Let’s get this out of the way: I had a scan last Thursday. My tumor hasn’t changed significantly. There’s a very tiny measurement of growth. One of my lymph nodes is notably enlarged, which they think is an immune response at this point.
Bottom line: I’m suffering all of these side effects with no real difference in my tumor.
I’ll probably have three more rounds of Doxil, as scheduled. I may be eligible for a clinical trial. A lot is up in the air, as usual. I’ll let you know as I know.
After the phone call, I holed myself up in my apartment. I cried. I told my parents to ask people not to call. I cried some more. I ignored text messages and phone calls, opting to post my disappointing news on Facebook and Instagram to rip the Band-aid off and relay the news as quickly as possible. I watched four straight episodes of Chernobyl, because nothing made sense except for the world being on fire and people looking at each other asking, “how could this have happened?”
In the days since, I struggled to get out of bed. (I’m increasingly grateful I have a dog to hold me accountable.) I’ve noticed a few thoughts circling in my head, and the more I think about them, the more they made sense. They are not nice or comfortable. They are not anything you will find on a greeting card. Maybe they are wisdom, maybe just my own thoughts cloaked in sadness, or bitterness masquerading as knowledge, but nevertheless, they’re hard-won and I believe them to be true, for me, right now.
Three Uncomfortable Truths
1. It is not my job to make anyone comfortable: it is my job to tell the truth.
I recently read a memoir by Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgarif, the hosts of one of my go-to podcasts, My Favorite Murder. There’s a beautiful passage in the book in which Karen describes a picnic she attended. Her mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and a friend asked her how she was doing. Instead of resorting to sugar-coating the truth or writing off her own experience, as she was accustomed, Karen said a “truer thought hit her.” Here’s what happened next. Read the whole thing. It’s worth it.
“Having a parent with Alzheimer’s is like living inside a horror moving that’s playing out in real time. It’s as horrifying and awful as it is tedious and mundane. It’d be like if you lived in the movie Jaws. You’re happily swimming in the ocean and then everyone starts screaming, ‘Shark!’ You start to panic, but then someone else yells that the shark is twenty miles away, so you calm down a little. But then a third person gets on the bullhorn and says you’re not allowed to get out of the water ever again. So you start panicking and flailing and fighting and yelling for help. You scream about how unfair it is, you having to be out in the ocean with this killer shark alone when all those other people get to be on the beach… You finally start to accept that it’s your fate. But then you start thinking everything that touches you is the shark. You can’t calm down because you can’t stop reacting to things that aren’t there. You grab wildly at anything that looks like a weapon, but every time, it turns out to be seaweed… You get really tired and cry so hard you think your head will burst. And then finally, you gather all your strength and turn and look at the shark. Now it’s 19.8 miles away. It’s the slowest shark in history, but you know it’s coming right for you. And after five years in the water, you start rooting for the [explative] shark.”
Karen said the mood of the barbeque changed. She was embarrassed that she overshared and brought things down. And then a friend who had his own experience with Alzheimer’s grabbed her by the shoulders and said she was so right, that he felt the exact same way. “After that, I never lied when someone asked me how things were going with my mom. Instead of worrying about the comfort of the person who was asking, I started thinking about whoever might be listening to my answer,” Karen explained.
I love this story for so many reasons. I’ve written before about how being on chemo without progress is like treading water. I have wanted the shark to hurry on up, too. But most importantly, like Karen, I have decided not to waste any more words or time on sugarcoating my experience.
I started this blog to keep people updated on my treatment and to share my experiences in an effort to increase understanding, but more than anything, it is a way for me to shout out into the void and say “hey! Anyone else out there?” And let me tell you, it’s such a relief that a few people have shouted back, “Yes! Here! I am here!” I have met several people, both in person and online, that are also facing this confusing, life-altering diagnosis. That this blog has a wider audience than just desmoid patients or cancer patients is still rather remarkable and surprising to me. So if it has some wider-reaching posts or more enduring wisdom scattered among the treatment updates – awesome. But I’m truly writing for the 5 people that are in the water too, who respond, “oh my gosh, this shark. It’s awful.” And for their sakes, I will not lie or water down my truth, because maybe, on the rare occasion when the stars align, it will be exactly what they need to hear.
