Because I'm stubborn, and am making an effort not to let myself get too "high" or too "low" based on any information I receive from my doctors, I'm only going to share a few details of the results of the PET scan here.
Mainly, that it was good news. Progress has been made in the first 2 cycles. The spread seems to have ceased. Cancer showing up in the scan was less. As much as they had hoped? Perhaps not. Still, we're taking it as a positive, and we're going to continue as planned. If later adjustments need to be made, they will be.
If this seems like a pessimistic approach to good news, I apologize. It isn't meant to be. I am just far too familiar with this disease and the unpredictability of it--the ups and the downs, the swings that almost feel inevitable--are harder to cope with if you're taking the full downward or upward swing with them.
That's how I'm approaching it at least. Never too high. Never too low. Just go with the program.
Want me to celebrate good news?
The day I hear the "R" word, and that my treatment is done, then you can see my celebrate.
On that day, this will be me:
Until then, I'm gonna keep pretending to be a tough guy, and do what my doctors tell me.
News Alert:
Chemo sucked. I got a bed this time. I also got a nurse who had never administered this kind of Chemo. She was very sweet and did her best...but at 5pm on a day that I had arrived at the hospital at 7:30am...I just wanted out of there.
The psychological aspect of this is wild. Just writing/thinking about this now makes me want to puke. I can taste it.
(5 minutes later)
I did puke. So, moving on.
While in the waiting room, I did see a guy that shook me to the bone. He couldn't have been more than 25, and couldn't have weighed more than 75 pounds. He looked like the kind of malnourished human you only see on the news, in far off, foreign, unfamiliar places. The kind of paper thin where the gums fit so tightly around every tooth that it almost looks like the mouth is constantly open, the outlines so clear. He was there to receive another round of chemo.
He was the most fragile person I've seen in there to date--which is saying something. I tried not to stare at him, but in my mind, a gentle breeze would have tipped him over and ruined his existence. He would have shattered like porcelain on the tiled floor.
How is he here? How is he not in hospice? Or at minimum, in a wheelchair?
Instead, they called his name. He took his time getting to his feet, gathering himself, and with a faint smile painted on a stretched face, he made his way back to welcome what had helped bring him to this state.
Another round.
It's been a rough couple days for me.
But my god, what the fuck do I have to complain about?
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