Moving On with Life

Looking back at my recent posts, I realized cancer has been front and central in my thoughts and life this year. Obviously, this was a trying time with lots of dread involved as well as curiosity. I learned a lot.

Life went on outside the area of illness though. My year-long residency did not get interrupted thanks to the support of my supervisors. Garrett, who is also the manager of the department, told me when I was diagnosed, “Tell us what you need. We will do it.” He meant it. This support allowed me to continue and work during the treatment. I remember this victorious feeling when I was able to visit patients again after my first chemo.

The residency ended at the end of the month of August. It was a sad time – the end of a deep and intense experience. I would have liked to get to work longer with Patty, who was our last supervisor. She jumped on board merely two months before the residency ended. I had a glimpse, under her direction, of new fields of self-exploration.

One of our peers was accepted for a new residency, starting immediately in September. I envied her. In the same time, I enjoyed being able to rest as I was still undergoing radiation treatment.

As for Irvin, he became in June the new “Associate for Native American Congregational Support”, a national position that allows him to support the native churches of the Presbyterian Church. 

It is a deployed position, which means that he works from home but travels a lot, as he visits Native churches throughout the USA. 

He continues to be the pastor of the Church of the Indian Fellowship for a quarter time. Feel free to visit his page on the PC(USA) web site here or the facebook page “Native Ministries in the PCUSA” to find out more about his encounters and travels.

In December, I got hired! Not as a chaplain, as positions are rare and none were available in the Tacoma area. But a big congregation was looking for an “associate director of spiritual formation”, a part-time position for 6 months. 

This will allow me to work in a completely different setting : a 1,400 members church. I jumped right into a whirlwind of activities. Advent, those 4 weeks before Christmas, provides a time of spiritual preparation before celebrating the birth of Christ. It is also the busiest time of the life of the church. From January to December, 2013 has been an intense year. 

What God Has to Do With It?

The question came to me frequently those last months, from my supervisors, my four fellow chaplain residents, some patients, some parishioners. Are you mad at God for this cancer? 

I cannot say that I am. Clearly,  the human body is so complex. Some cells are bound to go rogue and threaten the balance of the whole. This is an undividable part of human destiny, not a divine malevolent action. If I am looking for responsible parties, I should be on top of the list. Enjoying sugary food, chocolate and coke, I know I have prepared the ground for what happened.

Why should I deserve a special protection because of my faith? I have walked with patients, wonderful human beings, more sick than I ever was. Why would I have a special status and not them? 

Brenda Jarvis, chaplain in Seattle, wrote a book about her cancer experience [1]. She mentioned the incredulity of her patients, that she, the chaplain, would be diagnosed with cancer. She commented with humor: “I am a Christian, the faith that’s all about the crucifixion of the guy who is considered the Son of God! I mean, if the Son of God can’t get a break, why should I? I am only the chaplain.”

Strangely, I encountered some skepticism from my peers. Maybe I was in denial of those angry emotions, they suggested.

I was not. I was stating was seemed to me – what still is to me – an obvious truth.

Yet… as I was planning to write this down in my blog last April, something happened. A patient and her family were admitted at the hospice house. She was in coma and had the waxy complexion of those who are very close to death. Her children, young adults, were bracing themselves for her passing. Her husband was feverish at her bedside. “Let’s pray for a miracle, he asked. A miracle is still possible." We did pray. He went on sharing how she was diagnosed with breast cancer three years earlier. She had a lumpectomy. Like me. Then chemo and radiations. Like me. She was declared in remission. I was hoping for those words at the end of my own treatment. 

Then a few weeks back, as she was complaining of back pains, cancer tumors were found. Here she was, ready to pass. “A miracle is still possible” kept saying her husband. I could so easily picture Irvin at my own bedside.

That same night at the hospice house, I had a long conversation with another patient whose breast cancer had spread. “I can feel cancer moving on in my body” she commented calmly. A frozen fear came upon me, the impression of an imminent revelation, as I was looking at those women only a few years older than me. I was numb. “Lord, do you have something to tell me through those patients?” I was not mad at God. But I found I could not write anymore about this topic.

Then I pictured myself going through this storm, like the scared disciples in the midst of immense waves. Jesus wakes up and calms the storm with one word. Jesus also calmed my agitation. Fear moved away. I did not experience any longer this dread while working at the hospice house, even with cancer patients.

