Saturday, January 29, 2022
I.
It’s been quite a week here in Cancer Land. The big news: remember how, after the glowing spots on the last PET scan, the tumor board said it was time for another EBUS bronchoscopy? I had the bronchoscopy a couple of days ago, on Thursday. We had to sign in at 6:30 a.m., which is killer, but better than waiting around wishing for something to eat. (You have to be food-and-liquid-free for 8 hours before the test.)
Am I becoming blasé about these procedures? It’s possible. The notable parts of the morning: my blood pressure and pulse oximetry were awesome. I told the nurse that I was in excellent health– except for cancer. He agreed. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up,” he said.
The procedure went smoothly. I know the surgeon spoke to me afterwards, but they put something in the anesthesia to make you forget stuff, so I can barely remember that he talked to me let alone what he said.
I spent the better part of the afternoon in a comfy chair by the fire, sleeping off the anesthesia. Did you know they routinely give fentanyl as part of the cocktail they use to knock you out? You can learn a lot by reading the doctor descriptions of the procedure.
The surgeon’s description of the procedure arrived in my MyChart inbox that night. Here are the highlights. (I’ve underlined key words.)
The right middle lobe was inspected carefully, as that was the area with abnormal FDG uptake on PET CT, and it had normal appearance with healthy mucosa….
….The therapeutic scope was then withdrawn, and an EBUS scope was advanced into the airway. A comprehensive EBUS exam of all available lymph node stations was completed. No lymphadenopathy was present.
Did you catch that? The right middle lobe, former home of the big-ass tumor: “normal appearance with healthy mucosa.“
The hyperactive lymph nodes (on the PET scan at least): No lymphadenopathy, i.e., swelling.
I had a little chat with My Hero, Dr. Radiology, Friday afternoon. Even in my cautious understanding of what Dr. Bronchoscopy found, I managed to ask a dumb question, about why he didn’t biopsy the nodes. But I don’t care, because I wanted to know. “Probably because there was nothing to biopsy,” she said. “It all looked normal.” How cool is that? She reminded me that we’d be tracking all this into the future. O.K., O.K., I felt like saying, let’s at least take one day off from cancer. Maybe the whole weekend.
II.
Frosting School is going to be a gas. Except for the young woman whose mask keeps slipping down her nose (GRRRRR), people are well-masked. After class, I tried to persuade the instructor to speak to the student, but she brushed me off. I realized I was babbling when I heard myself citing statistics about what we lung cancer people face — see below, from a webinar I attended last week. Yep, I actually heard myself saying “65% of us have to be hospitalized, and 13% of us die!” Us? There’s some major acceptance going on here. My instructor, however, found neither my new levels of acceptance nor my statistics persuasive.
O.K., I can understand her reluctance. The young woman does not seem like a native speaker, she’s shy, and she’s quite anxious about doing well in the class so she can move up in the bakery where she works. At least there’s an air filter behind me; the instructor will start to run that next week. And, who knows, maybe a KN95 mask will miraculously appear at the young woman’s station next week.
Here’s some information about masks that’s hot off the presses (this info is probably new only to me). Maybe I’ll print some of these charts out and casually distribute them throughout the classroom.
III.
You may be wondering, what’s with the title of the post? Well, late last week, a friend sent me a job posting and urged me to apply. It’s for a faculty position at a small college about 45 minutes away. I hemmed and hawed. Should I? I mean, I have lung cancer, which always wins. What if I need to start some gnarly treatment?
On the other hand, I’m really healthy, except for a little lung cancer, and I have a lot to contribute. Who knows what will happen in the future? And with the higher ed job market being the crapshoot (and shit show) it is, who knows if I would even get an interview. The unofficial poll of grad school friends was unanimous: do it. The unofficial husband poll: do it. The official poll of daughter-with-massive-cancer-experience: do it: You might meet some interesting people, and if you get offered a job, you can turn it down.
Huh. So, I guess I’m doing it. It’s an involved process– lots of writing and not much time to do it in. But there’s something surprising going on. In synthesizing my grad school experience, I find I’m coming to peace with unfinished business (I mean, anyone who’s gotten a doctorate knows there’s no trauma associated with that experience <cue eye roll>). I’m revisiting old spaces I’ve been mourning, not in any belief that something will come of it, but as a way of remembering what I’ve accomplished, affirming I’ve still got it. (I’m not dead yet?) (Sorry, maybe too dark for some of you.)
Cancer wants to steamroll me flat; it wants to be the whole highway. But today it can’t. Because I have a lane I am fully inhabiting, in any way I choose.
So stick to your own lane, Mr. Cancerman. You may be part of my journey, but you’re not the whole trip.
(And, dear readers, stay tuned for next week’s adventures in Frosting School. We are doing some fancy basket-cactus design thing. I’ve already used two pounds of confectioner’s sugar and haven’t even finished making all the assigned calories.)
Thanks for reading.
Highway image: Jacquelynne Kosmicki from Pixabay
Steamroller image: suwichan pralomram from Pixabay
Yes, “I am perfectly healthy, I just have cancer” was something I said all during my treatments. But you know what, you *are* perfectly healthy and Mr. Cancerman does need to stay in his own lane. Good luck with the job–go for it!
Peace to you my friend.
Holding you and Mark and Ruth and your mother (and probably even your cat!) in prayer
Connie