Monday, August 27, 2018: I woke up my boys for the first day
of school, waved aside their grumblings, and left them to hopefully get out of
bed and find some cereal as I fought construction and rush hour traffic on my
way to Dallas for a 9:00 AM brain MRI. No first-day-of-school pictures for us.
Mommy has to go check on her brain tumors.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018: The day of waiting. This is always
the worst day. I tried to stay busy with seminary prep, errand running, and a
couple of episodes of the Great British
Baking Show, but my stomach was in knots. What if there are more lesions?
What if the old ones are growing? What if I have to do more immunotherapy
treatment? What would that mean? More sickness? Another abrupt halt to my life?
Wednesday, August 29, 2018: After 5:30 AM seminary, I buzzed home to
find Luke coughing, feverish, and too sick to go to school. I showed him where
the frozen corn dogs are for lunch, kissed his hot forehead, packed my purse
full of snacks and a Diet Coke, then climbed in the car with Brad to once again
fight the construction/rush hour traffic to Dallas. We arrived at Dr. S’s
office two minutes before our 9:00 AM appointment. They took us right back.
Dr. S opened the exam room door, MRI report in hand, and
mumbled some sort of greeting that sounded like “You doing good?”
“Yeah,” I said, eyeing the MRI report. The key to my life or
lack thereof.
“So you’ve already heard?” Dr. S looked confused.
Huh? I didn’t say
it, but I’m sure my face did. I stumbled over a few words, Dr. S stumbled over
a few words, and finally he paused and repeated what he must’ve said when he
first came in. “It looks good.”
“It does?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, back on normal footing now. “It looks
great.”
It does? Great? Great, how? Great—new lesions small enough
to treat again, or great—nothing new?
I was clearly not processing the information Dr. S wanted to
give me, so he sat down, handed me the report and said, “There are no new
spots. It looks great. Some of your old lesions are even gone.”
I stared down at the typed report, at words like “interval
decrease in size of the hemorrhagic lesion within the right posterior cingulate
gyrus” and “right medial occipital lobe and left superior parietal lobe are
redemonstrated. No associated enhancement.” These words meant nothing to me,
especially with my buzzing thoughts. What did this all mean? Was this actual
good news?
Dr. S kept talking, giving me a play-by-play of each of my
six previously treated spots, and in between all the big doctor words, I heard
him say two of my treated lesions are gone, and the remaining four are
significantly smaller.
I wasn't quite sure I could believe this. “Even the big one?” The first one they found last fall was
the biggest lesion, and there was some question when they radiated it as to
whether it would respond or require surgery. It always looks the biggest and
scariest on the scan pictures—a hard, white invader in my otherwise fluffy, gray
brain.
“Yep.”
He gave me the exact measurements, but I wasn’t really listening.
My heart was pounding, my two-fewer-lesioned brain doing cartwheels around the
four shrinking tumors. It’s working. All
this stuff we’ve been doing for the last year is working.
“We’ll schedule another MRI in three months to keep tabs.”
Dr. S stood up and smiled almost apologetically. “Sorry you drove all this way
for just a few minutes. Good news appointments are always short.”
I glanced at Brad, who was grinning like a wild man. “We’ll
gladly drive out here for good news.”
Then Dr. S was gone, leaving Brad and me sitting alone in
the empty room. There was nothing left to do but go, but as soon as Brad stood and
turned expectantly to me, my eyes filled with tears. I watched his do the same,
and his face crumbled with the same relief washing through me.
It’s working. This stupid cancer is edging away.
I somehow ended up in his arms, and we stood there hugging
and crying for I don’t know how long. Luckily the doctor’s office wasn’t very
busy, so nobody walked by the open door and saw us boobing like a couple of
babies—or if they did, they were discreet about it. When we finally exited the
room, it felt like the hallway lights had been turned on their very brightest
setting. Nobody stopped us to schedule another radiation surgery, and the
office suite door swished closed behind us so easily and cheerfully. See you in three months, it seemed to
say. You’re good to go.
We also had an appointment with Dr. C, and he confirmed that
with no new brain lesions, we could continue on “watch mode” with no plans for
resuming treatment. This is by no means a get-out-of-jail-free card, as the
cancer may have just slowed down, but it’s a step in the right
direction. I will continue to get CT scans on my abdomen and MRIs on my brain
every three months for at least another two years. It’s possible something new
could show up—melanoma likes to hide and return like the nasty little gnat it
is—but right now I am basking in the possibility it won’t. Right now I’m
enjoying looking down the imaginary road of my life and not seeing the end, or
even any road blocks. I feel as though my whole future has opened back up. I’m
ready to think about something besides cancer.
To celebrate, we took the boys to Fuzzy’s Tacos for dinner—my
choice, because, well, tacos are delicious. As we munched our crispy, drippy, spicy
supper, I had the fleeting thought that we ought to make some sort of a toast
to commemorate. I’m not a drinker, so I don’t know the toasting rules, but it
would be okay to raise a taco in gratitude, wouldn’t it?
Let’s just say it is.
My Taco Toast:
Here’s to doctors who know what they’re doing.
Here’s to insurance that allows me to go to doctors who know
what they’re doing.
Here’s to all the smart science people who figured out a better
treatment in the thirteen years since my melanoma first appeared. If it had metastasized
back then, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
Here’s to my extended family and Brad’s extended family who
have cried with me and prayed for me and cheered me on via text and phone calls
and anything else they could think of.
Here’s to faraway friends who’ve felt so close and real and
comforting. I’m pretty sure y’all are the reason God invented the internet.
Here’s to my ward members and Texas friends, whose
casseroles, soups, chicken dinners, flowers, cookies, hugs, and tearful arm pats
are full of voodoo magic. If it were possible to love cancer away, y’all could
do it. Maybe you have.
Here’s to my kids, who have had to put on their grown-up
pants and look out for Mom. It both breaks and warms my heart to see the worry
in their eyes and be on the receiving end of their care when it should be the
other way around.
Here’s to Brad. My sweet Mann. My love for you is too big
for words, and I am so not ready to say goodbye. I don’t think I ever will be.
And here’s to my Savior. My testimony of Him is as
necessary as air, a consistent life raft in a cold and stormy ocean. No matter
what happens, I know He will save me, and I trust Him to decide what that
means.
Here’s to no new lesions.
I’ll absolutely crunch to that.