Not Like This

Last night I got the call from my oncologist – it is time for me and my family to go into self-isolation. I need to leave the house as little as possible, wear protective gear when I do, and disinfect when I get home. We should pull my daughter from school, whether it is closed or not. My husband should work from home if possible. It is scary and disappointing and inconvenient, but the primary emotion it brings up is one I haven’t accessed much during my cancer – anger.

I am angry at the idea that I have suffered through 4.5 years of cancer treatment to be threatened by a virus that is a mild cold for most. I am angry that it didn’t need to become a pandemic, but our global governments have mismanaged it into one. I am angry that my small joys are being stricken from me – going to see movies, midday naps while my daughter is at school, volunteer work at my cancer center. I have plenty of books and yarn and TV to fill the hours, but it is demoralizing to have no end in sight. And I think I am most angry that I am not even immunocompromised. These are all the right steps to take because the risk of things going bad for me is too high, and it shatters my illusion that I can live like a healthy person. I can’t count on good hygiene to let me do the things that are important to me.

I feel like I should close on a positive note, with a list of all the businesses and people who have been so generous and found solutions to keep some normality during this season. But I’m not ready to go let go of my anger and move to appreciation yet. Maybe by my normal update next week.

Weekly Update #59

Nearly a week has passed since my last update and I still don’t have my Lonsurf. Currently it is at pharmacy #3 who has spent 2 days trying just to bill it – apparently their system won’t let them charge my insurance and the copay assistance program. I’m going to make some calls to my insurance and see if I should just pay the $2K+ copay and then wait to get reimbursed or if that has some risks I’m unaware of. I am trying to ignore the little voice screaming, “You’re not getting any cancer treatment right now!!” and enjoy this mini-vacation from chemo.

I spoke more with my doctors about my trial options and we have decided to move forward with the one at MD Anderson. I’m currently waiting for an appointment to be scheduled there for me to talk to the team and sign consent forms. There is not currently a place for me in the trial, but they’re waiting on some paperwork that will change that in early March. If I could get started on my Lonsurf that would be great – it’s a 28-day protocol so I could get in one whole cycle before starting this trial. I hate feeling like I cannot commit to anything in the next week because I could be called to MD Anderson at any time. You get to give no input into your appointments there, you just show up when they schedule you and if you want to reschedule it can be a lengthy wait.

One of the other reasons I am annoyed at the wait for this chemo is that at this point I’ll start taking it in time for my last day of my two on-weeks to be the day of my half-marathon. So, it feels pretty unlikely I will be running this race. I could get a deferral to next year, but it’s also pretty unlikely I’ll be able to run it then. I want to send the organizers a link to the 13.1 miles I ran last week and ask them to give me my finishers shirt and medal anyway but I am pretty sure it doesn’t work like that.

The last thing I want to talk about is wallowing. I am still feeling low in my mood and energy and unsure how best to take care of myself. Are naps and french fries self care or a path to worse mood and energy levels? I asked about it on my Instagram this morning and received a lot of helpful information to chew on. I’m definitely still open to hearing more thoughts on the subject! I want to meet myself where I am, and make choices so tomorrow is as good as it can be.

Four Year Cancer-versary

Today marks four years since my cancer diagnosis. I was diagnosed in recovery from a colonoscopy. I remember waking up and asking my husband if we had any news and him saying we should wait for the doctor. I later found out that he had already heard the news, and I will be forever in awe of his strength in those moments between when he heard and when I did. I was still groggy when the doctor came in and explained that he’d found a tumor. My husband and I came home and watched one of the new seasons of Wet Hot American Summer, sweating because our AC wasn’t working. I kept getting phone calls from doctor’s offices to set up appointments. I didn’t know who they were or what the appointments were for or whether the order mattered. I was on the cancer assembly line at that point.

I have felt different ways on each anniversary. This year the overwhelming feeling is pride. Living four years with stage 4 colorectal cancer is a big deal. I’m still here, and my last scan showed things getting smaller. I am proud of what I have weathered. I like that I have chosen to respond by becoming softer and kinder. Cancer is so hard, but I think I handle it with grace.

I have not done this alone. I am grateful to my medical team and my non-medical community for their help and support getting through this journey. My family is incredible. They are going through cancer just as much as I am and they bring humor and love and empathy with us on each step. Thank you to everyone who is reading this for caring about me and my illness.