From the Archives (February 2018): Standing in the Doorway Between Before and After
The night before my first chemo
One of my several reasons for deciding to start this newsletter is that I’d like to have my medical updates and musings archived somewhere other than Facebook. So periodically, I share things here that I wrote on Facebook in the past. This post is from February 12, 2018, the night before my first-ever chemo infusion.
I'm starting chemo tomorrow.
Writing that still doesn't feel real, even though it's been a whole month since I sat in the emergency room listening to a doctor tell me my scans seemed to show that I have metastatic disease in my lungs and liver. In the hospital, when my doctor talked about how mystified he was about what was going on, I asked him if there was any chance this was something benign. He told me he was 95% sure we were dealing with malignancy. I spent the weekend trying to camp out in that little shelter of 5% hope.
The liver biopsy happened that Monday, I was released on Tuesday (still without a diagnosis), I had a PET scan that Wednesday, and then on Thursday, the doctor delivered the news of a cancer I had never heard of - leiomyosarcoma. He used words like "rare," "aggressive," and "nasty."
I believe in the power of words, and I believe in the hopeful possibility of subverting, reclaiming, and draining some words of their deadly power over us. So I have decided to take these words as my very own, and to see them not through the lens of death but of life. These words may apply to my cancer, but they also apply to me, don't they?
I'm starting chemo tomorrow. And I don't think I have ever dreaded anything as much as I do this. Because when you have metastatic cancer, treatment isn't a temporary thing. It's indefinite. And none of it is a definite fix. When you have sarcoma, you can't help but hear how "chemo-resistant" it tends to be. But again, let's subvert that, because I know a thing or two about being resistant as well, right?
Tonight I'm standing in the doorway between the life I've known and loved and a life I can't yet fathom. What will I lose as I step forward into that life? I don't yet know. But I know what I get to carry with me, and I know what will carry me. You, my friends, you. With your love, and your kind, sweet words of encouragement and support, and your prayers or good thoughts or healing vibes or whatever lovely life-giving way you want to think of me. Thank you for all of it and more.
I'm starting chemo tomorrow. It feels like an ending. But here's hoping it's the beginning of something really good, too.