Tears, Deep Breaths, and Still as Determined as Ever.

Dear All,

I know that you all have been waiting for news of the scans. I have needed 24 hours to “regroup” before sitting down at this keyboard.

Julian and my meeting with Dr. Plowman was emotional. As he ushered us into his consulting room, he shared, “Well, everything in the chest area is “fine” (to be later defined), while there has been some slippage in the liver.” My heart sank and started pounding. “Slippage?” I asked, trying not to cry. Dr. Plowman looked at the radiologist’s report again, and said, “It seems that there are a couple of new subtle spots”. The tears started to fall. “Define subtle,” I asked. And Dr. Plowman said, “Well, let’s look at the scans. Let me pull up both September’s scan and this month’s scan up on the computer and compare them.” Which he did, and there they were: two images of my liver. As he began toying with the perspective, he began humming and hawing, “Yes, well there are the two old areas that we are still dealing with…. but I don’t seem to see the new spots.” Julian was staring at the screen, while I couldn’t bear to look, preferring to listen. Julian then pointed out, “Forgive me, Dr. Plowman, but don’t the two areas in the current scan seem smaller than those of the last scan?” “Well, yes, now that you mention it, they do! I don’t understand this report. I am going to contest it. Sit tight while I go and find the radiologist and review things with him. I will be right back….”

And that is when I started sobbing, and Julian held me close, and we waited. It felt like an eternity. Dr. Plowman returned five minutes later and shared, “Well, yes, it appears that there has been a mixed response to the treatment. These two “old” areas are stable, if not slightly smaller, as you too observed, while there seem to be two tiny new small spots on this other side… you see here?” He indicated what were two, tiny very faint shadows – truly, it was so hard to even see them. He reassured me, “They are remarkably small. That’s why I couldn’t see them without having the radiologist point them out to me. But they are nonetheless there, so we have to change tack.” Basically, as he explained, we needed to nip this “slippage” in the bud. The rest looked “fine” – i.e., was stable. In fact, Dr. Plowman examined me and agreed with me that my lymph node seemed to have gone down even more. So, to recap: over the past six weeks, my breast/lymph node and the two “old” areas in my liver appeared stable if not smaller, but there were these to new worrisome “spots” on my liver. So now what? Change of war strategy. And my heart, again, sank.

Instead of giving me the scheduled “break” from the IV chemo, we are going to be doing quite the opposite. Major attack. Tomorrow I start a new chemo regime: I will be getting two new IV chemo drugs, plus continuing with the IV antibody drug. I asked the dreaded question, “What will the side effects be?” and Dr. Plowman indicated that these drugs are not as strong as my first regimen, but definitely a lot stronger than what I have currently been on. Vomiting and strong nausea are the number #1 effects associated with this new combo. My heart sank. I may need to be hospitalised for a night. Fatigue and lethargy. Numbness of nerve endings in hands and feet. Risk of impact on the kidneys. And when he told me that I may lose my hair all over again, I began to cry – It may sound silly…it is not out of vanity. I just can’t describe what it feels like to be able to look in the mirror and look “healthy”. My work schedule would have to be cancelled/changed. I felt, in a way, like I was being asked to start all over again.

My dearest Uncle Geoffrey sent me the most loving of emails, and in one section, he wrote the following.

“Have you ever been in a maze? I have once. Didn't like it, couldn't see where I was going, wanted out, badly, and I felt very alone as there really was no one to rescue me. I had to find my own way out and the worst part was all my friends were close by and could only yell encouragement. I did get out, eventually, and all was fine.

I can only liken what you are going through to that experience. You keep turning corners, working your way through the maze, only to reach a dead end. You have to turn around and almost start all over again and I know you must wonder if there is an end to this. It is exhausting, depressing, frightening and everything in between.You will get out of this maze. You will feel better. Life will be great again.”

Uncle Geoffrey captured my experience perfectly. I cling to his last three sentences.

So, needless to say, we had an emotional 24 hours, as the news and the implications of the novel “war strategy” sunk in. I have had pep talk after pep talk, getting “prepped” for the next tough chapter of this marathon. I dread tomorrow. I am afraid of the side effects that await me. I grow anxious at the thought of again feeling my body “dying inside”…. that infamous chemo coat…But I force myself to reason through this: I mentalise this as my final push. We have shrunk everything to such a smaller size compared to a year ago. I have made this cancer struggle, I have made it tired. We have chosen not to give it a “break”. Quite the contrary – it is going to be slammed again. There is no stalling, no standing back. One of the drugs I will be getting is the same one that was given to Lance Armstrong – he blasted his tumours to oblivion – now it is truly my turn. While I am so scared and tearful and so drained by all of this, I am also terribly angry. This f*&ker has really pissed me off now. I want my life back. I deserve my life back. I am not checking out of this marathon. I don’t care how uphill it is. That finish line has my name on it.

One of the harder parts of all of this is that we had booked flights to go and see my 101 year old grandmother for a three-night visit in Rome this coming week. She has not seen James and I for a year, and I have been longing to visit her again, and have her see my beautiful James, who is now so much more grown up. She has never been told that I am sick, so as not to distress her, and I know that she wonders why I have stayed away. With my hair grown back and my treatment seemingly tapered, I finally had my chance to go. Not to be. It breaks my heart.

I end on a positive note: yesterday, Julian and I went for a walk in Holland Park with James. It was a beautiful autumn day – clear blue skies, crisp air, and the crunch of leaves under our feet. And I was overwhelmed with gratitude and affection for “my boys” as I watched them both play together. I need them, they need me. Fight the f*&ker, Danda, fight the f*&ker. With everything you’ve got. Round #16, here I come.

Hugs to all.