Blossoming

This poor little Christmas cactus is a methaphor for my current situation. We’re both beat up and worn out but, like my cactus, I’m determined to bloom again.

The cactus was a gift years ago from my daughter’s in-laws, Walter and Mary.

It was robust when I received it and for many years after. 

Then earlier this year, about the time I started dealing with my sarcoma recurrence, I decided the cactus needed either to be tossed or given some TLC to try to bring it back.

I put it in a different planter, repotted it in new soil and moved it to brighter location in our sunroom. It’s still straggly and a bit weak but darn if it hasn’t found a way to bloom just in time for the Christmas season!

So now I’m weak and back in The James Cancer Hospital as my gardeners in oncology, surgery and radiation look at their tools to try to figure out how they can bring me back to vitality.

I was admitted on Friday after talking with my oncologist about swelling in my feet and increased trouble breathing. Tests since then have shown the cancer has grown significantly despite the clinical trial chemo drugs. 

More tests are slated to help my gardeners decide what other options we have. TC and I are relying heavily on the prayers in our tool box. 

I may not be quite ready to bloom by Christmas, but I hope to regain some energy and be able to breathe easier by then.

May you all have a beautiful week leading up to Christmas. 

New rhythms

As I adjust to this new chemo clinical trial schedule, TC and I are getting used to the rhythms of the ups and downs of my energy levels. 

But I'm really enjoying the soundtrack of these days. 

TC picked up a guitar not quite a year ago and has come very far, in my opinion, in teaching himself to play. Plus I really like to hear him sing.

He's still a little audience-shy, with a few exceptions for grandkids and a couple of performances with friends earlier this summer. I'm the lucky one who gets to hear him most days, even if he's just practicing in another room because he thinks his "caterwauling" is going to disturb me. It never does.

And now that we know what to expect from the cancer-fighting drugs I'm taking, those new rhythms are getting easier to handle. 

The first chemo cycle was tough, but I'm attributing most of that to dealing with the chest drain and the difficulties I was having getting more than a few words out at a time. There was a lot of back and neck pain for several days last week after the drain came out, but that has also resolved.

Now we know that there is a window after each infusion every three weeks, from about day 5 to day 10, when my immunity is lowest. And we know the chemo pills that I take a couple times a week will make me tired the next day. So we mark the calendar accordingly and plan around it. 

We mask up when we're around others, even family, since it's that time of year when lots of bugs like to come inside. And TC is making lots of healthy food and juices. Friends and neighbors have also brought homemade soups to warm up chilly evenings. I can't thank them enough.

Here's to great holiday rhythms for all of you!

Drain, drain, go away

I am two weeks into my clinical trial now, and the chemo is not the worst part. The thing that is more aggravating right now is the chest drain that was put in three weeks ago. I had been having some fluid buildup in my chest before the chemo started, but since the drain has been in, that seems to have stopped.

So now I am waiting to hear from the pulmonary folks at the Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center that I can get the drain removed ASAP. I had a chest X-ray this morning that hopefully will show there is no fluid hanging around to justify keeping a tube in my chest any longer.

As for the chemo, I am getting into the rhythm of how that is affecting me, and it's not horrible. 

The best part, if feeling a little bad can be good, is that I seem to be seeing some side effects of the chemo pills that I take every three or four days. I'm taking that as a sign that they are the real deal, not placebo pills. So, yes, I actually welcome feeling a little lack of energy and some intestinal distress for a day after I take the pills if that means I am throwing more live ammunition at my sarcoma and not duds. 

Among my many blessings, I am thankful for the medical attention I am able to receive at OSU and The James Cancer Hospital. It is good to have sarcoma specialists in our backyard and access to a  clinical trial dedicated to fighting leiomyosarcoma, the particular kind I have. 

And I am more blessed than you can know by the expressions of love, support and prayers that I receive in comments to this blog and on Facebook. They lift me and give me strength. 

Please know that if you do comment on this blog, most comments show up as "anonymous," so leave your name if you would like me to know who you are.

Best wishes to all for a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Believe!

