It was deja vue all over again. My oncologist sitting in front of me with a really perplexed look on his face. "Your counts were low two weeks ago and so we didn't do chemo, figuring they'd rebound but they haven't. In fact, they are lower than last week, down to .5. Your liver enzymes are also elevated again, which is unusual. Honestly, I really don't know why this is happening."
Bwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. I blew out a deep, long breath and waited for him to continue, not loving that this was the second time my too-honest-for-his-own-good oncologist had told me that my situation was "unique" and "unusual" for his 30+ years on the job. They'd been huddling outside the office for a good 20 minutes, waiting for the input from my hematologist, and I was nervous about where this was going. [Little did she know, the worst was yet to come...]
"So, we are going to need to do a bone marrow biopsy to see what is going on. We'll schedule that for tomorrow and get this all figured out."
A BONE MARROW BIOPSY? Are you fucking kidding me?
I got teary, again, and sat there for a minute trying to collect myself and not go into full panic mode.
[Bone marrow biopsy means they are looking for something like leukemia, which can occur as a result of chemo. Shit, shit, shit! What if I have leukemia? What the hell am I going to do? There is NO WAY I can handle anything else, especially not leukemia. I am done. Forget it, I am quitting chemo. What does the taxol get me? Probably nothing. Shit, what if I have LEUKEMIA? Shit, shit, shit!]
And then got up and left, feeling incredibly numb.
Nick had gone up north with the kids for a week, my sister wasn't coming in until evening the next day and that put her in Ann Arbor after the biopsy. I had to face the procedure without Nick, and ask my dear friend Jenn to put off her family vacation to take me. And what if something was really wrong? What then?
So much of what wears you down in being ill, dealing with doctors, dealing with health issues is the not knowing. Not knowing how things will turn out, not knowing what the treatment will be like or how your body will handle it, not knowing what is happening when things go very, very wrong. The dreaded words are "X is happening and we don't know why." I think of my friend Ashley's stroke and my friend of a friend Maria's TBI that is causing new problems. I think of my friend Beth who deserves to get her zing back and my dear friend Anne in London who has just started on the path I began back in March. So fragile are these experiences where so much hangs on so many factors. It's easy to get frustrated at the doctor's not knowing or be angry with your body, but it's really just the reality of not knowing that leaves you paralyzed.
My sister and I also ventured into the conversation about what my longer term stats look like. I've never gone there, too scared to start googling about and the medical community is reluctant to raise those issues with patients (thank goodness) unless prompted by the patient's need to know. But Lisa had done her homework and so we started talking about what this means going forward. Basically, if I make it 5 years without a new cancer, I am in great shape. If not, not so much. Triple negative cancer has a higher recurrence spike, but if you can get through those five years, your future looks bright. It's a more aggressive cancer but responds really well to chemo. Five years out and you may live to be a hundred. It's the not knowing that eats you up.
Nick and the kids came back from camp on Friday night while I was still waiting for my tests to return and, in some ways, thinking about the five year frame gave me a new lens on things. We'd be talking about college and it would hit me that maybe I won't be here to see David go to college or Ava graduate from highschool and I would be awash in tears. I have never allowed myself to go there because I am convinced that everything is going to be fine. It is. But it makes me think a lot about what the next five years looks like for me, the way I want to live my life, the choices I make about work, where I live, who I am friends with, how I treat my body. Sometimes it's the not knowing that spurs you forward.
After a weekend of held breath, my bone marrow tests showed no signs of leukemia (which my oncologist said would have been really unusual (that word again!) at this stage of the game). My Absolute Neutraphil Count went through the roof thanks to the neupagin and my liver enzymes are going down. I have a meeting with my Infectious Disease doc next week to talk about the possibility of a virus and to see what can be done if it happens again. My oncology doc switched me from 4 sessions of big Taxol to 12 weekly sessions of smaller Taxol so it's easier on my bod and means I get to go to Providence for my sweet sister-in-law's wedding and I am hoping a conference in San Fran. I am negotiating now, damn it. Small wins while you can get them while living in the land of not knowing make a difference.
And, am watching my own personal shot clock get reset and run down, reset and run down.
12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2...1.
It's the not knowing that...