I am not mad at God. I am grateful. He walks with me, wherever this journey leads me. 

[1] "It is not about the hair and other certainties about life & cancer", Sasquatch Books, Seattle 2007

My body is a haunted house.

One of our parishioners, as she goes through chemo to deal with a lung tumor, told me recently “I am more and more tired. That worries me.”

I smiled. “This is normal. The effects of chemo tend to accumulate from one cycle to the next. I was literally dragging myself during my last three rounds.”

I discovered this in April – everything was getting harder to do, as if I was moving on a different planet on which gravity would have been more powerful than it is on earth. 

The assistant of my oncologist confirmed it. “Yes, fatigue accumulates. You get more anemic." She thought for a moment. "Maybe four chemos would be enough ?" My reply came fast. “No, I want to go through the six ones. I don’t want to cut corners. I visit dying patients everyday at the hospice house, I want to put everything on my side not to become one of them.” She did not insist.

The rhythm of chemo became predictable. On the day I would receive it, I would enjoy relaxing in the comfortable armchair in the big room where nurses were providing help with the IV. I would look for the ottoman on little wheels where I could put my laptop on, near a plug. I would stroll on facebook and the internet in between naps.

That night, my body would become a haunted house, with strange cold drafts coming and going along my limbs. On the next day, I would receive a shot to boost my white cells. This would make for a bad day, two days later, with flu-like symptoms and sore bones. I would feel better the next morning. Then there would be a few days of almost normal life until fatigue would catch up with me on the last days of the round.

By mid-June, when the last cycle ended, I was hoping for a sharp contrast, an immediate relief, since I was done. It came very gradually. I kept checking on my reflection in mirrors at home. 

Two weeks later, I finally saw it, a shadow on my skull. My hair was starting to grow back. Spring was back on my personal schedule. 

Gratitude is on the menu

As for every year, the fourth Thursday of November provides an opportunity to express gratitude… and gather with family with a traditional meal. I have shared previously the challenges met when dealing with the obligatory guest: the turkey.

The turkey and I have now reached an agreement. I pick a small turkey (less than 15 pounds), fresh and not frozen, and she will allow to be roasted without resistance.

Gratitude is on the menu today. I am done with treatments, chemo and radiotherapy. The PT scan that followed, at the end of September, did not identify any tumor. For now, I am cancer-free. That was good to hear. 

Ending the Third Round with Richard Parker

Here we are, this third cycle of chemo is almost over. On Tuesday, I will get Chemo#4 and the second half of this journey will start. The last two chemos will take place in May.

This round turned out to be more challenging than I expected. I realized that feeling OK is the result of a fragile balance. If swelling and itching happen, and I need steroids to calm everything down, all this add up and leave me exhausted.

However, after this week that ended at the Hospice House (where I work weekends in April) I feel serene. First of all, my diverse body parts are back to their normal size - an encouraging circumstance. And sitting with patients and family at the Hospice house gives meaning to this journey…

Tonight, Irvin and I watched the movie «Life of Pi» where the hero struggled not to die of hunger on his raft – and not to be devoured by the other shipwrecked passenger, the tiger named Richard Parker. “Richard Parker is saving my life, realizes Pi, he scares me, I stay awake and on edge thanks to him… He makes me survive.”

This chemo is a little like Richard Parker, ferocious and unselective assailant of my growth cells but able to save me from cancer. This is not a bad way to conclude this week – and this year of my life. Tomorrow, I will be one year older.  

Minor side-effects

They look like soft-shell crabs, plump and bright red as if coming out of hot water. They are firmly fastened to my forearms so no doubts are allowed: those are my hands. They have been swelling during my shift at the Hospice house yesterday – I work weekends this month. I showed them to my friends Nurses. “Edema” said one. The fact is, I had been warned that my feet could swell, a classic side-effect of chemo. I did not expect it would strike – not my feet – but my hands, and all of sudden, at work.

“What should I do?”  One of my friends said that keeping hands elevated would help. But when you start a conversation with a patient or her family, holding your arms up in the air as if threatened by a gun is not exactly an option.