 

My clinical trial has begun, and now we have to believe that I am getting the very best medicine I can to fight back and send sarcoma packing. 

TC made sure we have a very visible reminder of the power of positive belief, and belief in all the prayers that we know have been and are being offered up for my health. He surprised me last week with a framed copy of the iconic Believe sign from a TV series that we both loved, Ted Lasso. 

Ted Lasso's English football (soccer) players would tap the sign over their locker room door every time they went out to play. It didn't always bring immediate victory but they did learn to believe in each other and themselves and in their common pursuit. In the end, that belief was transformative and real. 

Our sign hangs above our monthly calendar -- the one now filled with medical appointments and medicine reminders -- just on the way out the door to the garage. We tap it multiple times a day, even at times when we're not leaving. 

So far I am tolerating the chemo well; just hope the sarcoma is not. 

And after a couple of weeks of having difficulty speaking without catches, I have finally regained my voice, thanks to getting fluid drained again from between my right lung and diaphragm. A temporary drain put in on Monday should keep fluid from accumulating to a troublesome level. 

We're hoping that this new regimen of chemo infusion every three weeks and oral (hopefully real and not placebo) tablets every few days in between will give us some nice respite by slowing down what have been too-frequent visits to The James. 

With all your prayers, best wishes and positive thoughts coming my way, how can we not believe? 

The next journey

 

TC has brought so much music into my life. Music is important to him, and it endears him to me.

One of our most memorable musical journeys was four years ago. We had been dating almost 16 months when we went to Toronto to hear a favorite musician of his that I had also come to love -- Loreena McKinnett. She has an enchantingly clear voice and her shows feature lots of strings, starting with her harp.  

I thought we were just going for a nice getaway weekend, but TC surprised me by proposing before we went to dinner and the show. And a new phase of our journey together began.

So this spring, when we saw that Loreena was going to be in Columbus on the 4th anniversary of our engagement, Nov. 1, we knew we had to go. It turned out to be perfect timing. 

I was feeling well enough to really enjoy the show Wednesday after a liter and a half of fluid was drained from between my right lung and diaphragm on Monday. I loved the show even more than the first time I saw her, knowing her music even better now.

And since Wednesday more progress has been made toward the clinical trial that will be my primary offensive to fight this cancer. After some requisite CT scans tonight (yes, on a Sunday!), I will have all the requirements checked off to begin the clinical trial, which is scheduled to start on Wednesday. I'm also getting a temporary drain put in on Monday so I shouldn't have to deal with the fluid build-up that has made it hard to talk and breathe deeply. 

A Loreena McKinnett concert helped kick off our journey to commit ourselves to each other. And we can't help but think another Loreena concert was the perfect start to the journey that will carry us forward from here -- past cancer and with a new appreciation of every day we have together. 

With the prayers of family and friends, and with God's healing powers, I look forward to starting chemo and hopefully getting the extra investigational drug to kick this cancer's butt. 

Loreena will be a nice soundtrack to listen to during my treatments.

Hoping for a great sunrise

 

The PET scan I had a week ago confirmed the bad news. My cancer has returned in almost the same place where it was surgically removed in June, and it's brought along a smaller buddy higher up in my right lung. 

We met with the oncologist a few days ago and agreed the best course of treatment is to try to get into a clinical trial that holds some promise for beating back leiomyosarcoma. There are a few hurdles to clear first, such as having a needle biopsy to confirm the cancer culprit's identify, even though we are 99.99% sure we know exactly who the bastard is. We've seen him before. 

But clinical trials have to follow strict protocols in order to ultimately win FDA approval for the drugs they test, so we're trying to get those T's crossed and I's dotted now so the chemo can start ASAP.

As I wait to get cleared for chemotherapy, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. It's not because of what I might say but because there is some fluid buildup in my lungs from the growing tumors and I am having trouble talking without coughing every few words right now. Good thing my strength is writing, not speaking.

Here's the part I like best -- the name of this particular clinical trial is Sunrise. How beautiful is that? I'm all for seeing many more sunrises.

