Chemo

What a Week

~ Bethany ~ 19 Comments

This has been one of the longest weeks I can remember. Sunday my husband and I spent the day and late into the evening with his mom by the hospice bedside of his grandfather. I didn’t know him well, but he was always charming and kind to me. Jarrod adored him and apparently got a lot of his singing talent from the man. As for my mother-in-law, her love for her dad is obvious and deep. It was a long, emotionally trying day for everyone. No one likes to see people they love in physical or emotional pain.

Monday, the plan was to relax, curl up on the couch, and read a good book. Instead when I woke up still coughing I sent messages to my main oncologist as well as the oncologist directly overseeing my Keytruda. I then fell back asleep. I woke up to a call from the cancer triage nurse at Sibley (part of the Johns Hopkins system, and where I’d been receiving Keytruda).

She was concerned about my coughing, and only grew more concerned as she heard how often I had to pause my sentences to catch my breath. She asked if I would be able to come into Sibley and said that she was going to confer with one of the oncologists and call me back. Well, she called back within about 15 minutes and said I needed to come into the emergency department at Sibley and have a battery of tests.

I don’t think I’ve ever readied for the day quite so fast because she kind of put the fear of God into me. She was friendly and everything, but you don’t expect to be told that some coughing means you need a CT scan!

Thankfully I was able to borrow a friend’s car since Jarrod was taking ours to the mechanic due to a pothole from Sunday. I convinced Jarrod that I would be fine driving on my own, it was just some tests, and I’d see him that afternoon.

Yeah, it wasn’t so straightforward.

I got there and got taken back almost immediately. The first time they accessed my port it hurt like the dickens and they couldn’t get any blood return on it. Normally accessing my port doesn’t hurt terribly bad if I’ve had my emla cream on it like I did that morning, so that seemed unusual. Then a second person accessed it and was able to inject saline into the port, but still not get any blood return. They decided to access veins on my hands.

If you know anything about the last times I had my veins directly accessed, I’m sure you can imagine the senseless repetition of “no, no, no, pain, ow, no, no, bad idea, no, no, no” that was my immediate response as I literally curled up on the hospital bed in fear with tears starting to fall as I remembered how much it had hurt last time.

Right hand with gauze near the pinky
It looks small but it hurt like hell.

They really needed the blood. They first accessed my right hand and I sobbed, and I screamed, and I swore, but I got through it. Then, a few hours later, they were able to get blood from my port, but needed blood from an additional spot to check for infection so they accessed my left hand while I again sobbed and screamed and swore while that kind nurse told me about her beloved cat because I asked if she liked animals.

In addition to the CT scan I was given two nebulizer treatments and some saline to ensure I was fully hydrated. The treatments seemed to help a bit, though I was definitely amped up afterward!

Then they started talking about me staying overnight. Apparently, the scan showed a tumor pressing on an airway and so they wanted me to do a walking oxygen test and that would decide if they were going to admit me overnight.

I texted Jarrod and tried really hard to be brave and not scared out of my mind. I’m not actually brave, I’m terrified when I don’t totally understand what’s going on or how to make my body stop struggling.

The results of the test indicated that I should stay overnight. They hooked me up to two iv bags of antibiotics because there could be an infection. They assured me that they were letting Dr. Meyer (my main oncologist) and Dr. Wright (my radiation oncologist at Sibley) know what was going on. Everyone was incredibly kind and helpful to me, even as I was struggling to stay calm and not panic. The room they wheeled me up to was surprisingly huge and thankfully Jarrod showed up shortly after I got there.

Jarrod standing with backpack and bags
Jarrod to the rescue!

Seeing him and getting a hug from him was amazing. I was still scared, but I was significantly calmer and more certain that I could handle whatever might come. He had packed a bag with what we would both need to stay overnight and even coordinated with my sister to have delicious Booeymonger sandwiches delivered. Roasted veggies with cheese always help.

Tuesday we got to meet with one of the oncologists. She was great, but I still ended up sobbing at her. Not only did I have a tumor pressing on an airway, but all the tumors in my lungs had grown significantly since July, plus I had about 20 new tumors all over 1cm each in my liver. Previously my liver did not have any noticeable tumors.

I cried and hiccupped and sobbed. If you’ve never sobbed with only one working lung, I should let you know that it is really uncomfortable and leads to a lot of coughing. I do not recommend it.