Eventually I called the hotline of my oncologist – it is reassuring to be able to describe symptoms to a medical person whatever the time and days. She prescribed steroids. After work I went to the pharmacy with Irvin– so tired that the thing I wanted most was my bed. As soon as we were home, I disappeared under the blankets, and in spite of my usual insomniac self and the addition of steroids, I slept through the night.

Today, my hands were still swollen and red, and itchy – I kept rubbing them together like a fly meditating on its next move. I called back the oncologist office when I felt a twitching in my lips. I looked in a mirror and was startled to see I looked like a starlet after an unfortunate encounter with a Botox injection. My lips had doubled in volume.  This was probably an allergic reaction, I was told. But reaction to what? It could be the chemo, something I ate or… the steroids. I got Benadryl, as prescribed. It has helped with the itching, I must say, but progress otherwise is slow to come.

This is weird: my lips feel alien to me; holding stuff (or typing) with those chubby fingers is awkward. And I am supposed to be more connected than ever to my complex psyche: I must complete my midterm papers tonight and present them to my peer group and supervisor tomorrow. My pastoral functioning, which I am supposed to describe, has reached a new level of conceptual sophistication…

Dragging my feet

Here we are – third chemo has been absorbed. I know what I said in the past – when hit by the bast of energy coming from relief – that I was coming to chemo with a joyful and willing spirit.

But yesterday night, eve of the treatment, I must admit, I was dragging my feet. I did not even have the excuse of being fed up with the side-effects.

On the contrary, last week was perfect : Spring showed up (we had long minutes of sun breaks here and there those last days) and great shape. I felt energetic throughout the day, no more sudden fatigue ; my skin was healing. I had a natural glow even before I put on makeup, my severely rashed up hands and cheeks were healing. No more metal taste in my mouth; my taste buds were back. I would bite in a piece of chocolate and voila! the rich symphony of succulent flavors would be back, rather than a sugary and flatly mono-chord sensation… I felt just like I had been before chemo ever started (minus hair). I did not feel like doing it all over again.

However, this is the third chemo, which means being half-way there (six are planned). The oncologist told me I had anemia (low count red cells) but otherwise things are going in the right direction. 

Like previously, the only unpleasant moment was accessing the port with an inch-and-a-half needle (the port is very deep and apparently it is sinking deeper??) but everything else went smoothly. I received the wonderful anti-nausea medicine that covers me for 5 days, as well as a steroid for energy, then the two chemo products. Just as it happened before, I experienced this irrepressible sleepiness when they started to infuse, the sensation I was slowing being submerged in surreal sinking sands.

Tonight, I recognize those weird cold drafts that seem to circulate in my veins throughout my body. I had time for a good dinner as soon as I came home – the metallic taste came back two hours later. For the purpose of a scientific experiment, I chewed on a piece of chocolate. Dull is back.

But tonight, I am in good spirits. Spring is still here and all this is temporary. By the end of May, chemo will be over. Meanwhile, in two weeks, I may have again a little window, a teaser of what I will experience in June. 

Back to the Hospice house

At the end of the first round of chemo, I waited for the verdict: and it was good. My white cells did not get decimated. The oncologist made me swear I would be cautious and wash my hands at length and frequently. And she gave me the green light. I was allowed to go back to the hospice house and visit patients again. I was relieved – and apprehensive. I had spent three weeks away. With chemo, my most fundamental insights had been altered. Maybe my mind was too.

In March, I am scheduled to work from 6 to 10 PM. When I arrived that first night, I was feeling as vulnerable and exposed as I did on my very first day in September. I thought of the verse of the Bible, from Exodus (33:14) where the Lord promised to Moses, “My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”

On this first night, I was talking with Felicia*, at the bedside of her mother who would pass on a few hours later. She shared about their lives and I realized that she was offering me, not only her trust, but also the opportunity for me to feel I was a chaplain again. She allowed me to walk with her through those essential and painful moments. 

Her sons went to pick up pizzas that we ate altogether. We talked about France and Germany where her family lived for a few years, of the grave illness that almost took her life the year before, and of the breast cancer that killed her aunt two years earlier. I mentioned the chemo. Felicia asked me many specific questions that maybe she never dared ask her aunt then. 
When I left, Felicia gave me a big hug, looking at me with warmth and compassion. She did not hug the chaplain. She hugged the sister who, just like her, was sailing in the midst of storms.