I have two prayer requests, for those who are so inclined: Please pray for me to get into the clinical trial as soon as possible, and please pray for me to actually receive the new drug they are testing as well as a proven chemotherapy drug that has had some success with sarcoma. The clinical trial coordinator says two of three participants in the study will receive the new drug while one of three will get a placebo along with the already approved drug. 

I am very thankful for all who follow my blog and add me to your prayers. I wish many beautiful sunrises for you as well. 

Is you is or is you ain't?

How are you with Rorschach tests? Or those optical illusion pictures that can be two different things, either an old lady in a scarf or a young woman looking away, depending on your perspective.

That's kind of how my latest CT scans look to my OSU James Cancer Hospital physicians. A radiologist and the medical oncologist that we saw on Wednesday look at the shadow between my heart and right lung and see a tumor returning in the area where a larger mass was taken out in June. 

But the surgeon sees a more positive possibility -- maybe the shadow is just a space where the lung hasn't yet filled in to the void where the sarcoma tumor was extracted. 

So TC and I left the medical visit with two very different possible scenarios, and lots of uncomfortable thoughts. 

In the next 10 days or so, tests on blood drawn yesterday and a PET scan on Oct. 20 should reveal the shadow's true nature. If it turns out to be the return of my sarcoma, then we'll have decisions to make about chemotherapy (maybe in a clinical trial) and/or targeted radiation. The oncologist does not believe surgery would be an option, but I would still want to consult the surgeon to hear it from him. 

Meanwhile, I am feeling fine and as healthy and strong as ever. All prayers and positive thoughts are appreciated for this mysterious shadow to turn out to be nothing of concern. 

Stepping up

 
It's been too long since I've been involved with a fundraiser that specifically targets the cancer that has thrice threatened my life and continues to lurk on the horizon. 

The last time my family and I walked in Steps for Sarcoma was September 2014. My then-husband of 40 years struggled to complete the 3-mile path, and within days Tom was hospitalized with the leukemia that took his life six weeks later. So it was emotionally difficult to contemplate signing up for another race. 

But life goes on, and I have been blessed to have found a loving new partner in TC, who shares my determination to do all we can to keep sarcoma from writing my final chapter. That includes supporting efforts like Steps for Sarcoma, which funds research for sarcoma causes, treatments and cures at the OSU Comprehensive Cancer 'Center - James.  

The wake-up call we received with my third sarcoma diagnosis this past spring was the reminder I needed to once again sign up to support this important fundraiser. However, that nudge came after we had already planned to embark on TC's first-ever cruise in September.

Having successfully navigated and healed from surgery in June to remove two sarcoma tumors in my right lung, we plan to keep the cruise on our calendar, even though it means not being there physically to walk in the 14th annual Steps for Sarcoma on Sept. 17.

I will be there in spirit, though, through anyone who wants to join my team or contribute toward my goal of raising $1,000 for the cause. 

I've never made a fundraising ask for my Sept. 16 birthday, but this may become an annual wish for me. Here are the links if you would like to make a donation to Steps for Sarcoma in my honor -- and I would be greatly honored if you do -- by searching for my name on the donation page. Or join the team I will be leading in absentia by searching for Mary's Mighty Marchers. 

And next year let's do it in person!

Prayers answered

"Negative" has never sounded so positive.

As in, the post-surgery blood test that we have been waiting for to show whether the custom DNA analysis for cancer markers in my blood found any signs of cancer. Negative!

The shared joy was apparent in the voice on the other end of the phone call I received late Monday afternoon from my medical oncologist. He said he had good news, and I could tell from his tone that it was very good even before he said the words. 

This was exactly the result we had been hoping and fervently praying for -- along with friends and family members. The doctor cautioned that this kind of analysis is still new, but along with my previous history of a dozen years between recurrences and the clean pathology report after my June 9 surgery, this third indicator of no sign of cancer in my blood sealed his recommendation to forego chemotherapy. 

Did you hear our huge sign of relief?

I had been growing anxious as the wait for blood test results stretched longer. The lightness I felt after talking with the doctor was immense. I had just stopped at my daughter's house to give her chickens some food and water and I almost felt like hugging the hens as I ended the call and processed the great news. 

