Betsy's Beanery

What a Difference a Day Makes

Left foot. Right foot.

“What a difference a day makes ---

Twenty-four little hours

Brought the sun and the flowers

Where there used to be rain.” 

It was glorious, glorious to wake up on a sunny Saturday morning, June 5^th.  In spite of being terribly hung over after being over-served martinis the night before, I felt re-born!

     I can explain the martinis --- well, it WAS Friday night and I had something to toast and a lot of pent up anxiety to release.  I’d had a ct scan on Wednesday and an appointment to discuss it with my oncologist, Dr. Soo, at 10:20 Friday morning.  I was, of course, hoping for the best results, but dreading bad news.  It gets harder every time I have one of these scans to endure the wait.  For the eternity of three days I interpret every twinge as a sign that my next blog entry will be entitled “It’s Back!”   

     The medical assistant led me to the scale, which is located across from the nurses’ station in a sort of open hallway.  Being weighed is always a little more traumatic for me than the blood draw that precedes it.  Tanya is a very big nurse and I seem to detect a subtle scoff when I insist upon removing my shoes for the weight check.  For someone her size a couple of pounds worth of footwear wouldn’t make much of a difference, but for me it can color the day.  When you have cancer and have experienced unintended weight loss, it’s a novel sensation to step on the scale and be relieved when it registers a gain.  Those days of being encouraged and free to eat anything and everything I wanted felt  like going on a delirious bender.  But once my weight stabilized, it was hard to pick myself up, dust off the chocolate and get back in the saddle with my old healthier eating habits.  I think I’m there, plus a couple of extra pounds, which I attribute to middle-age, living in the land of beer and bacon and simply not giving a rat’s ass.  On Friday my weight was satisfactory.  As I bent over to put my shoes back on --- I thoughtfully wear shoes that are easy to slip in and out of to these appointments --- I felt a hand on my back and at the same instant saw a pair of masculine feet next to mine.  I stood up and faced my oncologist who smiled and said, “Scan looks good.  I just saw the report and I wanted you to know so you don’t have to wait any longer.”

     That was one of the finest moments in my life with cancer --- my doctor wishing to spare me ten more minutes of the agony of not knowing which way the scale would tip.

CT O.K.

Feeling all right

Something Borrowed

Grey Day

I've been taking Tarceva for seven months now.  It seems to be working.  The only side effects I suffer from are dry finger tips and the fact that my eyebrows and lashes are thicker than they have been in years.  Weird.

Tomorrow morning I'll have a ct scan --- my twelfth? thirteenth? since this ordeal began.  Friday I will see the oncologist and find out how I'm doing.  There's no way I can describe this particular torture so I've borrowed

an article from CURE magazine in which Lori Monroe explains things rather well.  

                                                          Living with Lung Cancer

Life will never be the same.  Not after a diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer.  Not after being told “You have maybe six to eight months left.”  It’s as if that moment was forever branded on my soul.

     But those words never came to be.  Oh, I have stage 4 lung cancer --- and have had it for over eight years now.  I’ve learned, somehow, to live with lung cancer; to wake up ever morning knowing that cancer is residing in my body, only because I didn’t die from it.

     It has not been an easy journey.  There are hours, even days, when it feels as horrible as it did the first few weeks.  It’s a cruel disease, without much good news to balance the devastating news.  Besides the physical pain, there is the emotional battle that is, at the very least, equal to the physical battle. 

     I thought I would get used to living with lung cancer.  That it would become easier over time.  Although I can’t say it gets easier, I do think I have learned to ride the waves somewhat better.  I now know that with every scan, the fear will rise up and take my breath away.  I know that I won’t let my breath out until I see the oncologist and he is able to tell me that everything is still OK.  Every time, I tell myself the same reassuring thoughts.  I repeat, over and over, that I’ve had more good scans than bad scans despite multiple recurrences.  I reassure myself that even if the cancer is growing again that newer treatments are now available and I have multiple choices.  Somehow it’s still not enough to override the fear.

     I think it would be easier if lung cancer patients were offered empathy.  When I tell people I have lung cancer, instead of hearing, “Did you smoke?” it would help to hear, “I’m so sorry.  What can I do?”  There is an undeniable negative stigma that comes with the diagnosis --- one of blame and disassociation.  It doesn’t change the disease; it does add to the overwhelming emotional pain that by itself is almost too much to bear.

     My dream is to let this be the decade that the definition of lung cancer changes for all of us --- physically and emotionally.  Scientifically, treatment advances are being made, and more and more patients are learning to live with advanced lung cancer.  And as more patients survive longer, we are able to educate and erase the negative stigma.  All cancers are caused by genetics, exposure to carcinogens, and our life choices.  The bottom line is it doesn’t matter how you get the disease, we all deserve effective treatments and a bit of empathy.

 

Lori Monroe is co-founder of Lung Cancer Foundation of America (www.LCFAmerica.org), a nonprofit that funds lung cancer research and advocates for the lung cancer community.