Tuesday, August 12, 2014

An Update

After chemo yesterday, I'm feeling pretty queasy today. I don't usually take Quinn to daycare on Tuesdays, but the option was available today so I took advantage of it. And even though our trip to Portland alleviated much of my anxiety going into this week, I still cried into Quinn's pillow in the dark as I laid down to tuck him in last night. Some of it was the slight stress I was feeling over my scan results -- UPDATE: as I was writing this, my doctor called to tell me MY SCANS WERE CLEAN!

There's no easy transition here, and mostly, my tears last night had to do with a friend, Brigid, who was admitted to the hospital yesterday for the third time in the last couple of weeks. It is really tough to celebrate my good news at the same time that my friend suffers. The tumors that have been plaguing her lungs for nearly eight years with nary a symptom are now growing so fast they are causing her lungs to repeatedly fill with fluid despite procedures to drain them; Brigid can no longer breathe very well unassisted. 
{Brigid and me, December 2013}
On paper, Brigid's cancer is very similar to my own: Stage 4, Her-2 and ER/PR+. But the drug that has held me in remission for nine months now had almost no effect on Brigid's cancer. Killing cancer is not yet a perfect science. 

When I first met her, I was in awe of how long Brigid had lived with this disease -- about five years at the time. As I approach the three-year anniversary of my diagnosis, though, I realize five years isn't close to enough time; neither is eight years. Is there ever enough? Are we ever ready to throw in the towel? Does it matter what we want?

Who knows why I respond to drugs that haven't stopped Brigid's disease from progressing? Who knows how long my luck will hold? For now, I am feeling an odd mix of relief and fear for my friend. My stomach is doing flip-flops, and this time I can't entirely blame chemo.

8 comments:

  1. Living without answers is one of the hardest things about metastatic disease. There are no certainties, no guarantees of anything. I'm thrilled for your clean scans and empathize with your pain about your friend.
    -- jodyms

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    1. It is so tough, feeling so helpless so often, and always the unanswered questions. Today, I want to celebrate and cry at the same time, though I'm still holding out hope (always hoping) for my friend. Thank you for your note, Jody.

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  2. dear Jen,

    I am so thrilled for your clean scans and wish so much you could celebrate the way you deserve . knowing your friend is in such a scary place must be so very difficult, so many questions, and no definitive answers. I will align with the biggest hope I can muster for both you and for Brigid. what a lovely photo of the two of you!

    much love,

    Karen xoxo

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    1. Thank you, Karen! I think that, in part, that is the nature of metastatic breast cancer, getting used to living in a scary space. I imagine it's like growing old in that you start losing a lot of friends. It just seems very unnatural at my age. Good news, though - Brigid is home from the hospital this week!

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  3. I am glad your scans were great, and share your sadness for your friend. No way to spin it, cancer sucks. :(

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    1. Thank you, Cheryl. "No way to spin it" might be the title of a future post ;) Lot of love.

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  4. I cried as I read. You do this to me. Love you!!

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