CT scans at the end of September will be the next destination on this journey. TC and I will keep the faith and stay positive that they, too, will come back "negative."  

Marking time

 

The surgeon said it would take at least six weeks to reach full recovery. My June 9 right lung lobectomy removed the sarcoma that had, for the third time, made an unwelcome appearance in my body. I didn't want to believe it would really take that long to feel good again, but he was right.

Today is the six-week mark, and I am finally feeling back to normal. I am walking as far as I walked before -- often clocking more than 10,000 steps a day. Most of my five small incision sites are healed, with one taking just a bit longer. Daily inhaling exercises have steadily demonstrated my increased lung capacity, almost to the point where I was before the surgery. And internal aches from where the robotic instruments roamed around my innards are mostly just a memory. I am once again comfortable in my skin. 

As I give thanks for my recovery, I can't help but recall another passage of six weeks with a much different outcome. Nine years ago, my then-husband and high school sweetheart, Tom, was well on the mend from Achilles tendon surgery, walking around our neighborhood to regain his strength, when he noticed it was getting harder to complete even short distances.  

He saw his doctor, had blood work and was subsequently hospitalized and quickly diagnosed with leukemia. For Tom, six weeks marked the time from diagnosis to death. He never left the intensive care unit where he endured heavy-duty chemotherapy, two surgeries and ultimately succumbed to the sepsis he developed in the hospital.  

Six weeks can seem a ploddingly slow time when it is marked by niggling pain and discomfort, or it can be breath-stealing fast when it defines the end of a life. 

No six-week time frame comes with guarantees -- nor can we be fully assured of what the next six hours, or days, or years will bring. But we can appreciate each day as it dawns and vow to seize its potential for good. Day by day is a good outlook, or quoting from a favorite Anne Lamott book as TC and I like to do, "bird by bird." 

Whether recovering from trauma or just continuing the journey to be our best selves, my wish is for all the best six-week periods ahead. 

 

  

Time goes by

 

Yesterday TC and I ventured Downtown to check out the rooftop bar and restaurant on the 28th floor of the newest Hilton adjacent to the Columbus Convention Center. 

We could look north up High St. and, from a different vantage point, we looked down on another rooftop that marked the beginning of our adventure together. Five years ago tomorrow -- July 10 -- we met for drinks and conversation at what was then called Juniper on the roof of the Smith Brothers Hardware Building on N. 4th St. It was a few weeks later that we recognized it as our first date.

I was six months into a new position as editorial page editor for The Dispatch. In my previous post as editor of Columbus CEO magazine, TC had been a freelancer on whom I relied heavily for display stories, and even a few less exciting assignments. We had known each other for years as journalism colleagues and our relationship had been mostly professional to that point.

When TC asked if I'd like to meet for drinks to celebrate my new job, neither of us expected it would lead to romance and marriage. We certainly had no crystal ball to forecast the fun we've had traveling and seeking out live music. And we couldn't foresee the challenges we faced as newlyweds in the middle of a global pandemic, the heartache of losing TC's best-dog-ever, Bubs, or the shocking return of my sarcoma, which had been long been relegated to the background of my life.

That's how time passes by -- in soaring rollercoaster highs and searingly painful lows, with lots of everyday treasures and trials in between. 

And time heals as well as reveals. The passing of four weeks now since my June 9 cancer surgery has brought slow but steady relief from the initial pain of multiple small incisions and the struggle to regain energy and lung capacity. I'm not all the way back yet, but each day brings more strength and less discomfort.

When we count our blessings, especially as our lives gain more perspective, time should always be among our top thanksgivings. 

Love is a made bed

TC knows that his bedmaking skills don't quite meet my exacting standards, but this is the most beautifully made bed I've ever seen. 

Because he might not make it at all if it were up to him. 

Making the bed every day is one of the countless ways he tells me he loves me and is committed to making sure I am not doing any more than I should be for these next few weeks.

He won't let me make the bed or load and unload the dishwasher or cook or clean up the kitchen afterward. 

My only job around the house these days is to get better, and he is a loving task master keeping me focused on that goal. 