* not her real name. 

Tashina and her lifebuoy

Last Tuesday, our pup Tashina had a small surgery: extraction of a big wart which kept growing up close to her eye. It was not a big deal. But it had consequences: we had to prevent the animal from scratching the scar, in other word, putting on the “cone of shame”. 

We were sad to see our girl, who had been all frisky when she came out from the vet clinic suddenly still and stunned by the E-collar. She would stay motionless, fearing an impact between the sides of the cone and the outside world. 

She looked so distressed that we looked for a less drastic solution. And we found it: the inflatable collar. You put it on and blow air in it. It prevents Tashina from scratching the zone of the incision. When she tries, her paw actually scratches the surface of the collar.

Tashina got used of this new addition straightaway and does not seem to even notice it is on now. As for us, we feel like we have a dog ready to dive into an imaginary swimming pool, which is nice. Tashina invites us, with her buoy, to stay pleasantly afloat the events of our lives. 

"Look Good, Feel Better"

We were about a dozen of women, gathered around a smiling and dynamic hairstylist, in a workshop called “Look good, feel better”, also the name of a charity supporting women dealing with cancer. She was there, volunteering her time to give us advices on how to use make up and deal with our problematic hair situation. There was a teenager (non-Hodgkin lymphoma) who came with her mother and sister, next to a 60 something lady wearing a red fedora, who had by her side a young woman who was going to start chemo after a lung surgery.

We all introduced ourselves, saying our first name and our type of cancer. Melissa, the volunteer, gave away some make up products that had been donated to the charity. Among the good tips she shared with us: she showed us how to draw eye brows that would look natural – in case ours were to vanish in the chemo storm. How to tie up the bottom half of a T-shirt and wrap it around your head as if it was a scarf – but easier to wash than a scarf. And where to find this good wig store, which offers cheap yet good quality wigs, in Lakewood,  in a shady neighborhood (“do not go there at night”).  Melissa found a pink long wig there, costing only $75, that she wore at a Lady Gaga concert. A great price for a wig.

I also learned a lot by listening to my peers.  “When your hair fall, said one of them, it is actually painful!” I was stunned. Wasn’t emotional pain enough? Several participants agreed. “It is an awful sensation”, said the woman sitting next to me (brain tumor) who still had thick gray hair. “You know, when you were a little girl and had a pony tail, and then another kid would pull it? It is that way, constantly. As if someone was pulling your hair.” The lady with the red fedora shook her hair, looking incredulous. Obviously, this had not been her experience.

Another participant was a stage 4 ovarian cancer.  I shuddered – stage 4 had hovered over my diagnosis last month. I was not the only one. We all knew that stage 4 is the more serious, last stage. But she swept our fear away. “I was diagnosed with stage 4 ten years ago. Statistics and numbers don’t mean a thing. Each person is different. I have been in remission for years. Now cancer is back – I don’t know why.” What she knew, though, is the reason why hair often grows back with a different texture and curly. “Chemo has this perm effect on the skull and the roots of the hair. But after it has regrown, eventually, the effect goes away and you have your hair back.”

On Youtube, I had listened to the advices of this woman – an actress I think. I followed her advice to have my hair cut extra short before they would actually fall, after the first chemo. She lost her hair on the very day they were supposed to go away, precisely two weeks after her chemo. She happened to be in a hotel when it happened and it was overwhelming, she said. She was so relieved she did not have to clean it up herself. Her advice was to follow her example and go to a hotel – although it would be pretty strange to check in a hotel close to home and wait there for your hair to fall. 

Mine have not actually been that punctual. Two weeks after the chemo, I was expecting to get up with a completely hair-free and shiny head. No- my short hair was still here. They are now going away, little by little. Where are they? I don’t see any on my shoulders, the scarfs, or my pillow. Are they disappearing into nothingness?

I visited the wig store with a girlfriend pastor. I bought two long wigs and a short one. None is pink so far, but I keep my options open for the future. Spring is coming up and it is now too warm for my hat with bear ears. I also play with scarfs.

Yesterday I was walking in a grocery store with Irvin. I felt an aggravating sensation above my neck. As if… someone was pulling on my hair. Oh boy… They were right! Spring or not, this is the time of the decisive fall…

The Hair Farewell Tour

Saying good bye to the hair which has kept me warm for so many years and would shield me from the world is not an easy thing to do. I was told to expect them to fall two weeks after the beginning of chemo. That will be in a few days.

