4 Year Perspective
How can I describe what it feels like to be four years past cancer? Past death, past hell, past the black hole of fear and pain and trauma. Oh, the trauma remains and will be a part of my personality forever, but I have to say the amount of gratitude I have for my life has multiplied with each passing day. I’ll never get past the fact that I cheated death, very nearly planning my funeral and writing my goodbye letters. Okay, and hear me out - we all remember the motion picture classic “Final Destination” from the best year…2000, right? These kids are on a plane, and unbeknownst to them, they are predestined to die, but, thanks to Devon Sawa (IYKYK), they escape. But here’s the thing, they may have cheated death by getting off the plane, but death has other plans. This is kind of what it feels like to be a cancer survivor. I won, I rang the bell, I escaped the hands of the reaper, but I swear, that asshole is following me wherever I go. With every weird pain, or headache, or sleepless night, I’m convinced it’s back. Its exhausting being on high alert for 4 years. Feels like you’re holding your breath so long you’ll pass out any second. But hey, I’m still here, still enjoying my life to the fullest, and still trying to keep everything in perspective.
I saw Tommy 2 weeks ago - that’s my oncologist and literal lifesaver; in case you had forgotten. I am still getting scanned every 6-9 months (depending on my mood). I had a little panic attack with some abdominal pain back in April which made me frantically send some midnight mychart messages to Tommy asking if we could move up my scheduled CT scan, to which he indulged me, of course. That scan came back completely the same as the last scan, no evidence of disease. I also had a mammogram just to make sure everything was in good shape, and that too came back completely fine. So, 2 weeks ago, I just needed to get bloodwork done in preparation for meeting with Dr. “Tommy” Nguyen up in the Anaheim Kaiser center where I spent so many days back in 2020. It’s always nice to see him. It’s very comforting and calming - we’re trauma bonded for life! He asks how I’m doing, how I’m feeling - all the normal things - when he knows all well that I just want him to wake up the rolling computer in the room and give me my damn results. But I go along with it anyway telling him I’m good, family is great, feeling more and more back to normal. Told him the kids are now 10 and 13 (they were 5 and 9 when I was diagnosed and began treatment). We talked again about how lucky I was that I was already done having kids when I was diagnosed, especially now since treatment put me into early menopause and as expected, after 1000 hours of poison and 17 rounds of radiation right on my ovaries, I never began ovulating again. It’s fine, really, but still, it’s hard to be left without choices, you know?
So, finally he shakes the mouse, logs in, and says, “well, how do you think you’re doing?” He knows I’ve already reviewed all of the results of my blood test - and he knows I’ve already compared all of those results to the hundreds of results in my chart so there should be no surprises. The results are great. He goes over all of them saying how they’re all within totally normal range and if there was any cancer still in me, it would surely show on the blood tests. I said that it’s always great to hear him say that. He motions to the screen and says, “everything here looks like really good news”. He went on to comment that he rarely gets to say good news in here. I know we’re both proud of each other. I’m proud that I got him - the youngest oncologist in the department and the only one who was willing to give this amount of chemo to a patient. I’m proud he saw me as someone to take chances on, someone who could withstand extreme torture and live to tell the tale. I’m proud that he figured out the exact magic potion to kill my cancer. Like a wizard or a chemist or an incredible mixologist. How did he do it? How did he know? Why did it work? There’s no point in asking. Bottom line, it worked.
I asked how many other double-hit, high-grades he’s seen since me. (it’s pretty rare in the NHL varieties) He said he’s only seen 3; 1 has passed, and 2 are not recovering as well as me. He said I am remarkable. These results are remarkable. I looked at him, with tears in my eyes, and said, “We did it!”. I think he teared up a little too. I can tell he’s hesitant to get close to his patients. You would have to be, right. Don’t get too attached, they might die. It took us years before we even opened up to each other. All through 2020 & 2021 it was all about the program and plan and schedules and milestones and deadlines. But now, we are just those old friends who get to see each other twice a year to check in and make sure the other one is still alright. I love that kid, Tommy.
So the plan going forward - I will have another CT scan in April of 2025, then I’ll have another PET scan in April of 2026. WHEN those results come back clear, then we can talk about the next BIG C - CURED. This is kind of a big deal - okay kind of a huge deal. This is something we didn’t think we’d get to talk about. There are very few statistics for people with double-hit, high-grade, bulky, diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, and even fewer statistics past 5 years after diagnosis. I will get to forge a path for future statistics of this disease. Tommy did a good job!
It’s crazy to think how fast the last 4 years have gone and also how much has changed - kids are more independent, we moved houses, we both changed jobs (thank God for that), we made new friends, and created countless memories. Some days are still hard, mentally, physically, emotionally - but my support system has never faltered and my desire to stick around has never wavered. I didn’t come this far to just come this far. I want to be here to grow old with my husband and see my kids become awesome adults and have families of their own. I want to be here to see the day when my kids invite us over for Christmas morning so we can see the grandkids faces running down the stairs. These are the things at risk here - these are the important things I need to get to see. Every day is an extra day I get to see the sunset over Huntington Beach and kiss my husband goodnight.
So, all in all, life is really good right now. Sure, the government is fucked, and the economy sucks, and I can’t afford therapy or that tropical vacation I had planned for when we got out of the darkness of 2020, but it will come. I will be here working and planning and dreaming for more days to come. I can’t take this life for granted. I can’t prepare for all of the what ifs that still lie ahead - what if it comes back, what if I never feel better, what if these symptoms and side-effect never go away, blah blah blah. For now, I’m living in the moment, planning for the future, looking back only to see how far I’ve come, and hugging my kids tight. I worked hard and fought hard to be here and I know I would do it all again if I have to, but really really hoping I won’t have to :-)
