Taking the Scenic Route

So you're asking for... Results?, part 2, or "No, THIS is the amazing news!"

One of the things that happened last week was that a few of the sunflowers started opening their flower faces to the world.

I noticed the first last Friday evening when I was up finding quiet in the cabin. It was peeking at me from the swath down below the garden, a bright splash of perfect color against the dark of the trees, the sunset brilliance of the sky.

By Saturday the first sunflower from the driveway swath was opening.

Isn't it nice when the universe knows when to give you celebratory flowers?  The farm and the flowers seemed to know that we're heading into celebration time.

Here's what happened last week that called for flowers:

On Wednesday late afternoon I got a call from Dr. Chui.  "This is an amazing set of scans!"  I love how he always gets straight to it!  He was calling with the PET & CT scan results, but he also had the mammogram and ultrasound results with him as well.

CT scans, or CAT scans, work like big x-ray machines: they show soft tissue, bones, and when you add an iv with "contrast" you can also get information about what is going on with certain organs as the contrast passes through the system.  The CT scan shows masses that don't belong, but it won't necessarily tell you exactly what the mass is if you don't already know.

I had just a CT scan midway through chemo, at the end of may, and that was a scan that showed that masses in my lungs and lymph nodes where getting smaller or had disappeared, and that the masses in my liver were the same or slightly smaller, but at least not getting any larger.

The PET part of the scan is really much more interesting.  This is the scan where you drink a glucose/radioactive drink then sit doing nothing (napping!) in a dark room for an hour before you go in to get scanned. Here's how I said it in the post of March 21st:

"The idea is that all the cells in our bodies need sugar (glucose) for energy, but some cells, like cancer cells who are overachievers and overeaters use a lot more of the glucose--so spiking the glucose with the radioactive stuff means that then they can scan my body for the radioactivity and see which locations have been eating the most glucose.  In a resting state the cancer is going to gobble the most."

So this is the same scan I had back in March that showed us the cancer active in lungs and liver as well as chest.  This is the scan that me and Dr. Chui are both so excited to get a look at now that we're done with chemo.  We want to know how metabolically active the cancer is now.  Whatever lights up on the PET part of the scan is still gobbling sugars, is still hungry cancer.

Ready...Set... Drumroll....

So, when Chui calls on Wednesday to say I have "an amazing set of scans" he means....

NOTHING LIGHTS UP ON THE PET SCAN.

NOTHING.  Not a fucking thing.  Not a single goddamn** spot lights up.  The CT portion still shows some masses in the liver, and a little in the lungs.  But Chui's pretty certain that what is still there is just the dead mass of the tumors left behind: scar tissue.

Fuck cancer.  Bring on the sunflowers.

Surgery is now planned for August 4th.

Yeah, that's what I said, bring on those sunflowers!

 

**PS, yes I am sorry for cussing.  I have a nasty cussing habit, and it is lazy of me, but just this once, understand that it is used, and intentionally used in print, because you can't see how big the grins are, how pleased as punch I am.  Just like the cuss words this disease is mean and revolting and unnecessary.  And nyah nyah, I still win!  Thank you everybody for your sunflower seeds and support!

So you're asking for... Results?

I was thinking of titling this entry: "How to Make a Miracle in Six Easy Steps."

But then the next sentence would have to be "Step 1: Get Cancer."

So I guess we'll skip talking about step 1, because honestly that's a total bummer.  And while the week has been good overall, it hasn't been easy either, so let's avoid the big bummers shall we?

Instead, I'll just change the subject abruptly.  I want to show you a picture of my new hat.  Stacey gave it to me last weekend to celebrate the final chemo treatment.  Yes, I did wear it out in public, in fact I wore it to see Dr. Chui.

Okay, now back to the real point of writing: what's the news?  Results and miracles please?

Yes, I had chemo treatment #6 last Monday.  And all went well.  On Monday Dr. Chui was more excited about my upcoming scans than I was.  And I was pretty excited about having good results.  But Chui was positively confident about good news, was certain that things would be amazing.

