"Good News" and Confidence.

Dear All,

I am sitting here in my pyjamas, ready to go to bed. I had meant to write earlier, but as you can imagine, I felt so drained after my meeting with Dr. Plowman, and simply needed some time to decompress.

I received good news today! There were no new spots, no growth, no novel dangers. What about the problem areas? Well, my sternum still shows a hot spot now referred to as " a minor irregularity". Dr. Plowman stated that in his opinion that is healed bone - apparently a healed bone area can show up "hot" (just like cancer) on a scan up to a year after it has healed. The fact that my sternum no longer hurts at all to the touch or when pressed, lends further support to this. My liver still shows two spots, and has been termed "stable" - there has been no change in the size of the spots but they appear less dark. Julian asked Dr. Plowman straight up, "Could those spots be dead (necrotic)? Scar tissue?", to which Dr. Plowman replied, "Yes. It's a possibility that those spots may not be viable". I needed confirmation, "What does viable mean? Do you mean not alive"? And he said, "Yes". My lymph node was also termed "stable", so the same theory was possible. My breast tumours has reduced "dramatically". Dr. Plowman performed his own checkup of breast and lymph node, and said that he was very pleased. "You are on track"! Breathe, Alessandra, breathe.

So, the next steps? Dr. Plowman has scheduled me for another two cycles of my current chemo regimen (i.e., the two chemos - oral and IV - plus the third drug that is antiangionetic, a form of antibody that acts on blocking the cancer's blood vessels). After that, I will drop the IV chemo, but will continue on the other two drugs, for an undetermined period of time. And while on this "lighter regimen" that gives my body a break, as he put it, "we will watch and wait", meaning close scans and check ups to see if the spots that remain begin to grow again, shrink more, or whether they may, in fact, be necrotic.

Admittedly, I was disappointed at first.... I wanted that liver clear. And I felt the heavy weight of knowing that my treatment would continue for many more months with all of its stressful unknowns and scary uncertainties, that this marathon was exactly that: a marathon, and I was still in the middle of it. I began to cry in the middle of my meeting with Dr. Plowman, and told him, "I am fighting this with all of my might, and I am going to do this. I am going to beat this." And he smiled and said, in his combination of genuine warmth and let's-not-get-weepy-now demeanour, "You are doing well. Cheer up. You are on track". And Julian squeezed my hand, and in that squeeze there was strength and positivity.

I think that we can all get tripped up by expectations... I will always aim high. That is in my nature. But I am learning that just because you may not meet your own expectations, does not mean that you have not achieved success. That in that achievement, there is "good news". And it is a choice you have to make, every time, as to how you decide to view that achievement. Expectations need to be fluid, not static. I have learned not to lose sight of every little accomplishment, to appreciate every step forward, and to calm that inner voice that may question, "But is that good enough?" Oh, that inner voice can be so loud at times. While all the while I never cease to aim high - because so much is possible if you set your mind to it and if, in your heart, you believe that you can do it. It may be so much tougher than you expect it to be, but that does not mean it's not in your reach. It's about being thankful for the road you have covered so far, about not forgetting to pause and pat yourself on the back, about standing tall because you're proud of what you have achieved, and about keeping your eye on your goal, with patience, and determination, and conviction. It's about confidence.

"It's good news". I repeat those words over and over in my head. "Good news". How does one define "good news"? It's all relative, isn't it? My "good news" today is that the cancer in me has no new troops, no new armour, no new weapons. My own troops, in contrast, grow in number, in friendship, in love, in positivity. My "good news" today is that besides a couple of pale spots on my liver, a pesky marble of a lymph node, and a few insignificant bumps in my breast, I am healthy and feel well and strong. My "good news" today is that the remaining areas that I perceive to be cancer may in fact be dead. My "good news" is that while this fight is still ongoing, I am winning.

My best "good news" today? I received a wonderful collection of postings, emails, voicemails and texts from friends and loved ones that brought me to tears. I felt love wrap me in the softest, most luxurious and most comforting of blankets, and I was shown humour at its most precious. My dearest Uncle Peter had a good day. My sister, who is on vacation in Australia, stayed up through the night thinking of me and waiting for my news, and called me at four in the morning her time to share a cheer over the thousands of miles that separate us.

And the highlight of my day, which captured "good news" at its fullest for me? I watched my darling James attend his first music class, and squeal in delight at the songs, the instruments, the happy electricity in the room. And then, he showed me what confidence is all about. He broke away from the parents/caregivers and their babies who were sitting in a circle, and crawled right up to the teacher who was in the middle of the circle. He planted himself right there, sat up straight in front of her, hands in his lap, eyes staring intently up at her as she sang. Front seat and centre. After later rejoining the circle, and clapping along to the music, he stood up, and marched right across to the other side, to tap a pretty little blonde on the shoulder, and peer over to see what instrument she was holding. This a child who, at best, has taken 4-5 steps on his own, at a dangerous tilt, before falling to his knees. Not today: he stood tall and straight, took over 20 steps all by himself, one after another, and proceeded to schmooze. And, those of you who have followed this blog and saw his video of "drummer boy", can clearly imagine what happened when he was given a stick and tambourine.... it was his moment, his spotlight, and he owned it. "Everyone, look at James!" the teacher cried, as James banged the tambourine with gusto, arms in the air, a grin of sheer joy on his face, and so very confident.

How lucky am I? More than words can describe.

Hugs to all.