Thankfully my sister and her amazing mother-in-law brought lunch and visited with us. I gave my sister a huge hug and told her what we knew and then added that, as much as I look forward to seeing my dad, I don’t want to see him any time soon. I’m not ready for that. In the immortal words of Dr. Who, “I don’t want to go.” Laura was wonderful about cheering me and making me feel more determined. Still scared, but determined. I come from two families of incredibly strong, kickass women. I can be strong. I am not done fighting.

I spoke with a pulmonary specialist, Dr. Elizabeth who was fantastic. She explained what the options were for what could be done to help me breathe. She talked about the whole huddle of doctors who were discussing my care and figuring out what was best for me and my specific needs. Plus, she was fantastic and human and kind. And, when she saw the book I was reading her response “Oh, I loved that book!” Shallow, maybe, but it made me feel like a real person not just a tumor-filled body.

My main oncologist called while Dr. Elizabeth was there and talked with us and assured me that he was up-to-date with what was happening. He assured me when I asked that he wasn’t giving up hope, just that things were going to be harder from here on out, and that a clinical trial would likely be my best option if I got into a good one. We made plans for me to see him as soon as possible after I was discharged so that we could figure out my next treatment steps.

Our pastor and friend, Amanda, also came. Praying with her and having Eucharist, as well as simply talking with her was huge. Amanda has been praying with me since my first surgery three years ago. Having her visit meant more to me than I know how to say. I was also incredibly touched that she assured me that the other two pastors at my parish were praying for me and knew that I was in the hospital.

Another awesome visitor was a woman who had been on the gynecologic cancer retreat with Jarrod and me. Getting a hug from her was amazing, plus she remembered my love of cats and brought me an adorable kitty ornament that made me grin.

By Tuesday evening we had been informed that they wanted to keep me in the hospital overnight. They wanted to keep an eye on my oxygen levels, keep giving me daily antibiotics through IVs, and make sure I stabilized a bit. That was fine. Sibley thankfully has pretty decent sofabeds so Jarrod was able to get a decent amount of rest. He did drive home to grab more clothes for the two of us, plus feed our cat and take some photos for me.

Wednesday we found out that there was a chance they might want to keep me in the hospital until Friday. Apparently they were trying to see when they could do a procedure to improve my breathing. If they could do it on Friday, they’d keep me in the hospital until then. If it was Monday, they’d have me go home and I’d do the procedure as an outpatient.

I was near tears at that. Everyone was nice and it was as restful as a hospital stay can be, but I just wanted my bed and, more importantly, my cat. I couldn’t take deep breaths to calm down, so I wanted to sit near my cat and hear him purr calmness at me. I understood the reasoning, but it was still a blow and I was hoping that I would get to go home.

We also were visited by a patient care coordinator who had been involved with the retreat and talking with her helped. Plus, she said to just text her when it was time for chapel (I’d gotten permission to attend) and she’d get me a wheelchair so I could get downstairs without exhausting myself.

We then chatted with an oncology social worker who was fantastic. She even suggested that I bring the disability paperwork that’s been giving me so much trouble in and she could help with that. I did also promise her that I would soon see my therapist since I ended up babbling way more to her about my fears and guilt than I meant to. I blame being really tired and the bad news about my tumors bringing that guilt and feeling that I haven’t done enough way high up to the surface.

Chapel helped. The priest didn’t give a great homily, but the ritual (even if I couldn’t do all the standing and kneeling), the readings, and the Eucharist helped in a way that I can’t put into words. I was still terrified, but I was reminded of my faith. I had also called my secondary parish. Lately Jarrod and I have been attending a Wednesday service at another Episcopal church near us. The pastor and deacon know about my cancer and pray over me when I’m there. I was really sad to not be going to their service that day and I really wanted to ask the small congregation that I knew would be there to pray for me. So, I got voicemail and left a very abbreviated “I’m in the hospital so we won’t be at service, but there are some problems and I would really appreciate if you could include me in the intentions at service today.” I found out Thursday that they did mention me, and strangely appreciated me asking for the prayers.

They had me do another walking oxygen test. I passed the test part in that my oxygen levels stayed up, however I also needed a chair quickly because my heart rate spiked like mad and I got super dizzy. Stupid only one fully inflating lung. The nurses who helped me back to my room were lovely though and made sure to say that they appreciated my hoodie. It was from Third Space Wellness and says “Life is a beautiful sh*tshow.” It accurately describes my view on life. I also got a stern talking to about stopping before I was dizzy rather than grabbing onto the wall as I got dizzy.

