Saturday morning, Living Strong.

Dear All,

Saturday morning is slowly unfolding, after having had a cuddle session with James in bed, fed him papaya and porridge, played and played, and tucked him back into his cot for his morning nap. My own breakfast eaten, green tea brewed, and here I am.

About yesterday.... Julian and I headed to Cromwell hospital to meet Dr. Plowman for our 4pm appointment. We were in positive spirits but understandably very nervous - the anticipation of these meetings can be overwhelming to say the least. As we then sat in the waiting room, Dr. Plowman walked through, waved at us, and said, "I'll be right with you". My heart was pounding, and Julian turned to me and commented, "Is it only me, or has your heart rate also hit 200 beats/minute like mine?!?" And then we heard our name, and it was our turn... I walked into Dr. Plowman's consultation room, sat in my usual chair, with Julian next to me squeezing my hand, and heard the sweetest of words come out of Dr. Plowman's mouth as he smiled at us both and stated, "It's good news". You can imagine what a moment like that feels like... a million thoughts, a million feelings, a million silent thank you's....

Dr. Plowman took the reins in slowly walking us through the CT scan results. Basically, in contrast to the past scans where we had hit a standstill and, in some areas, the tumours had grown, these new results painted a very different picture. Everything, everything, everything had shrunk, and in some areas the improvement was termed "marked", for having just had three sessions of this new chemo regimen. My breast tumour was significantly reduced, and my lymph node (which had in the past doubled in size) had done a complete about turn and was confirmed to be significantly smaller. My liver too has shown encouraging improvement, which was such a relief to me. Dr. Plowman pulled up the picture of the scan on the computer, and at first I panicked - as a rule, I don't look at any scans, nor do I read any of the reports, because they make me anxious and I tend to read into any negative piece, which is simply conterproductive. But there it was, the picture of my liver on the screen. The first thing I saw was a huge dark black patch, but Dr. Plowman quickly jumped in to say, "By the way, that is your gall bladder, not a tumour, so don't worry!" (Need I say - PHEW!??!!....) So, there it was, my liver in full view, and Dr. Plowman then shared, "See, if you look at it this way, it looks perfectly normal, but then if I turn the image around a little, do you see that faint little patch of shadow... well, that's what's left of the cancer, and that's what we still need to target". It was there but it was small, in the context of this big image - I had imagined an organ covered in black marks, looking "sickly", but instead there it was - a little shadow on a large healthy organ.

Dr. Plowman then turned to my bone scan, and I turned away from the screen - I just wanted to listen. One image was enough for me to brave! Anyway, he said that my skeleton was clear, aside from some enhancement still in the sternum area, which he questioned. Healing bone can present on a scan similarly to a cancerous area, and he felt that the time between scans was too short to affirm one or the other. But, he leaned on the side of the former - he feels that I am healing nicely, for I am no longer tender in that area at all. Two months ago, hugging me would be painful - any pressure on that area would make me wince. Now, I can thump on my chest or press down hard and it feels fine. So, overall, Dr. Plowman said he was very pleased, stating that for some reason, this chemo regimen seemed to suit me much better than the first, more aggressive one. We are moving in the right direction!

So, where do we go from here? We stay the course - three more cycles of this chemo regimen (3x3 weeks) and then more scans. Dr. Plowman said that if I continued in this mode, he anticipated that following those next scans, he would consider stopping the IV chemo, but keep me for a while longer on the oral chemo pills, to ensure a "full and prolonged remission".... I hung on those words. Full and prolonged remission... I hear "clearing" in those words, not "containing"... Come on, Priorelli, you can do this... maybe my wish of ending 2009 healthy again is within my reach after all...

So, I fight, fight, fight. Like never before, I am giving this fight 200%. Blood work tomorrow, and if all is well, cycle #4 of chemo begins on Monday. I have been referred to a specialist to look at a mole on my foot which may have to be removed (and to distinguish between any other potentially dubious spots versus simple chemo burn markings), so that doctor's appointment is scheduled for later this week. I will see anyone, do anything, bear anything, to get better.

The news is still sinking in. All I wanted to hear was "progress" and that's what I heard. Beautiful, sweet words. I am so relieved, so so relieved. The cancer is still there so I am still fighting, but I won this round and I am not stopping. My family and I have cried happy tears, we have danced a victory dance, and James has showered us all in endless kisses and smiles. What a day.

Lance Armstrong will be climbing the mountains again today in the final stages of the Tour - I continue to visualise that I am running alongside him, in strong determination, in silent understanding, in vocal encouragement, in shared objective... it's not about getting on the podium, it's about crossing that finish line.

Hugs to all.