2. I do not owe anyone my optimism.
As I read recently in the Benediction for an amazing woman who the world lost too soon, “[b]lessed are they who can’t fall apart because they have to keep it together for everyone else. Blessed are those who ‘still aren’t over it yet.'”
I’m sorry to tell you that sixteen months post-diagnosis, I’m still not over this whole tumor thing. On Friday, I wasn’t over my results being so disappointing. I’m still not. When your skin is blistering and peeling, your joints ache, ten hours of sleep is insufficient, and it hurts to simply have your elbows touch your bedsheets, it’s really hard to keep your chin up, to expect miracles, to stay positive. These are things that I hope to do, and I expect I will someday, but I do not have the bandwidth for right now, and I think I’m allowed to be furious and rage at the world for a bit.
As a society, we like our cancer patients bald and brave. We like the completed, abridged story: diagnosis, successful treatment, the afterglow.
There is a truthful but uncomfortable article that I came across last year in which the author writes, “I think that as a culture we place unreasonable expectations on the people we love when they’re very sick. We need them to be strong, upbeat, and positive. We need them to be this way for us… There’s nothing wrong with hope. After all, Emily Dickinson says, ‘hope is the thing with feathers,’ but not at the expense of canceling out all the other complex emotions, including sadness, fear, guilt, and anger. As a culture, we can’t drown this out.”
I am glad to be someone who is perceived as happy and hopeful… but I am no Pollyanna. And I certainly do not want the fact that I have cancer to distill my personality to brave, optimistic, and positive. Maybe I am those things, but if I read that character in a play, I’d call her boring, flat, and unrealistic. Ask anyone in close proximity to me and they’ll confirm: I can be moody and irritable, and bitter and sarcastic. (You know, human.) I do not have the energy to pretend to be something I am not. As I said in uncomfortable truth number one, I’m interested in the truth. If my truth is hopeful some days, then it’s hopeful. If it’s angry others, then it’s angry. Neither of those things is bad, and both of them are true.
3. It does not get easier.
It just doesn’t. Not after the pathology comes back. Not after telling the news a million times. Not after half a dozen MRIs. Not after starting a blog. Not at all. Sorry.
This is the analogy that makes the most sense to me, shared on a friend’s post on Facebook.
“Imagine you’re going about your day, minding your own business, when someone sneaks up behind you… You feel something press up against the back of your head, as someone whispers in your ear. ‘Sssshhhhh…. don’t turn around. Just listen. I am holding a gun against the back of your head. I’m going to keep it there. I’m going to follow you around like this every day, for the rest of your life. I’m going to press a bit harder, every so often, just to remind you I’m here, but you need to try your best to ignore me, to move on with your life. Act like I’m not here, but don’t you ever forget… one day I may just pull the trigger… or maybe I won’t. Isn’t this going to be a fun game?’ This is what it is like to be diagnosed with cancer. Any stage of cancer. Any kind of cancer. Remission does not change the constant fear. It never truly goes away. It’s always in the back of your mind.”
I can hear you asking: so if it doesn’t get easier, then what?
I don’t honestly know. I’m still working on it. But maybe you learn to celebrate the tiny victories that you can, like getting out of bed, making it through a class at the gym pretty successfully, or not needing a painkiller. You smile. You find professionals who can help you make sense of this mess and hopefully give you tools to cope. You cry. You hope and pray that some of this has a purpose. You try, with every breath, to put one foot in front of the other and remember that despite it all, you are here. And you try to be grateful for it. Maybe some days you’re successful, others not so much. But you try, and it is enough.