I was advised to cut them very short before they would fall off. It is less traumatizing to see short hair fall rather than long locks. I would tell friends this was their farewell tour.

Last Friday, on the recommendation of the Cancer center, I went to Pepper’s salon in Puyallup who cut hair for free for people in my situation. I went there not so much to save money but to be in the hands of people who would be used to deal with someone like me. That was a good idea. Amber, who took care of me, was kind and professional. I thought I had a healthy dose of detachment and kept reminding myself “it will grow back!” and “remember: no metastases to the liver!”

However, when Amber first used those scissors, I started crying. Amber was perfect: gentle but keeping on working with precision. She did not let my emotion overwhelm her. After a few minutes, I felt better, relieved actually, moving forward this step I had been dreading.

This also leads to a new experience: drafts around my ears and neck, which were never so exposed. I need to avoid catching a cold with such unpredictable white cells count. I found several hats and bonnets in our neighborhood Walgreen. My favorite one comfortably covers my whole head and even includes additional bear ears. This fits well into my spirit: I am ready for hibernation!       

                                               

Starting the Journey

At the beginning, it reminded me of a car-wash. When you drive through the car-wash, there are a few moments before anything happens – still you perceive the increasing pressure of the water.

The first two days after chemo, this is the way I felt, a buzzing of diffuse and disorderly energy throughout my body, a discomfort I could not define. On Monday, I received the medication without allergic reactions or headache. It took 6 hours instead of the 3 hours that were planned. That was the first round so I first got some saline solution then the medication against nausea before the chemo stuff. On the next day, it was time for the shot meant to boost my white cells.

Side-effects caught up with me two days later. The bone marrow, maker of the white cells, acts up under the effect of the shot. Bones get sore and you feel like you have the flu. And they were right when they told me skin and digestive systems would be first in line. On Thursday, a rash developed on my face. I won’t go into details when it comes to digestion but I now drink little sips throughout the night as I feel so dehydrated during the day.

Then weekend arrived and I felt better. Well enough, in fact, to articulate with sagacity how “the central themes of your religious heritage and theological understanding inform my ministry”, in other words write my final evaluation of the second unit of my residency. It was due on the following Tuesday. Chemo started – and life goes on.

Liver and Baby Goat

The results of the biopsy were long to come. We were restless when we got to the appointment with the oncologist on Wednesday. After a long wait, she arrived with an apologetic smile. “The sage continues!” she announced. The results were not conclusive. The cells from my liver were abnormal and the first lab results could not determine if those abnormalities were benign or not. If there was cancer, the whole picture would be completely altered. Instead of a “stage 1”, caught early, this would be a cancer in stage 4, with a metastasis in the liver. For such a cancer, said the oncologist, “I cannot promise a long term remission.” There is no stage 5. Stage 4 is the most serious.  

Everything was sent to another lab in Seattle, and this time, the results were due on Friday night. From Wednesday to Friday, days were strange – with moments of fear and others were all sensations seemed numbed. On Thursday afternoon, my four fellow chaplains residents and our supervisor prayed for me. During the prayer, I felt calm and lightness come over me.

Eventually, I got the results on Friday night. No cancer in my liver. I literally leaped with joy like a baby goat on a mountain path, as relief went through me like a beneficial wave. We are back to the first picture and “stage 1”. The chemo will start as planned on Monday. As much as I dreaded chemo, I now see it coming without apprehension. Never mind the side effects, losing my hair, all this will be temporary – so easier than what could have been!

I did not imagine I would start chemo with such a joyful heart…

Rebound

Ah, these American suspense films !!!  At the first lull, we know that a rebound will happen; alien eaters of human flesh emerge from one astronaut’s welcoming interiors or zombies will appear in near-by windows to the sound of sudden loud music. I didn't think to live the equivalent of one of these dramas in the course of my medical treatment. I was to be ready for chemotherapy which was to begin yesterday, Monday. Hah!

I had an appointment with my oncologist Friday evening and another appointment for Monday morning. This monitoring made me feel as if I were preparing for a trip into space ! 

