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Upon further review
Previously in Peggy’s life: she was diagnosed with Bile Duct cancer and had one half of her liver removed. That was in October 2023.
The docs thought that they got all of the cancer and that everything was cleaned up and sent her on her way with chemo maintenance pills and orders for MRIs every other month. And everything was cleaned up. Peggy went back to work after 8 days off, feeling like she had been gifted with a lucky escape. Yet, after a couple of months and one clean scan, she began to think there was something “off” about how she felt physically. Mind you: she still was dealing with Covid-induced asthma and Covid-induced systemic inflammation (joint pain, swelling – the works). But this was something different.
The March MRI found what the docs thought was scar tissue at the site of the original tumor. They didn’t think it was anything to worry about but she was already worried (have you met Peggy?). He scheduled a PET scan for April. Those scans use glucose and some nuclear stuff to “light up” any kind of active cancer cells. To no one’s surprise Peggy’s PET scan lit up like a friggin’ Christmas tree.
She hadn’t yet gotten the results, so she looked online at the patient portal. She read the words “signs of possible metastasis” and “small mass adjacent to the site of the original tumor.” She freaked. She called the oncology office. A well-meaning oncology nurse said he didn’t think it was a big deal and not to get upset. Easy for him…it’s not HIS metastasis!
Five days later, Peggy and her trusty “Rah-rah, Cancer” sidekick/sister Patty, were in the oncology office. Yes, the doctor said, the cancer has reoccurred. He had a plan, though, as he had since the beginning. Peggy would begin a 24-week cycle of stronger, IV chemotherapy. “When would you like to start,” he asked. “How about today?” she said. Not so fast. Insurance would like a word.
Six days later, Peggy is still waiting to hear what day this week she will begin chemotherapy. In the meantime, she spends hours looking at the Internet for studies on outcomes of recurrent bile duct cancer. It’s not all bad, though. She spends far more hours looking at cute wigs and head scarves – just in case. And she spends even more hours hoping that everything will turn out okay. Hoping that she will be able to travel to Mexico and to Ireland this fall and winter, as planned. And hoping that she lives long enough to see her beloved grandchildren (ages 4 and 6) at least graduate from elementary school.
One thing Peggy doesn’t have to just hope for is that she has dozens of wonderful family and friends to rely on for help. And she has dozens more who will keep her in their prayers. For that, she is grateful.
Lucky/unlucky
That’s the way my newly acquainted oncology surgeon refers to my case. Yes, I now have my own oncology surgeon. I guess they come standard with my new diagnosis: cancer of the liver.
Here’s the backstory: I had Covid in June 2022. It never went away. Instead, it morphed into severe asthma. In seeking a diagnosis and treatment for the asthma (which was dooming me to sitting on the couch, not walking much more than house-to-car, car-to-work, work-to-home, and front-door-to-couch), my doctor scheduled a CT scan of my chest and abdomen. Routine, she said.
Except not so routine. The scan saw clean and healthy lungs…but spotted a lesion on my liver. The first instance of “lucky/unlucky.”
That was May of 2023. An MRI followed. So did another CT. And another. Tons of blood work. Finally, a biopsy. Cancer.
That was followed by a laparoscopic exploration of my abdomen and the tumor – to make sure the cancer hadn’t spread. Oh, and while they had me on the table, they installed a chemo port – just in case. A week later, I had an endoscopy/colonoscopy to make sure the cancer didn’t originate from or spread to those areas.
Finally, there was a PET scan, which showed exactly where the cancer was – well, maybe. It sort of looked like it had spread to a nearby lymph node. But upon further review by all the oncology experts who gathered for a “tumor board” meeting…it hadn’t. It was/is contained.
Lucky/unlucky.
I met with the medical oncologist just after the PET scan but before the Tumor Board meet-and-greet. He said that I would start chemo next week. His office gave me a handy-dandy instruction booklet (I think the title was “What to Expect When Having Chemo and Barfing Your Brains Out and Going Bald.”) I went home and began to make plans for chemo weeks. I made plans at work for coverage in the office since puking in front of co-workers is not polite. I made plans on top of plans and settled into coping with what my life would be like for the next 16 weeks.
Unfortunately, (unlucky for me?), the surgeon and the Tumor Board had different ideas. Immediate surgery was suggested (rather adamantly) by the Surgeon. No waiting, he said. They scheduled me for an “Robotic/Open Partial Hepatectomy” (Monty Python fans would know this as “Can We Have Your Liver, Then?”). The date was four days from that meeting.
And oh, the surgeon said, “the most important thing is to be POSITIVE.” (He does not know me very well.)
I panicked. I’m not ready, I said. I stewed over that for two days and a weekend. Too much of a roller coaster of decision-making had taken place. I had already planned. I accepted my fate for the next four months. I put chemo on my agenda. Then they switched to surgery. I didn’t have enough time. So, I asked them to move the surgery back a week. They agreed. Rather, a lovely patient advocate in the surgeon’s office told me that if I wasn’t ready, that I should request a change of date. “We all want you ready and calm,” she said to me on the phone, all the while rescheduling. “Surgery goes so much better that way.” She eased my mind and allowed me to get into the proper mindset (not easy when you have cancer).
Lucky/unlucky (thanks to Darnisha, my advocate!).
So, I will take my liver to the hospital at 0-Dark-Thirty on October 4. Six or eight hours later (I hope) I will emerge without half of the liver I was born with. And – God willing – I will be able to go home within a week. Chemo may or may not be on the table after surgery. Oh, and I also qualify for the surgeon to use robotics in the surgery, which apparently allows for a more precise surgery and a quicker and less painful recovery.
Lucky/unlucky.
In the meantime, I have an oncology care team that shares their cell phone numbers with me just in case I have questions. One nurse on the team has already alerted the Surgical ICU nursing staff that I will be on my way and to take good care of me. I have literally hundreds of family and friends who are praying for me. Cheering for me. Sharing jokes and fun little gifts. Filling me with love and hope and – dare I say it – optimism.
Lucky/Unlucky?
No. Just blessed.
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