So that means TC, who is undeniably the Walter Matthau to my Jack Lemmon, is playing both roles in our Odd Couple relationship for the time being. 

And I am learning to tap into some of my inner Oscar and let go of the Felix. That lets me be just fine with a bed that is made with love if not with regimented perfection. 

Today we celebrate our third wedding anniversary, knowing that we can get through some of the "worse" on our way to a lot more "better." 

You're a good man, TC Brown. And I love you!

Here's the skinny

 

Who knew the "Leo moon" had anything to do with it, but I definitely get what my horoscope for today is saying about wanting to jump out of my skin. That's exactly how I feel as the skin across my abdomen, riddled with five surgical incisions, prickles with the itchy pain that marks the healing process. 

Comfort really is "hard to embody" right now, but that's about the only bad news.

The good news is what came out of appointments this week, first with my surgeon and then with my medical oncologist. The surgeon had just received the pathology report minutes before he entered the room where TC and I waited, and the results were written clearly in the wide grin the doctor wore.

In my lymph nodes, in margins around the lower right lung lobe that was removed and in a biopsy of the phrenic nerve that the tumor had been snuggled up against, the findings were all the same: Negative for sarcoma. 

The results could not have been better. It was what we and our friends and loved ones had been praying for. "Negative" never sounded so sweet.

My oncologist was also smiling as he walked into the exam room the next day. The negative pathology report is a strong factor in his recommendation -- for the time being anyway -- against embarking on a follow-up regimen of chemotherapy. 

Also weighing in favor of no chemo, the doctor explained, is the 12-year span between my last previous incidence of sarcoma in 2011 and the recent metastasis in my lung. Usually, going three years past an occurrence is the goal survivors shoot for, and I had quadrupled that. 

We're still waiting on results of some cutting-edge, customized blood tests that will provide more information to consider for or against chemotherapy, so the treatment protocol could still change in coming weeks. Either way, CT scans in three months will look for suspicious developments.

For now, my job is to take it slow and remind myself that the persistent painful tingling across the surgical field is just part of healing. Ditto for the frequent small coughs that interrupt my attempts to utter more than a few words at a time. Give it six weeks, the surgeon says, for full recovery.

My skin will feel more inhabitable and my lungs will allow me to carry on a conversation soon enough. 

Silver and gold

Hospital stays don't just strip you of your dignity. They can also temporarily rob you of small but important tokens of your identity. The ring that you wear on your left hand to proclaim the vow you made to your partner, for example.

I don't protest the wisdom of having patients remove all jewelry before leaving home for a major operation. There is peace of mind in knowing that it will be waiting for your return, safe and sound where you left it. 

But it compounds the sense of naked exposure you feel when, lying in your hospital bed, you are not able to take comfort in those few keepsakes that you usually wear as physical reminders of valued relationships.

Some people have a special necklace that never leaves their neck because it would feel like a betrayal to take it off. 

For me, the reminders that I am happy to be wearing once again are my wedding ring, three silver bracelets and a silver anklet.

My wedding ring is especially symbolic because of the way that TC and I put it together. Three middle bands with two embedded sapphires and two small diamonds made up the engagement ring that I picked out. Then we added my mother's and his grandmother's gold wedding bands to either side, a beautiful representation of the two families we were bringing together. I wear the side with my mother's band closest to my heart. 

Also close to my heart, I wear three silver bracelets on my left wrist that my mother gave me on consecutive Christmases. My sisters and my daughter also wear their Mom/Grandma bracelets to remember and honor her. I love fingering them as a reminder that we were blessed to have her in our lives until she was almost 96.

And on my left ankle is the silver anklet that my sister Joy gave each of us four sisters (including herself) last fall to remind us of the close bonds we share. 

That's a lot of love to leave on the counter before embarking on a journey in which you need the relationships in your life to strengthen you more than ever. 

Home from the battlefield

The view has been nice, especially after TC brought me this beautiful orchid, but we’re ready to say goodbye to The James, AKA the Comprehensive Cancer Center at the OSU Wexner Medical Center. 

The orchid is fake — no live plants are allowed inside the cancer hospital — but everything else has been overwhelmingly real this weekend. 

