This week I received the news that all cancer patients dread to see:
"Considering the extent of her visceral involvement, I also recommended that she engage palliative care because her status could decline quickly depending if she does not respond to the next line or two or treatment, and because it is helpful to have discussions about goals of care and quality of life when she is in a lucid pain-free state."
The "this might be the beginning of the end" news. Ugh. I'm not surprised. I have metastatic ascites, from breast cancer, which has a prognosis ranging from 0 (nada, zilch, zippo) to 50 months (4 years, 2 months by Gregorian calculations) And that upper range, or surpassing it, is as likely as winning Powerball. Or, seems like it, anyway. My 50 months expires this December.
I hate to admit it but the first thing I thought about was, “Now that bottle of 360-count Vitamin D (that I take every other day) will be wasted.” Then a massive wave of memories, people, and sights washed over me, making me a blubbering mess.
I'm not afraid of dying. Seems quite peaceful. But I’m going to miss so many things and people and that makes me sad. The blue-blue skies of the Pacific NW (shhh, yes we do have them, many of them). The majestic snowy mountain peaks. The thrill of seeing a wood duck in the wild, its reds, blues, and greens peeking out. Walking, biking, hiking and exploring the nooks and crannies everywhere I go. Hearing honking seals. Playing with a neighborhood doggie. Baking my muffins. Reading Laura Lippmann and others. Eating cheesecake. Sharpening a pencil. Having friends delight me with visits and small gifts. Dancing. My music. “There’s a Place in the World for a Gambler” is a lovely Dan Fogelberg tune, one of my favorites, and I dedicate it to Rick, my husband.
Rick.
As Dorothy said to the Scarecrow, “I’m going to miss you most of all.”
OK, pardon me for a few moments.
I cherish my friends and family. You all are the best. I wish I could spread my arms long and wide to hold all of you tight. You’re all so talented, bright and funny and I love all of you to pieces.
Good news is that they are coming up with new drugs all the time. Next Tuesday I start a new chemo that was only approved here last month! Of course, it’s IV chemo, I’ll lose my hair, blood counts will bottom out, crushing fatigue will set in.
I also mourn the loss of my current relative functionality. We’re going to ride bikes later this week and that might be it.
But, who knows, maybe that “Powerball” has my name on it. I can always hope. 💝