Friday evening, the cancer specialist began with good news ; the six lymphatic nods taken during the catheter procedure were all flawless! No cancer!

She still had the results of the MRI of my abdomen to read and she opened the document in our presence.

This MRI had been prescribed because the scanner saw a shadow on my liver and another on my gall bladder, perhaps a cyst on each of these organs, but not reacting as cancer tumors on the scan. She, however, wanted to see the area closer up than the MRI. She read the report and was silent for a while. The report pointed out that some tumors could be malignant, even though they did not seem so under the scanner.

After consultation with another colleague, a decision was made to go in and see. The chemo was rescheduled. On Monday morning, Irvin and I arrived at the Good Samaritan Hospital where I had had my first chaplain training in the summer of 2011.

On the program : a biopsy under local anesthesia. We thought it would only be a matter of one hour. Irvin had brought something to read and had in mind to settle in the waiting room. But—oh, no! The nurse explained that they’d keep me for five hours ! They prepare you and then the procedure takes 40 minutes. Then you must remain, resting on your right side, until the time is past when a hemorrhage is possible. But finally, the experience ended well. Sure, I’d have preferred not to be so conscious during the biopsy— to see in my field of vision the radiologist with the long syringe in his hand as he was close to puncturing my abdomen. That was a bit alarming, even with the light sedation which fogged my mind.

The period of recovery was very gentle. I had no nausea, as I had been premedicated by the nurse to whom I had told my recent misadventure. I had little pain despite the radiologist’s warnings that it might be «uncomfortable», a code word often used by the faculty to mention pain. I chatted amiably with the nurse, and then drowsed.  When I awoke, I was delighted that the anti-nausea medication had worked, since I’ll need it during chemo treatments.

This morning I felt in fine form, but I was not allowed to shower (not until evening). My abdomen is blue as a Smurf on the right side, also the color of antiseptic. The incisions are very small and covered by two small steri-strips and traces of markers.

I’ll hear the results tomorrow— Wednesday— with a new appointment with the oncologist. To be followed… 

Thank you Phyllis, for the great translation! J

Soon I will be her

I started the week with outpatient surgery: extraction of the sentinel lymphatic nod, insertion of the port for the chemo to come. Before surgery, I had several injections of a nuclear substance that will help track any cancerous influence on the sentinel nod. That was a quick and unpleasant procedure, which however provided fun and colored side-effects on the following days. Who has not dreamed of aquamarine-colored pee one day or another?

Waking up from surgery turned out to be quite a process. I was not the only one in charge. In addition to my own, usual, self (polite, timely, compliant) my body insisted to be part of the conversation and I must admit, my body is rebellious and mulish. It went like this:

Nurse: How are you doing honey?

Me: I feel a little dizzy.

My body: this is awful! I protest! Nausea City!

Nurse: I just gave you some anti-nausea drug in your IV. Try and eat some of those crackers. That will help.

Me: thank you.

My body: If you munch even one of those fish shaped cracker, you will regret it bitterly.

Me: …sorry…

Nurse: That’s ok honey. We are used of patients projectile-vomiting all over the place.

My body: Told you so. I will do it again in the car on the way home, by the way.                           

The next morning, I was dealing with a sore upper-chest area but I had been able to sleep and I was no longer feeling sick. It was time for another kind of trauma: the chemo class. It could be sub-titled “Be scared. Be very scared”. This is about letting you know what to expect through chemo, a time to detail all the possible side-effects, and of course there are loads of them. I should expect discomfort, turbulent digestive system, over-sensitive skin, pains and aches. I am required to panic at any infection or cold and get seen by a doctor in the very next hours – or I may end up in intensive care, as my immune system will be weakened.  

I was utterly terrified when I left the class with Irvin. Yet there were some thought I could hold on to. This will last for a few weeks. Some time in spring, maybe by the end of April, it will be over. I met a friend in the lobby of the oncologist clinic. She gave me the biggest hug – so sorry to see me start a journey she knew all too well. But she is cancer-free now and was coming for her regular follow-up. Soon, I will be her. 

A one-on-one fight

Last Sunday, I went to church for the first time since the cancer diagnosis. I received hugs and comforting words, as well as tears from some who were caught off guard by the news. The congregation surrounded me and prayed for me, their hands on my shoulders and head while Irvin anointed me with oil. I felt supported by those prayers as by a network of imperceptible threads of lights. I am not alone in this unwanted trip.