Well, the prayers must have done something because I was informed Wednesday afternoon that I was going home! I was thrilled. I got a thick packet of discharge instructions, prescriptions for antibiotics as well as steroids (to help my breathing), and a reminder to not overdo it and to be careful to sit when I got tired rather than trying to push through it. I guess it’s not always good to try to overachieve?

Before I had even been discharged I had called and emailed to set up an appointment with my main oncologist. He was kind enough to fit me in today, Friday, despite a completely full schedule. I think he gave up his lunch hour. I’m not sure how I ended up with really great medical people.

As soon as we got home, Toby started to purr and did not stop. My friend Quinn brought over some of her incredible brownies and encouraged Jarrod to take some time to himself since he had also had a crazy few days and needed to center himself. He apparently really enjoyed just getting to talk about football at our neighborhood pub and focus on sports rather than life or death (who would have guessed?!) Talking with Quinn was really good and helped me feel calmer.

Gray cat on Spinning Silver book
Toby stayed very close

It was so good to sleep in my own bed that night with Toby curled up at my feet just purring his own happiness at having his people back. That is a joy that will never get old.

Thursday I found out that my procedure was scheduled for Monday morning and that they seemed confident they would be able to make me more comfortable. I started telling a few people what was going on, but it still seemed surreal and it was hard to tell. Telling people made it feel more real when I was still working up the courage to not be in denial.

Friday’s doctor appointment made it real. Dr. Meyer spent ages talking with us and listening to every question I had, never rushing me. He described exactly what was going on with my scans, showed them to me slide by slide so that I could see exactly what was happening. Not every patient wants that, but it always helps me to visualize what’s going on.

CT scan images

He then suggested the plan that he thought, for now, was best for me. I’ll be on two drugs — one I’ve had before and one I haven’t. The drugs are gemcytomine and dacarbazine. The side effects will be similar to chemos in the past, but the nausea might be worse. Plus, it’ll be every other week so there will be less recovery time in between.

I’m scared, I’m holding onto hope because I can’t imagine not fighting to believe that I’ll get my miracle. I have the right genetic marker for a trial at NIH, so I just have to wait a few weeks while they review slides of my tumor to see if I’m fully right for the trial. Who knows what’s around the corner?

Dad always believed that there could be something good just waiting around the corner. My job is to get to that corner, even if I’m bald, nauseous, and suffering from joint pain. I’m lucky enough to have friends who have my back and will help me get there. Their kindness moves me to tears. I hope I can show at least half as much love as they have shown me.

Now, today, that love needs to go to my husband and his mom. My husband’s grandfather passed away last night. Selfishly I hope the funeral home is flexible and allows us to schedule the service for next week to balance giving out-of-town relatives time to come in and (selfishly) me time to be less nauseous and pain-filled after this coming week’s chemo and neulasta shot. I love Jarrod and Patti. I want to be there to support them. Love is all I have to give.

Grateful for the Good

~ Bethany ~ 6 Comments
This past weekend Jarrod and I were lucky enough to go to a retreat for couples affected by gynecologic cancers. It was an amazing weekend and we connected with some incredible couples. I’ll write more about the experience later, but for now, I want to say that it felt like exactly what we needed. It also made it easier this morning to remember what was two years ago and what was three years ago.
 
Two years ago today we learned that my cancer had come back for the first time. However, instead of focusing on the pain and heartache of that day, I remembered the good things. I remembered our pastor ducking out of a celebration of her wife’s installment at her new parish to talk and pray with us. I remembered Jarrod driving me to a beach near that church so I could sit on the sand when I called my sister and mom to tell them. The ocean and the sand grounded me when I told them the news.
 
Three years ago today was my first ever chemotherapy treatment. It was a long day with a lot of suck. However, I was able to focus on the great view I had out my window and how diligent Jarrod was in taking notes during chemo class. Plus, a lot of people sent cute animals or other forms of encouragement so I was surrounded by love that day.
Jarrod sitting in a chair, taking notes at chemo class
 
They’re not necessarily happy anniversaries, but there were good parts of those crappy days and I feel more able, because of this weekend, to not let the awful parts overshadow the good.
 
I’m still here. I’m still here three years after starting chemotherapy and two years after learning my cancer had returned. I’ve had some awful moments in those years, but I’ve also had so many glorious and wonderful moments full of humor, love, kindness, and joy. Rather than focusing on my anger over the awful, I think I’ll focus on gratitude for the good.

