May 12, 2011

So, it looks like I’m gonna live.  J

However, my journey is far from over.  There’s still radiation, chemo, and…wait – I’m getting ahead of myself.  Today’s story needs to be told in its proper order.

The day began with more anxiety than I ever thought imaginable.  My mother-in-law left NJ at 6:30 this morning for what is normally a two hour drive to my house.  At 9:15 she called me in a bit of a panic from the parking lot formerly known as Interstate 95.  It seems the great state of Maryland thought that rush hour was the perfect time to close the two middle lanes of the interstate and do some maintenance.

To save a little time, I met her in a parking lot just off the highway exit.  She jumped into my car at 9:52.  We pulled into the hospital at 9:58.  With the help of some free valet parking, I made it to my 10:00 appointment with about 30 seconds to spare.  Whew!

Unfortunately, the insanity that was my morning had only just begun.    A few minutes after my arrival, a nurse came out to the waiting room to inform me that my appointment was scheduled not for 10:00, but for noon.  F. M. L.  We walked out in a daze and explained to a confused valet that we needed the car back.

Mom and I kept busy in the interim.  We brought the kids some lunch at school and arranged for them to stay there for the afternoon.  Then I got mom back to her car, went home and packed up for our afternoon trip to NJ.

Finally, it was time to go back to the hospital, but my stress was far from over.  We arrived at noon and were promptly ushered to a consultation room to wait… and wait… and wait.  By 12:45 I was half out of my mind – convinced that the oncologist was avoiding me because the news he had to share was so horrible.

I was saved from my overwhelming angst when my phone rang.  Dr. Blum, the GI who performed the original colonoscopy and told me about the cancer, was calling because the PET-CT center also sent a copy of my scan and report to him.  I don’t remember everything he said, but a few key phrases, like “no signs of metastasis”, “no cancer in any other organs”, and “no indication of cancer in the lymph nodes”, will forever be etched in my brain.  I suppose there is some sort of poetic symmetry in all of this.  The man who told me the scariest news I’d ever heard also delivered me from my greatest fear.  I hung up from that call with the glorious knowledge that I was not going to die.

About 5 minutes later, Dr. Oh, the radiation oncologist, stuck his head into the consultation room to let me know he’d be in shortly.  I don’t think he expected me to greet him so cheerfully.  At this point, I didn’t care how long I had to wait.  All was ok in my world.

So, when all is said and done, this is what I know…

• I do not have Stage IV cancer.

• I do not know if my cancer is Stage I, II, or III.  I will learn that sometime next week after a few more tests.

• Regardless of the Stage, my cancer is treatable and curable.

• I will be undergoing 5 or 6 weeks of radiation and chemotherapy, followed by 6 to 8 weeks of rest.  Then I will have surgery to remove this beastly thing from my body.  Once I have recovered from surgery, I can look forward to about 4 more months of chemotherapy.

I know the road ahead will not be easy; in fact it will most likely suck beyond belief.  I’m ok with that, because I’m looking at the bigger picture.  Addie & Gehrig will not grow up without a mother.  Gregg will not be widowed in his early 40’s.  My family will not grieve for another sister, niece, or cousin lost to cancer.  

I welcome the trials ahead as just a bumpy segment on the path to the rest of my life.