears open our souls… may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond.”  Ann Voskamp

I glance up and read her name off her tag, "Joyal."  She is the one who grew up in my father's hometown.  I read her name again... "JOYal... and what I hear is grace, as I see my Dad's face.

Choose.  Vicky.  Choose.

I offer her a weak smile... My voice gravelly and low, "I'm grateful to be here actually, even though it doesn't show.  In almost three years of treatment, this is the worst I've felt, and that makes me feel extremely lucky- even though I am not expressing it well."

We finish up and the she has the Nurse Practitioner come in to see me.  I decline any further pain meds,  firmly convinced I'll stick with Advil if needed.  I am told to call or come back in, in the morning if more fluids are needed.  

But somehow I am more convinced I won't need to.  The vomiting and nausea have stopped.  I walk under my own power agin out into the cool air as I wait for Rick to pick me up.

While I rest Friday night, Nolan and his Bantam AA hockey team selected just two days prior, are playing in an early bird tournament at our home rink.  Here he is dressed for school on Friday.

By Saturday I am ready to attend his games. Here are just a few of his new team mates in action.

Carter...

Seth...

Joe...

Nolan almost pushing the puck through five-hole for a goal.

Hunter scoring a goal...

The team ended the tournament 2-2 and we all felt good about the potential they seem to have.

Rick and I went and finally put money down on a new mattress.  We pulled the old one off our bed and were shocked at the deep depressions in it.  We've been sleeping on an air mattress and although small, its been much better support than that old coil mattress.  

We did not go with the TempurPedic based on all the feedback we got!!  We went with an off brand and paid a fraction of the amount of money, but will still get the adjustable base and we're thrilled with that part of it.  Its due to arrive in about a week.  

Radiation treatment round 6 done- 9 to go!  

I just also need to say thank you for the grace being shown in and around me by so many friends and neighbors.  We've had a week full of scrumptious meals!  Thank you Angie, Heidi, Laurel, Jen, Suzanne and Stacy! 

I got the cutest box of breast cancer ribbon cookies from Jenny and we ate them all before I got a picture of even one.  

I've received cards and letters and texts and I know I am forgetting other blessings that fill my gratitude journal.  

And although I've been unable to sit and reply to each comment- they soothe my weary soul in more ways than you could possibly know. 

Radiation followed by infusion tomorrow.

Sideways...

We're tiny minutes late, going to see Dr. Foster.  I'm ready and I'm not.  In a "who knows why?" last minute flurry I change my necklace.  Instead of my vertical cross, I choose the sideways one.  Mine has become tarnished from wear.  But, it feels right.  

Especially when it feels all wrong. 

 Dr. Foster is pleasant, but brisk.  He smiles and answers when I ask how his hockey season was and then he inquires about the boys, but quickly its back to business.  

I tell him we can "forgo" the gown if he'd like, but no, he says he'll consult his notes while I change clothes.  So I'm waiting again as I quickly change into a gown.

He returns.  Examines me thoroughly, in much the same way Dr. Panwalkar does.  He finds nothing.

He says, "Go ahead and get your street clothes on, and then we'll discuss treatment."

And then I know.  

I run my fingers over my cross.  The sideways cross, reminding me of the one He carried.  Reminding me, that He plus me, will carry whatever is to come.

Long minutes later Dr. Foster returns.  

"Well, this isn't what I wanted to say."  

The room starts to fade from my sight, as everything slows, again.  I've been here before.  

Hearing what he doesn't want to say, what I don't want to hear, what I don't want to tell you.

The cross reminds me, He has been here before too. With me.  

"A new spot has appeared on your brain, 8 mm, a distance from the old spot, but deeper in your brain."

And then we go over all the things that don't add up.  I feel fine.  I look good.  I have already had a response to the Xeloda.  Its been 14 months since we treated my last spot in my head and typically more spots would have appeared by now.

So, I gather I'm not typical.  

"Biologically, your cancer is behaving in its own way, in it's own time."

I tiny smile to myself as I recall Dr. Panwalkar's words about my PET scan as "not terrible."  

Now I can add, "not typical."  

I chose the sideways cross, perhaps, sensing my news was a little sideways too. 

I have 3 options.  

Watch and wait, re-scan in a couple of months. 

Have a new "Jason" (Think Friday the 13th movies) mask made.  Screw my head onto the table.  And shoot a one-time targeted shot of radiation at my brain. Again. 

Or, radiate my whole brain.  

I ask for some time.  To think.   And talk to Dr. P.

In the meantimes, you will probably find me near the laundry room floor, on my knees.  

Emptying... to fill again.  

practicing... and a side of news

I arrived at Roger Maris yesterday sans caffeine and breakfast per orders for my lab test, with a headache beginning to nag.  I was relieved I didn't have to wait too long before they drew the final vial of blood for the cholesterol panel.  Hello coffee and advil- breakfast of champions.  Oh and pancakes, because the ones they make at the cafeteria aren't half bad.

I was then surprised to get a visit from Kathy my research nurse.  6 months after completion of the study I was on for tdm1, the study would like one last pregnancy test.  She arranges for me to go back to the lab after infusion.

