Cycles 10-12, and a Miracle

Cycles 10-12, and a Miracle

My apologies for not making a blog entry in so long--things have been stressful and distracting. Poor excuses, but, there you have it.

Cycles 10-12 were pretty uneventful; there has been a rise in my blood pressure, which I attribute to the Avastin and the general effect of my veins shrinking. Benign hypertension, my GP called it. Another pill to swallow in the morning.

I had an..interesting...experience with the nurse at my GP's office; a reaction that I will have to explore more fully in the future.

A CT Scan followed Cycle 12, and showed no spread and no growth in my cancer. Then, this little gem gets slipped into the conversation while discussing the CT results: "You know, some of what I see here could just be scar tissue."

Now, this was something that had not been suggested before: I had been told, after my consult with the liver surgeon, that my cancer was chronic--that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for the rest of my life. I was resolved to that. I understood the odds: average life expectancy for stage 4 adennocarcinoma is two years post diagnosis, and that only 8% of those diagnosed live 5 years or longer after the cancer is discovered. I checked my skin every morning for jaundice, and got used to the fatigue and nausea. I was getting myself ready.

I had never considered being cured. Statistically, it's a remote possibility, but that "remote" is pretty remote--better to focus on keeping the monster at bay, than to waste time and energy focusing on the next-to impossible. So when my oncologist suggested that some of the cancer might be dead, I felt a little shocked. Then, I felt scared--I had had my hopes raised and dashed before, and I was none too eager to go down the same route again.

So, I asked for an MRI to find out how much cancer was left in my liver. The doctor was reluctant at first, and with good reason--the liver doesn't handle radiation all that well, particularly after an aggressive course of chemo. But not knowing is the worst thing, so I insisted.

The MRI was more uncomfortable than noisy--lying with my arms raised over my head aggravates my shoulder, which is still tight from the damage I did to it back in the 90's. 20 minutes in and out, and the most taxing part was trying to find a vein for the IV. Three days later, I get the phone call from the oncologist.

"I've looked at your films, and it's...interesting."

I hate pregnant pauses--especially on this subject. "Well, is it interesting good or is it interesting bad?"

"Well, the interesting thing is, I can't see any cancer in you liver."

That will bring you to a dead stop. A little too good to be true.

Time for a second opinion: the liver specialist, who had seen the lesions on both lobes of the liver and explained why I couldn't undergo surgery. I was supposed to see him today, but he was called away by an emergency operation. I was, though, able to talk with him this morning before he left for surgery. His conclusion: no visible cancer in the liver.

It's a miracle.

Of course, it's not over yet--I have a follow up with a new oncologist in August, when I'll undergo blood-work to check for cancer markers in my blood. After that, probably a PET scan a month or so down the road to confirm the diagnosis. But, as of right now, as far as medical technology can determine, I'm cancer free.

It's a miracle.