I spent the night Monday night in Portland, just down the hill from OHSU at my Grandma Betty's condo.  She made me a nice dinner and I went to bed early in the silence and peace of her place.  It was honestly amazing to experience for an evening how quiet someone's home can be if there are not three children running around intent on squabbling and airing grievances to every adult present.

Tuesday morning, early, I went off to start my day of scans.  PET/CT at 7:30am, MRI at 11:00am, Mammogram at 2:00, Ultrasound at 2:30.  Nuelasta shot at 4:00pm.  Bob would meet me for the shot and drive me home.

And it was a good day. Nausea doesn't usually set in too bad for me until the Wednesday after treatments, and Tuesdays I am still taking the last doses of the steroid meds that go with chemo, so I am buoyed against fatigue.  And let's be totally honest: the idea of having a whole day alone and to myself is an amazing treat for me now.  I am rarely ever alone or independent these days, and haven't been since this journey started some five months ago.  Even spending the whole day going from appointment to appointment, drinking down vile radioactive liquids, or holding myself totally motionless for nearly 40 minutes inside a clanking machine... to do so under my own power and with my own self to keep company... yes, a luxury.

There were little moments of bliss throughout the day, points where I forgot for just awhile all about the cancer or what was going on.  In the morning I sat for a bit in this amazing light filled atrium, just marveling at the sunlight streaming in and all the people streaming by.  Except for scrubs and the relative lack of luggage I might have been in some sleek metropolitan airport: everyone so full of purpose, so much movement.  Later, after a lunch in the busy cafeteria, I went outside and walked through the Farmer's Market, looking at all the young med students sprawled in the sun on the lawns.  Then finally I had yet another break in the early afternoon, where I sat outside on one of the patios near the top of the tram, listening to my ipod, dozing in the sun.  Blessed quiet time, alone amongst all the people, anonymous amongst the hospital bustle.

So I have to admit that I really sailed through the day of tests.  I was NOT nervous, or hesitant: if anything I felt expectantly... triumphant.  I felt a kind of giddy certainty that might come from knowing you are about to reveal to someone the perfect gift.

Coming full circle that afternoon I was back at the OHSU Breast Center for the mammogram and breast ultrasound.  These were the tests that my breast surgeon was going to need to figure out surgery.  These would be the scans that would give us a true "after" to the very first "befores".  Mammogram done first, and yes, as I posted on facebook: not a damn sign of the tumor was left on the scan--even I could see that when I got my peek at it before being sent off to the ultrasound room.

As the ultrasound technician did her work, I was laying there thinking about the last ultrasound way back at the beginning, that Friday at the end of February.  I was thinking about how anxious I had been back then, and how certain I was now.  I was thinking about the whole scenic route I've been taking these last five months.

The technician finished her work quickly and went to get the radiologist.  In another poetic "full circle" moment he turned out to be the same doctor I had back in February, the one who had initially checked my first scans and ordered the biopsy, telling me to "prepare myself and my family" for it to be cancer.  I had a chance to thank him for that warning this time.  And sincerely, I do thank him for his warning, because that warning was what first planted the seed within me to share this story, blow by horrible blow, with all of you.  This blog started when he was honest with me.  I am honest with you because he was honest with me.

And so he was the one who now got to tell me that there was nothing to be found on the ultrasound or mammogram.  Nothing.  No mass, no tumor, just that cute little breast cancer ribbon-shaped metallic marker that had been left back at the tumor site when the biopsy had been done.

In a ferociously good mood I skipped over to the tram station and then sailed down the hill through the sky to meet my husband and go get my magical $5700 white blood cell boosting shot of Nuelasta. 

Yeah, I felt like I was finally going to get to show you all what happens when you make a miracle.

And yeah, there's still more amazing results to share with you.

Treatment today, and a huge week!

Sixth and presumably final chemo treatment is today!  I am on my way there in just minutes: I am thrilled and excited! Tuesday I will have massive testing all day: whole body PET/CT, MRI, mammogram and ultrasound. Thursday we meet with the surgeons to get the plan for an August 18th surgery. Think and pray: clean and clear, clean and clear....

I know I can do facebook posts now from my phone, so if time allows I'll update there if I can during the day.

Hugs!  Erin