One round of chemotherapy down. Which means that we get to spend another full day getting testing done at MD Anderson in Houston, and meet with my oncologist to discuss course of treatment. And just when I think I have a handle on my expectations of this routine, I realize that I know nothing.
My cancer has no cure. The expectation is that it will never go away. This is not pessimism, it is realism, the remaining tumor that I have in my head is something I will live with forever. The hope here is that someone smarter than me figures out how to fix it. That would be really great.
This fact is something that me, my husband and our close family have had to learn, and digest, but is a difficult fact to broadcast to everyone who is lovingly cheering me on. Our collective idea about cancer is that we "fight it" until we "beat it", and phrases like "show cancer who's boss" or "kick cancer's a$$" are what we use to help encourage those in the fight. This is where I found myself struggling yesterday. I WANT to show cancer who is boss. I'm doing EVERYTHING I can to fight it. I'm willingly taking poison for the next seven months to kick it's a$$. But at the end of the day, the best possible news is - still there, no change.
This is what triggered my tearful drive home on Tuesday, after a full day of appointments and waiting and results. I was expecting some good news. My realization is that the news categories we are working with are BAD news and NEWS. We're not in a position where there is a whole lot of GOOD news. Don't get me wrong, the news we got was positive - I'm tolerating the chemotherapy relatively well, the tumor remains look the same as in previous months, the molecular structure "type" of tumor hasn't changed, it's hasn't grown or spread. This is the news. It's not bad, but it's not in the "I'm beating it!" category that feels like we're making good progress.
The most important men in my life, my husband and my dad, put it in the best context for me to wrap my head around. This is a maintenance disease. Similar to high blood pressure or diabetes, it's something I will monitor forever, and when there is no change, it's good news.
I have frequently used the phrase, "This isn't a sprint, it's a marathon" to explain that we will need help and support for a very long time. I'm learning now that this is a flawed analogy. It's true, this isn't a sprint. But it's not a marathon either. A marathon is incredibly long, but it has a finish line. Unfortunately, I'm running a race that at the end, I just keep running. Finish surgery and start radiation. Finish radiation and start chemo. Start chemo and, well, I don't know yet.... but I'm going to keep running.