I sit tapping my foot in the exam room, waiting for Dr. P to arrive.  His footsteps are quiet and he is in the doorway before I know it.  He breaks into a huge smile and says- "Seems like forever since I've seen you!"  It does.

He tells me everything takes him longer on the new Epic medical chart system, so just bear with him as he clicks through all the screens.  (What normally takes me about 2 1/2 hours for a complete visit, takes 5 hours yesterday.)

He then prints out my lab results and swings around to face me. I visibly suck in air...  he goes down the list in order.  My WBC is still low, not unexpected even 2 months out from chemo.  My platelets are also still low.  But they have climbed some.

He then breaks formality, and I am reminded of the parts I love about him.  In mid sentence he stops and leans closer "Is that your hair?  No? Really? I can't tell, you really look good."  His sincerity makes me blush.

My cholesterol it turns out, is high. Just a few points above where normal should be.  And my heart rate- "off to the races as always."  He mentions the possibility of two things- the addition of two prescriptions- one to lower my cholesterol and one to lower my heart rate.  But we'll watch and wait for now.

And then we get to the very bottom of the list.  My CA 27.29- my tumor markers.  To be considered in the normal range they would need to fall below 38.  Mine are 41.  BUT, they were 44.  Smile.

I'm still stable.  Not free of cancer, its lurking in there somewhere.  But, it doesn't appear to be growing right now.  Whew.  I feel God's steadying hand on my shoulder.  All shall be well.

I get a thorough exam from Dr. Panwalkar- his fingers deftly examine every possible lymph node and he finds nothing.

Dr. Panwalkar almost sounds surprised as well.  He keeps asking if I am sure and if anything at all is different. I walk in once every few weeks wondering what cancer will do.  He walks in once every hour wondering and often knowing what cancer will do.  My gratitude for what he does knows no bounds.

"Good new, bad news he says. Good news, you don't have to come see me for two more months.  Bad news, we don't get to see you for two more months!"

Lots of people ask me this all the time- I will try to explain about the treatment I am still doing that is helping to keep me stable.

I will continue on getting Herceptin infusions once every three weeks.  Herceptin targets only bad cells, and leaves the healthy ones alone.  I will also continue on my Tamoxifen hormonal treatment-one pill daily by mouth.  Tamoxifen shuts down my estrogen- estrogen feeds my tumors.  I now have hot flahses, night sweats, and do not sleep as well at night.  Trade offs I am willing to take on.

But I will remain on break from the chemo that ends up destroying both healthy and bad cells.  I will also not have blood work or doctor visits during this time.

So... what we WILL be doing is trying to plan a trip... yep, THE trip.  More to follow...

Happy 4th of July!

My brother Lee is here with his wife Kelly and my two nieces Madi and Alex!  They flew from Hershey, PA yesterday to Minneapolis, MN and then drove the rest of the way.  

I'm busy today making food and preparing a barbecue for the whole family to enjoy.

I started with dessert!  Pioneer Woman's recipes seemed appropriate for the occasion. 

The heat index is forecast to be as high as 105 with temperatures in the high 90's.  We're staying in as much as possible.  

I got a surprise call from Dr. Antoniuk yesterday.  She said my wound is contaminated with staph.  Ew... It isn't infected, but the contamination could be preventing healthy tissue to grow and heal.  I have started some antibiotics and will see her in two weeks again.  She spoke with Dr. Panwalkar and his advice?  No surgery right now... smile.  

And for all of the Minnesota Wild hockey fans, I had to add in the big announcement we've all been waiting to hear... Zach Parise AND Ryan Suter signed to play with Wild next year!  

I'm off to celebrate the day with family and give my camera a work out.  

Happy 4th of July to everyone!  

tiny miracles

”Gratitude for the seemingly insignificant -- a seed --this plants the giant miracle.” – Ann Voskamp


I remember bits of it.  The strong arms that guided me while sedated.  The "comfy" bed they prepared for me on the table.  The mask getting snapped onto my head and my chin hurting for a minute until they readjusted.

I recall that I requested the radiation techs talk to me.  I remember them coming into my line of view often.  But I discovered the way the mask went over my mouth, talking wasn't possible.  I could only utter the mmmhhmmm sound.  I was in zero pain.  I felt nothing.  But in order for the mask to securely fit and hold my head in the proper position, my upper and bottom teeth and my jaw were locked tight against each other and it was sore later that night.

Then one hour later...

I woke up.  And although sedated, I could wobbly-walk with a little help.  I could see.  I could read.  I  could hear and understand.

I briefly met with Dr. Foster and left shortly after.  No wheelchair- just the steady arm of Superman.

I had CRANIAL STEREOTACTIC RADIOSURGERY and I walked away shortly afterwards like it was nothing.

How preposterous!

How miraculous!

I slept on and off all night, due in part to lots of help...

My inlaws came... and

I need to say a huge, no HUGE thank you to the Gregoire family for inviting my boys over to swim and play hockey- and who fed them- and showed them such a fun time they didn't want to come home!  Thank you Heidi and Jeremy!  I slept so peacefully knowing they were in such good hands!


