Learning curve

There is a learning curve to being a cancer fighter. At first, I was ready to hit the hero store and buy myself a shiny new coat of armor. A good bow and arrow. 

It took me a very long time to realize that the covering...the armor wasn't the key here. As I met other fighters, I realized that just being able to take a fighter's stance and talk fighter talk was not going to cut it. Some of the fiercest fighters in the room did not swagger. They limped. I watched one woman who always handed out little platitudes to all of us 

(When life gives you lemons, make lemonade!  God doesn't give you anything you aren't strong enough to fight!   Time heals all wounds.  Everything happens for a reason.  What the mind can conceive, it can achieve!  Winners never quit!  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  God has a plan for you. It's all good!  After the storm, the sun will shine. Go with the flow! Age is just a number!  Tomorrow is another day. It's the darkest just before dawn! )

go through one lab with bad news after another. Finally, one day she stopped bringing in her little slips of paper to hand out and just sat quietly, listening. She still went the extra mile. She wore enough make up to make Mary Kay proud. She wore good jewelry. But, she no longer tried to pretend that she had it all figured out, that if she just put on that perky face, she would be okay. Eventually, she was okay. She and her oncologist found a medication that is working for now. She never stopped fighting. She just stopped extrapolating and began to fight her own private fight. She no longer tried to perky it all up for us. 

For me, I guess I always knew in the back of my mind that I would not win this battle, but I grew hopeful when I started seeing my cancer markers start decreasing drastically. They had started at 104. Anything above 30 is abnormal. After my first round of chemo, they dropped to 96. My second round of chemo? 62. I felt a bit complacent. I mean, to have it decrease by 34 points in one month? I was feeling like Jon Snow with a dragonglass sword standing in front of a white walker. 

Maybe I could do this. I mean, it was hard. It was fucking hard. Chemo was a killer. My hair was falling out. I had hideously painful mouth sores. My bones sometimes felt as if someone had a hold of my leg or my arm or my shoulder and was squeezing the bone like a wet dish towel. I awakened almost nightly with muscle cramps that were so painful that I curled in a fetal ball crying. I was insidiously tired, wickedly fatigued. Sometimes I slept for 16 hours a night only to wake up and take a two hour nap three hours later. The first week of chemo was full of puking. The other weeks, I couldn't taste anything but pennies, no matter what I ate. It was horrid. 

But, I seemed to be winning the race. My cancer markers dropping over 30 points in ONE month? When I announced this to my support group, jaws dropped. They fucking clapped for me! Yes, my kidneys were taking a big hit, but so far they were not failing. 

I felt hopeful. 

And then I had this months labs. I wondered if it could be possible that my cancer markers had fallen into normal territory. When this happens, you get to go off chemo and then they just carefully watch your numbers. I had dropped 34 points last month! This could be a possibility. 

So, I had the labs done. I waited the 48 hours for the results. On pins and needles. And then I logged in on my computer for the results. 

60. They had only fallen 2 points. And my kidney function was still going down, too.

FUCK THAT SHIT. 

I had let myself buy into the platitudes. I was so disappointed that I cried myself to sleep that night. It meant staying on my dose of chemo and fighting. I had to keep fighting. 

I went to my support group with the lab results in my hand. And looked around me at all the faces. The understanding I-get-it faces. Because this is what it is like to fight cancer. You might have some good months. They might be followed by bad months. You get back up. Wearily pick up the sword again. Nothing can ever be easy. If it was easy, it wouldn't be cancer. It would be a common cold. It would be sprained ankle. 

This is a very different playing field. On this field, you have to learn to roll with those punches. Get back up. Keep trying but don't always expect that a good pattern means that it will always be that way. 

I'm learning to be thankful for the small things. The sun, after days and days and days of rain. A great book. A funny movie. A package in the mail with my name on it and a gift inside that shows that someone cares about me. 

Another day. One more day with those whom I love. 

No more platitudes. No more expectations. Just life. 

Just living these incredible last days.