April 6, 2012

• Back Into Battle

  Posted by Stephanie  11pm CST  from Joe and Sarah’s  Pearland, TX

  Hey gang. Long time no see talk. I have sat down at my computer many a time in the last few weeks, ready to churn out a post, but something has usually pulled me away–a phone call, dinner, etc.  I told myself that was okay, because I was busy getting stuff done, making things happen….living life (and by golly, that’s a blessed opportunity for me). So then, what is it that brings me to put up an actual post? Sadly, nothing good.

  Sammy and I are in Houston for a checkup for me. It’s his spring break, so we decided to drive down and spend the whole week here. Go to Galveston, eat lots of great food, visit with friends. Oh, and of course undergo the requisite scans and doctor’s appointments. I had the scans Wednesday night–CTs of the chest (requires I.V. insertion for contrast), abdomen (had to drink delicious barium), and pelvis (involved having a tube shoved up the bum for rectal contrast); and was certain that would be the most unpleasant part of our hospital time. And it was, until we saw Dr. Benjamin the next morning.

  The appointment with Dr. Benjamin started the same as always–a big hug and an inspection of my current hairdo. He sat down and asked, “Feeling good?” Yes, albeit a bit sore from surgery and easily tired, but yes. “And you look good on the outside.” Thanks. “But not on the inside.” Ugh. Those words made my stomach drop. He went on to explain that I had not one, but three small nodules in my left lung. Moreover, I had a large (10 cm), rapidly growing tumor on the left side of my liver. He spun around in his chair and brought up the scans on the computer, sliding through images until he found the area in question. Three months ago on the scan, there’s no sign of it, but there it is now, big and hideous. The return of disease in more than one place is cause for concern, but the real danger is in how quickly the liver mass is growing. “Running rampant through your body” is the phrase I believe he used. He went on to explain that had the Ifosfamide we used last year to treat my lung and lymph node areas been truly effective for my whole system, I shouldn’t have disease recurring only a handful of months after the chemo was stopped. That fact has led him to believe that trying Ifosfamide via the backpack again, like last year, would not be effective, and going back to high-dose inpatient Ifosfamide would, in his words, “probably kill you”. In fact, according to Dr. B, there aren’t any great options for treatment this time around. Each time previously, he’s felt the chance for success and remission was very high, but this time, we’re “up against the wall with no place to go, and this may very well be our last stand”.

  By this point in the conversation, I was feeling a little numb. My eyes were on Dr. Benjamin, but my brain was threatening to shut down. I managed to stay present enough in the conversation to hear that his plan of attack is to use the Adriamycin-Cisplatin chemo combo. Those of you who have been following this blog from the start may remember that that combo is the first one tried on my initial tumor. You may also remember that it was ineffective against said tumor at the time. Dr. B said that since these metastases are mutations of my original tumor, perhaps the combo will be more effective this time around. Surgical resection may be possible, but only if we see response first. Otherwise we’d just be cutting out tumor that’s guaranteed to keep growing. He was upfront in saying that he feels the chance of success with this chemo is small, and he wanted me to understand what that truly means–that I may soon be untreatable. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know. How long did I have if my tumors did not respond? “Well,” he said, “at the current rate of growth, I’d say you have 3-6 months before the liver tumor becomes more than your body can handle.”

  BOOM. There it is. Holy $*&#. I could be dead in three months. Not exactly what I expected to hear today. I truly believed coming into this appointment that I would have clear scans, and even if I didn’t, it would just be another small lung nodule, slow growing and treatable. This, well, this sucks, to put it mildly.

  It was impossible to hide my emotion at hearing that bomb, and I felt a few tears spill over as Sammy reached over to clench my fingers tightly in his. I know that it’s important to really be in a moment like that, and acknowledge how I’m feeling, instead of just tamping it down inside me. So, I did. After Dr. B and team left, Sammy and I stayed in the room a few minutes to have a few “What the hell are we going to do this time?” moments, and then it was time to pick ourselves up, dust off, and put on our game faces. Warrior mode, here we come.

  So yeah, that’s it in a nutshell, though there’s still more info to share when it’s not after midnight and I’m no longer exhausted. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll have a new CVC line put in, and later in the afternoon, I’ll be admitted to the hospital to start chemo. Once I’m settled, I’ll get back on and post with some more details about treatment and what’s to come the next few weeks.

  Be certain of this. I. AM. NOT. DONE. This stupid disease has not won, and I am ready to defy the odds and prove the doctors wrong. I’m in for the fight of my life this time, and I fight dirty. Look out, cancer, I’m coming for you.

  -Steph

  • 1:28 am
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