Mr. T and I have been
waiting since early May to see how the cancer would react to the new molecule
All along I’ve been
expecting the worst since I can feel that something is not right in my
body. I have pain -- should I use the word
discomfort? -- in various places where the tumors, or in some cases, enlarged
lymph nodes, are located. At least two
of them (~ 4 cm. x 3 cm.) are attached to the muscle wall of my abdomen and I
can feel it when I walk or reach or bend over.
So when these anomalies “talk” to me, they are constantly whispering
that something is not right. There is
not a waking moment when I’m not aware that I have cancer. I try to rationalize based on the experience
of the first chemo when I felt some pain as the tumors were melting. But this is different, it’s just a constant
nagging reminder that the cancer is still there, digging in, taking root,
getting comfortable.
The anxiety of suspecting
what’s going on, but not KNOWING, is unbearable. It literally drives me crazy. I become obsessed with my body and am
constantly palpating my “lumps”. Bigger?
Smaller? Stable? Dr. D. advises me to
not let the pain get established since it’s harder to control so I take
paracetamol & codeine throughout the day and before going to bed. Mr. T observes all of this from the corner of
his eye and doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t miss a trick and tries to keep me
on an even keel.
Having Élodie here with us
provides an excellent diversion. I try
and spend as much time with her as possible.
She is just learning to walk and is learning baby sign language and it
is just fascinating watching her discovery the world around her. She obviously loves her “Mamie Lee” and that
provides me with immense joy. I feel a
huge sense of urgency being with her since I don’t know when I’ll see her again
or for how long. However, even that
which provides comfort can also cause tension, and I realize that I am so bent
on being with her as much as possible that I’m exhausted at the end of the day.
I’ve had three treatments with
the new molecule, the last one on June 19th, followed by a PET scan
on the 20th and an MRI on the 21st.
We have to wait two weeks, 16 days to be exact, to get the results of the
exams.
Dr. D. tells us “I’m not
going to beat around the bush – the cancer is not responding to the treatment”.
I’m actually relieved to hear what’s
going on, rather than remaining in the dark another instant. She then explains
the next tactical move: I’m to be
enrolled in an ongoing study of the effects of the “Folfox” cocktail on
recurrent ovarian cancer. One of the
molecules in this combination is oxaliplatin, a variant to the carboplatin used
in my first treatment. One again I allow
my hopes to rise.
There is a difference in the
treatment regime: it occurs every two
weeks, instead of three, and I spend one day in the day hospital receiving one
of the molecules by drip and then I go home with a pump attached to my
port-a-cath which dispenses the other molecules over a 48-hour period. I must return to the hospital to have the
pump removed. We have to completely
rework the dates in the agenda to accommodate this new rhythm, reminding me
that my life really revolves around the disease. The first treatment is to start the following
Tuesday (July 10th).
In the meantime, I take my
test results to my general practitioner who carefully reviews the reports. I explain to him that what I’m missing is the
“big picture”. If I talk to the
oncologist, she can tell me about chemotherapy; the surgeon can talk about
surgery; the immunologist about the immune system, etc. But no one can give me a synthesis about how
all of these parts could or should fit together. I feel like I’m in a quest for THE best
solution and I don’t have the knowledge, with only a bachelor’s in biology, to
figure out how all of the puzzle pieces fit together. Furthermore, I feel like my life depends on
finding and doing the right thing. He
looked at me and said “Personne au monde
can tell you what is really happening or what is the best thing to do.” In some way, I’m relieved to be told that
there is no ONE solution.
On Tuesday, I show up at the
hospital for my blood work and to have the port-a-cath “opened” in preparation
for the treatment. When I get to the day
hospital, they inform me that I can’t have the treatment since my white blood
cell count is too low. I feel so angry
and frustrated. I’m almost home when the
hospital calls and tells me to come back since I left before they closed the
port-a-cath. Mr. T realizes that I’m coming home and I’m furious. He is incredible. He greets me at the door, hugs me, comforts
me, puts on a DVD of a Norah Jones concert until I calm down a bit and then we
go out to lunch together. He then drives
me to the hospital and waits while they close the port-a-cath.This never would
have happened a year ago and I am so grateful for his patience, his presence,
and his cool-headedness in the face of adversity.
I love you, Mr. T.