The surgery that had been anticipated for more than a month has left its calling card of residual pain but it also brought great relief that cancer has once again been routed from my body. We await final biopsies to get an official “all clear” but that won’t come until we see the surgeon for a follow up visit in a couple of weeks. 

Just as real is the appreciation that TC and I feel for all the expressions of prayer, hope, love, support and positive vibes from family and friends. However they were communicated, they gave us strength and comfort for this battle.

As I sit in the chair waiting to get the last few tubes unhooked so I can be discharged, I look down on Ohio Stadium and feel a little like one of the many warriors who has left that fabled field in victory.

First, all glory to God. I know why so many give that testimony above all else. When you are forced to face the reality of a cancer diagnosis and so many people tell you that they are praying for you, how can you not feel the power of heavenly intervention from whatever God you choose to follow? So thank you, Lord, and thank you to all of our loved ones and friends. 

Then we have to thank the team that provided skillful and compassionate medical care, especially the surgeon who used robotic arms to peel the egg-sized tumor off a nerve and squeeze it and part of my lung out a two-inch incision. We were gently cared for and even entertained by many nurses, patient care assistants and technicians who paraded in and out of my room, some of whom earned nicknames along the way. 

I’ll stay on my training regimen of an anti-cancer diet and healthy exercise, with a celebratory glass of wine every now and then. And I will continue to journal here through the checkups and cancer-free milestones to come. 

For now, I’m feeling the bruises of battle and will try not to run TC too ragged before I’m back up to speed. That may take a few weeks; he threatens to duct-tape me to a chair if I try to move too fast too soon.

We can almost hear the chimes ring as we get ready to head home. 

 

Tea time

Years ago I switched from drinking fully caffeinated coffee to half-caf. That wasn't enough to avoid a horrendous caffeine-withdrawal headache following my first sarcoma surgery in 2009, so I stepped down to decaf coffee, vowing to never again suffer through that pain.

Stomach issues a couple of years ago prompted a move from decaf coffee to decaffeinated tea. Luckily for me, they make decaf tea in my favorite chai flavors. 

And drinking tea has brought an unanticipated benefit. It has required me to practice a degree of patience, which TC will attest to being a challenge for me. Tea requires a few minutes to steep, you see. Even when you draw hot water instantly from a Keurig, the tea demands to be set aside for a moment. Relax, it says. Take time to reflect. Calm down. 

I've had to draw on that learned behavior this week while waiting for medical test results from last Friday and then hoping to hear definitive plans from my surgeon when we met with him yesterday. Would the latest CT scan show enough separation between my heart and the sarcoma in my lower right lung for the doctor to safely remove the tumor with minimally invasive robotic surgery? Or would a more challenging hands-on operation be required?

Take a breath, I had to remind myself over the weekend and all day Monday, waiting for test results to show up online. They still hadn't arrived when we met with the surgeon Tuesday morning, but he was unconcerned. (Maybe he's a tea drinker, too?) The CT report came in later Tuesday and shows a thin separation between the tumor and my heart but also close proximity to my esophagus. 

Breathe. So the plan is to run a camera around my innards when the surgery starts on Friday to allow the doctor to make a game-time decision on which type of surgery will work best. TC and I trust him to make the best choice. 

Relax. Now is a good time to practice another new tool in preparation for the best outcome on Friday: meditation. I plug in earbuds and listen to calming words and music as stress and anxiousness fade.

With plenty of prayers being offered to strengthen me, mindful deep-breathing to calm me, fragrant tea to comfort me and loved ones to support me, I have what I need to patiently await my surgery.

Totally Crazy

These beautiful roses showed up in a ribbon-wrapped vase on our kitchen counter the other day. They made me smile and then my grin grew as I read the card. The signature was "Totally Crazy" -- an alternative meaning for my husband's long-ago adopted first name, TC.

TC was never really meant as an acronym. An Air Force buddy started calling him TCB back in the day and soon after the "B" was dropped, shortening the nickname to TC. The full story is in the memoir he has worked on for a couple of years and which may someday be published. 

