Walking Through the Fire

It never happens when she is here. I used to joke with T all the time that as soon as she left to go out of town, something invariably broke down. 

Everything would be running like a top....until she left. And then, there would be a big storm with hail and windows would break. Or, the power would go out and be out for days. Or, the fridge would die. Or the air conditioner. Or the furnace. 

It was like they were just waiting for her to leave because they know how badly I hate to handle home problems and want to see me put some sweat equity into the house. Because we had this agreement from day one. I had not wanted to move into this house. It was too old, I had told T. The plumbing, boiler, appliances....everything were old. We were going to have a money pit with this house, I could just feel it. T swore to me that if I just agreed to buy this house that she would handle all the home repairs. I told her okay, but to be prepared to do a LOT of home repairs.

I was wrong. Our house is very old, but she has extremely good bones. Hardly anything ever breaks down.....unless T is going away on a business trip. And then...yes...something always happens or, in our case, happened. Because, after I got sick, she stopped going on business trips unless she absolutely had to go. 

This seminar that she is at this week was one that she had no choice but to attend. She received grant money for a STEM girl's camp and part of the agreement was that she attend a seminar to report on it in Washington, D.C. when it was over and done with. She had no choice, but she managed to only go for two days. She had to be at that welcome dinner and speak during the next day, but once that was over, she was free to go. She would only be gone for two days. 

I acted like it was no big deal but privately hoped that the house would take pity on me just this once. 

The house did. My body did not. 

I had labs the day before she left. The day she left, I was called with the results. They were pretty devastating. My tumor markers were spiking higher and higher. My oncologist called to tell me that I needed to come in for another full body scan. Even though I had just had one in June, she wanted to take another look. 

T was sitting on the airplane as it prepared for flight when I sent her that text. She offered to get off the plane. I told her to not be silly, that I would be fine. I carefully kept my voice nonchalant. Inside, all I wanted was to be in her arms. But, it was just for two days. 

I got the scan. Came home. Texted my sister, who lives in another city. She offered to come stay with me. I said no. And I meant it. I have had my eyes wide open from the beginning of this journey. I know that, in the end, it will be pretty bad. I will need her help then. For now, I was still able to drive. I was upright, able to walk. I would be okay. 

After I got the scan, I came home and watched mindless television for a while and then went to bed. I thought that I would toss and turn all night. I didn't. I fell asleep and slept the kind of hard dreamless sleep that only those who are exhausted with life get. 

This morning, I saw the oncologist. The news was bad. My The cancer (I refuse to call it mine, like it is a really bad president) has spread and grown substantially. It is still mainly in my liver, sternum, and spine, but now it covers my liver like a toxic blanket. Looking at it on the lighted screen, I felt vaguely removed from it, as if I were looking at someone else's chart. 

But, bad news can sometimes initiate good actions. Because I am now considered to be not just terminal, but critically terminal, my insurance company has approved me to take Halaven, a chemo drug that is relatively new and quite successful in Japan and Europe. It also has less horrible side effects than the other chemo treatments that I have had. 

I was reading a study about it last night before bed. Many, many people do not get to experience Halaven. Because most insurance companies will not approve it until all other chemo drugs on the chain are utilized. Chemo drugs which have such terrible side effects that the older and the infirm tend to die while taking them. 

Apparently, I am a tough old bird. I just plain refuse to die. Apparently. 

Because, honestly? I have begged to die a few times as I've lain in my sickbed. I haven't said it out loud, but in my head. I feel as if I can't go on sometimes, as if I have walked a thousand miles only to find that I've really only moved a few feet. Some days, the pain, the retching, the sheer day to day effort that is required to get through exhausts me. I am ready to throw in the towel. But, I keep waking up each day. This always surprises me. So, I keep walking. Not because I am brave but because I don't know what else to do. 

So, I got my dose of Halaven today. And drove home. Tomorrow, I will go in to the chemo room to get a bag of nutrients to help me keep my head above water as the Halaven kills everything in sight. 

T comes home tonight. She just sent me a text a few minutes ago. 

I swear to GOD, I will not leave you again, not even for a half day. It has been torture to know that I can't get to you quickly if I need to do so. I'm on my way home. I'm on my way home. I'm on my way home. 

I'm happy to report that there were no tornadoes while she was gone. The house is intact. No major appliances broken. 

Just me. Broken. But standing. Still standing. 

A part of me wants to throw a fist to the sky and scream, "Is that all you got, motherfucker?"

I'm a tough old bird.