Unlikely, But Possible

~ Bethany ~ 4 Comments

I saw my lead oncologist today to learn the results of yesterday’s scan, as well as what the next steps are.

TL;DR We have a plan, the results are a bit unknown, but it’s got a chance better than that of the proverbial hellish snowball, so I’m hopeful.

So, the scan showed some mixed results. Some tumors grew slowly or were stable, a few grew relatively a lot. Like tripled in size if I understand the math right. That’s kind of crappy. However! There are things we can do!

The very first thing that we’ll do is that I’ll start taking a blood pressure medication that has been shown, when taken alongside other cancer medications, to be helpful in restricting growth of sarcomas. Restricting growth is good. Essentially it somehow makes it harder for the sarcoma to grow blood vessels and get enough blood to grow. It can have some side effects so I’m supposed to be vigilant about actually using my asthma inhaler and letting my oncologist know if I start to have any trouble breathing and/or I feel like I’m breathing through soup (you know, when it’s not crazy insanely muggy out). That’s propranolol — Jarrod and I are both amused that it ends in lol.

The second thing is likely more stereotactic radiation on the biggest tumor. I’ll learn more about that Tuesday.

The third is that in three to five weeks, I’ll stop taking my chemo pills and start on Keytruda infusions once a week every three weeks. There are some possible serious side effects, but nausea and fatigue aren’t likely, so that’s kind of cool. There’s not a lot of evidence for how sarcomas respond to Keytruda. We need more research.

The studies that have been done have had very few people, but at least a few people have had a complete response and gone into remission. So, remission is still Highly Unlikely, but it’s possible and possible is a very good thing.

Kind of like finding peace and beauty at a hospital.

All The Fears

~ Bethany ~ 2 Comments

I went for a walk this morning. Indoors on a treadmill, intended only to be a short one-mile walk, but more than I have been doing lately. The heatwave kind of killed my intentions to walk 8 miles a week.

I ended up doing almost two and a half miles today, even jogging for a few short segments because it felt good to move and focus on the air going in and out of my lungs, on moving, doing something, even if it was as nebulous as exercising to improve my lung function as those lungs fill up with tiny sarcomas.

See, I have a scan tomorrow and I get the results on Friday. I’ve been telling myself that it’s okay that I don’t get the results right away. It’ll mean that they have more time to come up with a definite plan before seeing me. That’s true enough, but to be honest, I hate the idea of waiting 24 hours between my scan and my appointment. It was the result of some screwed-up scheduling, a strange aberration since Hopkins otherwise has been great about making sure I see a doctor to hear my results and view slices of my scan the same day.

I remember before I knew that the cancer was back. I asked a friend who had gone through cancer and was in remission if she ever stopped being afraid of her scans and what they might show. She told me that she was still afraid of her scans and thought she always would be. It helped, knowing that I wasn’t the only scaredy-cat.

I am scared of a lot. I’m scared the chemo pills, alternating between 3 and 4 pills daily, haven’t been enough. I worry that maybe if I’d been stronger I could have taken 4 pills every single day and maybe that would have been enough to stabilize my sarcomas. They weren’t stable at my last scan — I can’t imagine that they’re stable now.

And of course I’m afraid of what the new treatment will entail. I already have so many days when I have a headache because of my meds or go to sleep absurdly early. Yesterday I was bound and determined to go to the July meeting of the Unofficial Handlettering Society of Silver Spring. I napped beforehand and picked out what I’d wear so I wouldn’t get nervous at going out and being social. I was excited to play with watercolors and learn from the far more talented attendees.

Then, less than an hour before I needed to head out, I got so horrifically and intensely nauseous that I needed to take one of my prescription anti-nausea drugs. It helped, but I still felt queasy enough that leaving the apartment was out of the question. I read and wrote and it was ultimately not a bad evening, despite my stomach feeling uneasy, but it wasn’t the evening I had planned. I haven’t made it to a damn handlettering evening in so many months I’ve lost count. If I can’t go when I’m only on chemo pills, how likely is it that I’ll make it when I’m on infusions and/or radiation?

I hate not living the life I want to live. I know how spoiled that sounds. A lot of people aren’t living the life they want to live. For many of them, they’re like me, and the reasons are completely out of their control. All the same, I’m afraid of losing more of what I enjoy.

Monday was good. Despite a nap and not getting done everything I meant to do, I got to the zoo with my husband and then we went to pub quiz with friends from church. Our team even managed to somehow win! I’m afraid of losing those evenings and not feeling well enough to attend those on even an irregular basis.