Two days ago, I received the results of all the MRI and scanner I went through during the week. The nurse took my blood pressure. She seemed surprised. “Do you have high blood pressure?” she asked. I smiled.  “No. I am scared.” She looked skeptical and started all over again. She probably found the same result as she did not say anything else.

The results were good. No additional tumor anywhere – except, maybe, a small one by the location of the original one. Tomorrow Monday, I will have an outpatient procedure during which the “sentinel node” will be extracted, the port for the chemo will be inserted, and some additional tissue will be taken out to check out this possible second tumor. If it is there, it will be swiped away by the chemo and the radiations anyway.

I felt the effects of relief, cascading sweetly in waves all evening. I am comfortable facing one small tumor, aggressive or not. There will be blood.  

Scrutiny week

This morning, it was PET-scanner time, which required an almost superhuman effort. I was not allowed, in the previous 24 hours, to consume any dairy, sugar, fruits, starch or caffeine. No bread, no cheese, no yogurt… no chocolate… as I told Irvin “the foundation of my pyramid food is taken away from me!” I nostalgically munched on lettuce and roasted chicken… 

The exam requires also being injected with a radioactive substance. It is not painful, but I got mildly concerned when I noticed the syringe had its own lead armor.  The scanner device looks identical to the MRI one, but it is silent.

Making comparison was easy: I had a brain MRI in the afternoon and even with ear plugs, yes it was strident. Since I had time on my hands (the exam last 45 minutes, in 2 parts) I tried to categorize the diverse noises. There was first some techno beats, then a symphony of alarms, then a conversation between pneumatic drills that would even shake the whole engine once in a while. There were also isolated weird noises in between, slamming of doors and the occasional drunk frog croak…

I appreciated the presence of a small mirror which allowed me to see outside while I was still in this big tube. Wherever we are, even for less than an hour, it is good to always be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Praise to Mammograms

Some critics have addressed mammograms lately. We (I mean, we women) can all agree getting a mammogram is an unpleasant, oppressive, yet required experience. Some contest its necessity though; claiming mammograms would be uncertain, provide too many “false positive” and create unnecessary distress and concerns on healthy women.

The fact is, I prefer dealing with several “false positives” rather than missing one “true positive”. My mother and my best friend Beatrice, in France, both faced “true positive” and their early diagnosis allowed them to avoid chemo for an only-radiations treatment and more generally to be alive and cancer-free today.

I hope for the same luck, particularly in regard to the no-need-for-chemo route. 

I found out this week that I was also a “true positive”. The small nodule of pre-cancerous cells, detected in November at my yearly mammogram, was hiding a 1 centimeter large “invasive ductal carcinoma”. The whole thing was excised on December 31 then biopsied. The tumor was found. 

This morning, the surgeon was telling me, meditatively “This is a weird, unusual cancer”. I know too little about cancer to be informed of the difference between a weird one and, let’s say, a regular cancer. (Is there such a thing as regular cancer?) I am only aware I am stepping into a new territory. I was (still am) a chaplain, listening to patients. I will now occasionally switch to the patient side. And I will do my best to make it a learning experience - for instance, on overcoming fear and dealing with the unexpected.

The surgeon told me, as he referred me to an oncologist that I will meet tonight for the first time, “You are the driver in this process. We, the doctors, work for you. Don’t let anyone switch the roles.” I liked that.

And I like also that I am dealing today with a 1 centimeter tumor (one third of an inch) and not an angry multifaceted monster in, let’s say, 2015. 

Thanks to a mammogram. 

Across the Stream

A dream brought me to pray. I saw a narrow bridge, a foot path over a wide stream, sturdy built but narrow, a place of both beauty and choice. Here an elder kept watch, bidding travelers to lay down their burdens before crossing the bridge.

The vision is simple and clear. Let us leave as much as we can here, on this side of time, before we cross over to tomorrow. Let us come to the end of this year without regrets, worries, fears or anger. Let what needs to be left behind be released that our steps are as light as innocent hope, our hearts as free as first felt love. - Rev. Steven Charleston, Choctaw

9 hours after France, it is our turn to enter into year 2013.

Happy New Year to all!