The flowers were a sweet thank-you for my help in editing his manuscript, which was a labor of love for me in many ways. I love the work of editing (and writing). I love learning more about TC's past. And I love reading his writing; he is a skilled craftsman in that art.   

The bouquet was also a fragrant (yes, these roses actually smell heavenly!) reminder that cancer is not the only thing going on in my life right now. Besides his memoir, TC and I both have projects that we enjoy doing -- he writes real estate columns for Columbus Monthly magazine and I do occasional freelance writing and editing as needed. Activities with family and friends also keep us busy. 

And the flowers remind me of the thoughtful partner who is supporting me in my cancer fight -- encouraging me to eat healthy, meditate and exercise so that I am in the best position to win this battle.

For lots of good reasons, I am "totally crazy" about TC.

Bring on the robots!

If fully independent robots can put a passable version of the iconic Mona Lisa in the foam topping a cappuccino, surely a human-guided robot can successfully excise the cancer that has once again taken up residence in my body. Right?

TC and I were a bit early on Wednesday for my appointment with the oncologist at the OSU James Cancer Center, so we couldn't resist giving the BistrOH! RoboJo animated coffee bar in the lobby a try before heading upstairs to see my doctor.

It was pretty incredible to see the machine behind the glass prepare coffee after coffee, sliding each completed custom order into a numbered slot accessible to customers who watched a video screen to follow the progress on their particular beverage. 

When the order screen asked TC what image should be used to mark his order, we both figured it was to put an identifier on the to-go cup, not in the cappuccino foam itself. Whoa!

But even that was not the most impressive part of our visit. 

Much better was what we heard from the doctor -- that the results he saw in the full-body PET scan I had earlier this month were the best we could have expected. This was the official pronouncement that the scan showed no new sites of concern. 

I had some trepidation before the appointment that the oncologist and surgeon might clash in their recommendations for my care, but those fears were also put to rest. The oncologist fully supports taking the sucker out ASAP, so we continue marching toward my June 9 date in the surgery suite. 

One downside is that he also recommends follow-up chemotherapy, but I'll do whatever it takes to fight this battle to victory. And if the long hair that took a few years to grow to its current length past my shoulders is part of the price, at least I still have my two wigs from earlier bouts. 

Pre-surgery tests on June 2 will tell whether the surgeon will be able to do the robotic surgery that he and I both prefer or if it will have to be a more open, hands-on operation to navigate safely past my heart. 

I'm taking the RoboJo coffee performance as an omen that more robots are in my future. 

Flowers of hope

 

The card that came with the colorful bouquet sent by friends shared a message as beautiful as the blooms: Flowers are a sign of hope. So is a positive PET scan. 

A note that a neighbor delivered with a bright bunch of daisies carried another positive message: Hope you get a clean scan. 

The flowers and their accompanying sentiments are pretty reminders of all the positive thoughts and prayers I have been receiving since sharing the news of my cancer's rude return. TC and I will take the powerful energy of our well-wishers into my appointment with the oncologist on Wednesday. 

We expect the doctor will provide his official interpretation of my full-body scan from last week and then discuss next steps. On our initial visit with him a few weeks ago, the oncologist was talking about chemotherapy as a likely scenario. Now that we have more information from the May 9 biopsy and May 17 full-body scan, the question may be whether we should follow up surgery with chemo or maybe even some kind of immunotherapy. 

I know research has produced new therapies and approaches since my last go-round with sarcoma 15 years ago. Now we'll get a closer look than I had ever hoped to as to just how far medicine has come. 

Scan-tastic!

The medical-speak language in the online test results I opened yesterday was initially unclear, and TC and I couldn't help but read it with scary skepticism. Then a physician friend looked it over and eased our minds. It was, indeed, good news, The head-to-toe PET scan I had earlier in the day did not locate any new suspicions of cancer lurking in my body other than the lung mass and a nearby nodule first detected in a chest X-ray a few weeks ago.

Hallelujah! Our prayers, and those of my legion of prayer warriors, were answered.

Our relief was levitating. It could have been so much worse. If other locations had been found, it would have meant a change in treatment plans from a surgical remedy to who-knows-what. Chemo? Immunotherapy? Radiation?