This red panda seemed to have no fears whatsoever as she wandered around her exhibit and cooled off in her little air conditioned house.

I’m afraid of my cancer leading me to not be as involved politically as I’d like. I’m afraid of a time when my cancer might keep me from advocating for the issues I care about and raising holy hell against those who want to control women, take away the ACA, or treat immigrants and asylum seekers like criminals. For goodness sake, we have a government that doesn’t know how to reunite parents with the children our officials and agents tore from their arms! I don’t want to waste time being afraid of my own body when I’m afraid of and angry at our government and at those citizens who support such heinous actions through willful ignorance and both open and denied racism.

So many people have so many more reasons to be afraid than I do. It feels selfish to be afraid, but I am. I’m afraid and doing all I can to work through that fear and stay standing and ready to fight. I don’t know if that’s perseverance, grit, hope, or some combination. Maybe it’s faith in the face of fear. I don’t know what the outcome will be, but I have faith that somehow I’ll face it — no matter how afraid I am.

Last Week’s Results — In GIFs!

~ Bethany ~ 1 Comment

Last week’s scan was mixed good news and bad news. My feelings, needless to say (I hope needless), are complicated and a mix of happy, anger, frustration, sadness, and hope. Writing this was not easy so I decided to express myself via gifs. Because a good gif is never wrong.

Let’s go with the good news first. The radiation helped!

 

The team aimed at my two largest tumors. They first targeted one in my lungs, then one in my abdomen. The irradiated tumor in my lungs noticeably shrunk. That’s awesome. The other one is at least stable and might still shrink by the time I have my next scan. Radiation can take awhile to see the full effects. In addition, some of my sarcomas are stable and don’t seem to have grown. Stable with tumors, like with mental health, is a good thing. For someone with aggressive stage 4 cancer? It’s a very good thing.

The not-so-good news? Some grew and an additional sarcoma has shown up.

Yes, I’m angry about this. I’m pretty sure anger is normal though.

So, what does this all mean? Well, in the short term it means that I’m sticking with the same chemo pill until my next scan in July.  We are playing with the dose to try to mitigate some of the side effects. It’s not cool to lose 48 hours or so to uncontrollable projectile nausea every 2 weeks. I did ask my doctor about going to one of my local dispensaries. He’s not opposed to the idea, but because the hospital receives federal funding, he can’t prescribe it himself without putting that funding in jeopardy. So, the workaround for a government terrified of pot due to the GOP and uninformed lobbyists is that I go to the dispensary myself and ask about local doctors with whom they work, then see one of those doctors, present my case history, and I’ll likely walk out with a prescription for medical marijuana.

 

No, you’re not the only one thinking this is really dumb and a waste of medical resources and my own spoons. We need to get our federal government to realize that pot is not something to be feared (especially prescription pot, i.e. doctor-supervised!) just because we have had a terrible “war on drugs” for so long. Like, wouldn’t it be better if it were my main oncologist prescribing the pot, not some random doctor I’m establishing appointments and a relationship with solely for the purpose of reducing my nausea in a way that might have fewer side effects than the next step up in anti-nausea pharmaceuticals? You’d think so.

So where does that leave me? Well, we talked about what my likely treatment options will be in July if there’s more growth. For now though, I’m just living with some hope, some sadness, a great deal of gratitude for my cat (purring alongside me while I type this), and a huge appreciation of how helpful books and television are for avoiding reality.

 

The Worst Superpower Ever

~ Bethany ~ 1 Comment

“That sounds like the worst superpower ever!” –my sister making me laugh after I told her how tired radiation had made me, unlike its effects in comic books.

I’m done with radiation, for now at least. I’m already impatient with myself for not recovering faster. Even though intellectually I know that the dosage of radiation was way higher than the last time I did radiation, so therefore the fatigue is still expected despite fewer sessions of radiation overall — my spirit doesn’t seem to know that.

Yeah, that’s currently me. I had my last session on Tuesday. The nurses and techs at Johns Hopkins Sibley Memorial were amazing — kind, skilled, and understanding. They even gave me a certificate of completion with friendly notes from the nurses most involved in my care. It made a very tired Bethany smile.

certificate of completion for finishing my radiation treatments
Yes, that is a note telling me to stop apologizing…

 

I am incredibly grateful to my sister for asking for help for Jarrod and me, and to the friends who took time out of their days to help. Aside from how expensive it would have been to hire a car to take me to and from Sibley on the days when Jarrod had his own appointments elsewhere, as I told a friend, I’m okay falling asleep in a friend’s car or asking a friend to stop their car so I can throw up, but the idea of doing either of those in a Lyft weirdly freaks me out.