I awoke Thursday with a headache and some nausea.  I rested.  My friend, Tami, came and cleaned my house.  My phone buzzed all day long with prayers and well wishes and love.  My head felt like it vibrated as much as my phone did.

I was uncomfortable, but it wasn't any different than how I would normally feel two days after chemo.


Then I woke up today.  I can't quite explain it.  I feel different.  Oh I have no idea if the cancer is being blasted into oblivion or not.  But somehow I am different.  I fully feel the energy of all those prayers flowing through and around me, like a hum thrumming its way through me.

I drove myself to wound care. Slowly and carefully I made my way.  I needed my new hat (below) as the part in my hair was looking pretty sparse.  My "combover" made me laugh.

I told my wound care nurses that I had chemo Tuesday, radiation to my brain on Wednesday and by Friday I was able to go to the clinic by myself.  Shari gave me the biggest celebratory hug and admitted she'd been praying for me.  Clearly I am being watched over.  Clearly I am being helped.  This is not me being amazing, this is just me living!  I always think of Sara's words to choose joy, and when you do?  It chooses you right back.

I found this slice of happy waiting on my front door!  There it is, my hope, dangling from a silver thread... but the words in the card made me tear up instantly.  Thank you Jackie... I was very touched by your thoughtful words and very honored.

Wednesday before radiation,  I got to spend the morning of with my cousin Jennifer.  She brought the beautiful daffodils and a blinged out hat which has hardly left my head.  But mostly, I treasured the conversation and the company.  

And I can't forget about the food!  We have had seriously delicious meals delivered over the course of the last couple of weeks.  

“Miracles: You do not have to look for them. They are there, 24-7, beaming like radio waves all around you. Put up the antenna, turn up the volume - snap... crackle... this just in, every person you talk to is a chance to change the world.” – Hugh Elliott

The end and the beginning

“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.That will be the beginning.”
― Louis L'Amour

We were crazy late getting out the door today and I don't know I if ever got my head completely on straight.   It was just a glimpse of how the day was going to go.  So many things coming at me all at once my head was swimming before I even sat down.  So I sat with my pager waiting for my turn at the lab and trying to collect myself. When they finally paged me, they took me back to a station with 6 tubes for blood and one pregnancy test waiting.  The study wants its final samples from me as a parting gift.  But it meant I got to see Kathy, my research nurse again and hug her, so it was a good trade off.   It may be awhile, but I am sure our paths will cross again.  She also graciously offered to take calls with questions from me, so in a way I don't really feel I've lost her completely.

Dr. Panwalkar was his usual- in a good mood but ready to get down to business.  He carefully showed me my scans.  In my lungs, instead of just 1 small spot, I now have about 4 spots, but they are still quite small which is good.  My lymph nodes under my arm have also grown a bit.  And the spot in my brain, grew just a smidge.  But since I am off the study, and the lymph nodes under my arm are probably impinging on a nerve causing pain in my arm, we are going to zap those pesky buggers away! In fact we are going to zap my brain, my back and my lymph nodes with some targeted radiation.  Is it crazy that I feel a little relieved/excited that we may just get rid of them altogether?

So I am losing my research team, and gaining a radiation team.  In fact, one of the nurses that works in radiation is another hockey mom/friend, and the radiation scheduler, is a dear high school friend!  Could I be in better hands?  Seriously?  While all three doctors come highly recommended, my sweet friends chose one to work with me, called him about me already, and have me all lined up to see him first thing Monday morning.

But before we even get radiation underway, I started a new chemo today named Eribulin.  I will have chemo once a week for two weeks, then have a week off.  Its a newer drug thats been on the market for a couple of years, but has been known to shrink if not melt lung mets away.  I will also do my "Vitamin H" or Herceptin, once every three weeks.

Of course it comes with a bit of a drawback.  Initially Dr. Panwalkar mentioned trying Xeloda, which is a pill you take every day, and it has few side effects.  But its several thousand dollars a month, and my insurance won't cover it since its a pill.  The insurance, will however, cover infused drugs.

So I decided, I will go with the insurance covered Eribulin, and be willing to lose my hair instead.  I am neither happy, nor sad about the whole thing.  It just is.  It happens differently for everyone, so I have no idea how much or how little hair will come out, or when.

Dr. Panwalkar did ask me why I didn't call him back.  I told him I just trusted him and have felt such calm and peace knowing I could leave it in his hands, and in HIS hands.  All week last week, my prayers were pretty simplistic- I just needed God to show up.  And I can't help but feel, in the beauty of how all the details came together, he was behind all of it.

The rest of the day has been a blur.  I had people in and out of my tiny chemo hole, oops, I mean room, all day long.  The remodeling being done is creating makeshift areas for infusion and crowded waiting areas, and chaotic hallways, but we are all just doing the best we can.  In many ways, whether its cancer, or an upheaval in a work situation, or a divorce, or some other burden being carried, we all long for the same thing... for the hope of something better on the horizon.

I continue to be inundated with texts and emails and I haven't been able to respond to them at all!   Please know they comfort me, support me, and continue to lift me up and keep me going.  Love to you all...