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!