I’m still exhausted from the radiation/chemo pill combo. Plus, I’m having trouble sleeping again (yes, I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, including drinking warm nutmeg/vanilla milk). So, that’s not fun. I’m still trying to regain strength and endurance so I can do the 5K part of the Stride & Thrive to raise money to research and treat gynecologic cancers.

Haven’t donated yet? Please consider making a donation. Even the cost of a cup of coffee or wine helps. Don’t believe me? Let’s do some math.

Estimates and Facts

(based on observations in my neighborhood)

  • a cappuccino or latte costs around $5 with a kind tip to the hardworking (hopefully not super racist) barista
  • a glass of wine out with your friends costs $10 with a similar kind tip to the also hardworking waiter
  • many people get at least more than one of these (or similar delights) each week
  • I’ve had 188 views of my blog this month, as of the writing of this post, even though I’ve only published one post in April prior to this one. Let’s pretend that this post will have similar stats.
  • 54 people have donated so far to the fundraiser
Math

Let’s assume that we’ll have 105 unique viewers and that those include all 54 people who have thus far donated. That leaves 51 people. Let’s round that down to 50 to make things easier.

If half of those readers (25) give up one glass of wine (10) and half (25) give up one coffee (5), we’ll raise $375 to help research and treat women with terribly underfunded gynecologic cancers. If half of you readers give up both one wine and one coffee ($375), and just under a quarter (12) give up one wine (10), while the rest (13) give up one coffee (5), we’ll have raised $560! That’s kind of amazing to me!

If you can’t donate now, I do understand. I simply ask that you at least read the common signs and symptoms of gynecologic cancers at the Below the Beltway Penguins page, then share with at least one friend. You never know whose life you might save.

In the Meantime

I’m going to do my best to be worthy of your donations. I lost a lot of endurance and energy during radiation. Pre-radiation, I was able to partially run, partially fast walk a 5k in under an hour. I think my record was 50 minutes though I felt like death afterward. On Wednesday I barely completed a 0.77 mile walk in 20 minutes and felt utterly exhausted by it. Yesterday, I did two 0.7 walks, one in 16 minutes and one in 18 minutes. The 18 minute one included a flight of stairs, but I didn’t feel like death after either walk. I’m hoping to balance patience with pushing myself. As the saying from the Bible goes, “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

My spirit is willing and stubbornly determined. It’s also deeply scared about whether or not the radiation worked on my two largest sarcomas. I learn that in about a month. I’m also scared of whether temporarily halving my chemo pill dose allowed the other tumors to grow. Ironically (maybe?) I’m scared of increasing my chemo pill dose back up to its pre-radiation levels. I’m scared of a lot. However, I believe that my spirit can and will help my body recover as quickly as it can and to (slowly) complete that 5K so that I’m worthy of every single donation that has been made. I am amazed that we have raised so much already. It seems surreal that so many people have been so kind and generous. That helps me have courage and it helps me force this tired body to try, but also to allow it the rest that it needs so that I can fight again another day.

Let’s keep fighting. It’s the only way we can win.

Some Days I Want To Imitate My Cat

~ Bethany ~ 2 Comments

I’m restarting radiation today so Toby’s pose here is particularly apt. On the one hand, he’s adorable and, I believe, knows that his adorableness calms me. On the other hand, my fear and anxiety mean that a not small part of me wants to imitate him and curl up into a ball.

Gray cat, curled into a ball

It’s more focused radiation and fewer sessions this time around. That should mean fewer side effects than last time. However, last time I wasn’t taking chemo pills so I wasn’t already struggling to fight fatigue and do everything I want/need to do.

It’s disturbing to know that beams of stereotactic radiation will be aimed at two spots on my body to try and permanently stabilize my two largest clumps of mutated, out-of-control, turncoat cells. That one of those beams will be aimed at my lungs simply adds to my unease.

However, I trust and like my team of oncologists. I have a fluffy cat who seems to want to comfort me. I have a husband, sister, and friends who are helping me take the next right step, even when it’s hard and scary.

I refuse to give into my cancer. I refuse to believe that stage iv sarcomas won’t be defeated by medical advances and pure stubbornness. So, I must refuse to give into fear. It’s as simple as that, no matter how much I want to imitate my cat.