Only after hearing the good news, could TC voice what I had also feared but couldn't say -- that the scan would light me up "like a Christmas tree." Instead, it was like the scan gave us an early Christmas.

We will see the oncologist this coming Wednesday. Then more tests are scheduled for June 2 to prepare for surgery on June 9. The prayer now is that the tests will show I can easily tolerate the operation and that there is clear separation between the lung tumor and my nearby heart so the doc can remove the cancer robotically without having to do a huge incision. 

Thank you to all whose prayers continue to give me strength. 

Cut it out!

We met with a surgeon today and were pleased to hear that he recommends surgery on a fast track to take out the sarcoma that has reinvaded me. 

There are a couple of hurdles to clear first, starting with a full-body PET scan tomorrow, May 17, to make sure there are no other places where the cancer is lurking. Then he'll also want another scan to make sure the tumor is not too close to my heart so he can do the surgery robotically, with a much faster recovery time.

If all goes well, the surgery will be on June 9 at the OSU James Cancer Hospital. 

This is still very surreal. I feel too good to be this sick, but I am so thankful that I didn't have to wait until I felt really bad to learn that I have this cancer to fight again. Angels are watching over me.

Required reading

I confess: I don't always read the books that my two book clubs are reading. 

But the last one I read for my condo book club put me on a path to begin fighting my latest incidence of sarcoma much sooner than if I had waited for my next regular cancer checkup. How many book clubs can say they may have saved a life?

The book we were reading was Rough Sleepers by Tracy Kidder, and a passage toward the end struck me like lightening. 

I had been having unexplained pain in my left arm and shoulder for several months, and the book mentioned a homeless woman whose shoulder pain was wrongfully dismissed as stemming from an injury years earlier instead of being accurately perceived as a symptom of lung cancer. What!? 

Once you've had cancer, and especially when you've had it more than once, you tend to view every new ache as a sign of the dreaded disease returning. And then you try to tell yourself you're just being paranoid. But here was information that maybe my nagging shoulder pain was more than a sore muscle. So I freaked out, got an appointment with my primary care practice, told the physician's assistant about my lingering pain and the scary passage I had read. 

Thankfully, she ordered a chest X-ray and thus started my journey to dealing with an unexpected golf-ball-sized mass it revealed in my lower right lung. Otherwise, it would have been August before I was due for an annual chest X-ray as part of my cancer follow-up at the OSU James Cancer Center.

The PA also referred me to an orthopedic doc, who X-rayed my shoulder and found no rotator cuff issues, so he gave me a steroid shot and some exercises to do. Meanwhile, hubby TC has me doing daily meditation and following an anti-cancer diet. This combination of strategies has me feeling much better while we await further test results and consultations with a surgeon and an oncologist.

The moral of my story: read those book club books! You never know where it will lead you. 

Back to the future

Almost fifteen years after my first diagnosis, and 12 years after a single small recurrence, I really didn't expect to be writing again about dealing with a new sarcoma tumor. But there it is -- a golf ball-sized mass in my lower right lung. 

So my path forward means taking a backstep first to a drill that I have completed successfully twice before and fully intend to again. Make that three times before if you count my breast cancer in 1996. 

I go into this fight with a lot of positives on my side. I am feeling as healthy and fit as I have ever felt. The doctors I will be seeing at OSU's James Cancer Center are even more experienced with sarcoma than in my last go-round. And while I had a supportive and optimistic spouse at my side then, God rest Tom's soul, new hubby TC is not taking this sitting down. He already has us on an anti-cancer diet and has shown me the power of meditation to tap into my body's own healing strength. 

I know there is an army of friends and loved ones ready to be prayer warriors when they learn the fight is on again. They will carry me through this battle just as they did before.

And I will continue to chronicle the journey here. Writing these blog entries was therapeutic for me before, and I know it will be again. I hope you will find my journaling to be entertaining, educational and inspiring.

Thank you in advance for all of you who will walk with me by following my progress and lending me your strength. This win will be epic! And there will be many more beach vacations to come.