We tried. We really tried. But the number went up. From 12.1 last week to 16.5 this week. It means there is still cancer. It's not growing out of control because the number isn't jumping in the thousands. But something is still there.
Dr. Evans says I have two choices: 1) A re-resection with the doctors in Boston or 2) A hysterectomy. There are pros and cons to each. Chris and I are going to talk about it tonight and make a decision by Friday.
I was hoping to go back to work on October 15th, but again, the plan has changed. I'm like the employee who cried wolf. I'm so desperate for this to be over. I want my old life back. Marcia was with me this morning. She says it will all work out. I believe her, I just wanted it to "all work out" sooner rather than later. I guess I still haven't learned the lesson of patience.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who said a prayer, sent a good thought or wished us well. I'm a little sad today, but I would be a total mess without you.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A PJ Parade
Alright, so I'm in a little funk right now, but it's not all drama and tears. Actually, thanks to so many kind, generous and loving family members and friends - it's been sunshine and happiness. I have three fabulous bouquets of flowers - just the brightest and most uplifting arrangements you've ever seen. And the post-surgery Get Well cards are rivaling anything I've received so far.
How about this one from my friend Kerri:
Possible Lies About Your Surgery Scar:
1) Escaped from Alcatraz
2) Jumped the fountain at the Bellagio
3) Saved your neighbor from a burglar
4) Slept wrong
5) Defeated Chuck Norris
Inside: Scratch #4. That's lame.
Hysterical. Any time I'm smiling this week, it means I'm not crying. So smile it is.
It's easier to smile when you're dressed well too. Since my belly is not quite back to normal, I've enjoyed taking to the PJ's for most of the day. Mommy told a lot of people not to send flowers to the hotel because we wouldn't be there for that long. Still I received great flowers in Boston,
but she suggestion, as an alternative, was pajamas. What a great idea!! When was the last time you overhauled your PJ collection? My nighttime clothing consists of oversized t-shirts and athletic shorts. Any time you get a free t-shirt and it's 37 sized too big, what's the first thing you think of?? I'll wear it to bed.
Well baggy t-shirts no more!! I have received quite an array of sleepwear. How about these??
Blue, white and yellow ... covered in daisies!! So so so soft! Marcia bought me these for my rest and recovery. She's so generous and such a good shopper. Really, how could you be sad in these pj's??
Then I rocked these ... the official Post-Surgery Muumuu!
C'mon!! I know my vagina is broken ... and I know you're not supposed to have sex for several weeks post-surgery ... but if you were my husband, wouldn't you just want to jump my bones in a get-up like that?!?!
Gotta look on the bright side. Even if I lose my figure, there were still be sleepwear that fits!
How about this one from my friend Kerri:
Possible Lies About Your Surgery Scar:
1) Escaped from Alcatraz
2) Jumped the fountain at the Bellagio
3) Saved your neighbor from a burglar
4) Slept wrong
5) Defeated Chuck Norris
Inside: Scratch #4. That's lame.
Hysterical. Any time I'm smiling this week, it means I'm not crying. So smile it is.
It's easier to smile when you're dressed well too. Since my belly is not quite back to normal, I've enjoyed taking to the PJ's for most of the day. Mommy told a lot of people not to send flowers to the hotel because we wouldn't be there for that long. Still I received great flowers in Boston,
Well baggy t-shirts no more!! I have received quite an array of sleepwear. How about these??
Then I rocked these ... the official Post-Surgery Muumuu!
Gotta look on the bright side. Even if I lose my figure, there were still be sleepwear that fits!
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Boston, We Have A Problem
My husband is in his 40's. We've been dealing with cancer for 4 years. He said to me when we were in Boston, "I'll be so glad when you have this surgery and it's all over. I've been fighting this cancer with you for a 10th of my life. I can't wait until we are done." It's honest sentences like that that break your heart.
We're not done. The results were not good. Yes, the surgeons successfully removed the cancerous tumor. Yes, my uterus is still intact. Yes, I did not die during surgery. All good things. But the margins weren't clear.
A month ago that sentence would have had no meaning to me. "The margins are not clear." Now, it means everything. The overriding goal of uterine surgery was to remove a cancerous tumor and have clear margins. That means, you take out the bad stuff and a little bit of good stuff on all sides, so you know you've plucked all the cancer. A clear margin means there are no cancer cells left behind. We left cancer cells behind.
The pathology report showed the margins weren't clear. Dr. Goldstein had cancelled his office hours to be in the OR while Dr. Garguilo did the surgery. We essentially traveled hundreds of miles and had two geniuses collaborating on how much uterine wall to take and how much to leave. And yet, we didn't do it good enough.
In addition to the bad pathology report, the Beta hCG corroborated our worst fears. The number went up. Two days before the surgery, the hCG was 7.1. Ten days later, more than a week after removing the tumor we believed caused the cancer, the hCG rose again, registering a 12.1. It's not going well.
I feel dead inside. I'm so sad. I'm so frustrated. I'm so afraid. I'm going numb. While I'm smiling on the outside, I'm not well on the inside. But before I take to my inner wrist with a paring knife, we'll wait. Wait until Wednesday when I get my blood drawn again. If it goes down, I will rejoice. Even for a slight drop. That will show progress in the right direction. If it goes up, we have some difficult choices to make.
I feel like I've been at this precipice before. I get all worked up and then it all works out. But it doesn't change the absolute anxiety I feel right now. It doesn't stop the racing thoughts, no matter how hard I try. Maybe Chris and I weren't meant to be parents. Maybe I was never meant to be pregnant and experience the joy of having your baby kick inside your belly. Maybe harvesting eggs and making embryos in a test tube and putting them in someone else's uterus is just not going to work for us. Maybe the cancer isn't in my uterus at all and it's moved somewhere else. Maybe we won't find it in time ... Or maybe it will all work out.
I went to church this morning and prayed so hard that it will all just somehow work out. Chris came to church with me. You know we're in bad straights if Chris came to church. We're very cuddly and lovey with each other. We're trying our best to comfort each other. I just keep telling him I love him. He tells me he loves me. Really what we're saying is, "I'm afraid. Who knows what will happen? But no matter what happens, I love you." I think for us, 'I love you' has also turned into 'Thank you.' We're saying "I love you" a lot.
I'm so tired. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally. But still, I know it could be worse. I'm blessed to be alive. I could be dead. Other cancer patients are dead. It doesn't change how I feel though. I'm so tired and I'm so scared.
We'll just wait ....
We're not done. The results were not good. Yes, the surgeons successfully removed the cancerous tumor. Yes, my uterus is still intact. Yes, I did not die during surgery. All good things. But the margins weren't clear.
A month ago that sentence would have had no meaning to me. "The margins are not clear." Now, it means everything. The overriding goal of uterine surgery was to remove a cancerous tumor and have clear margins. That means, you take out the bad stuff and a little bit of good stuff on all sides, so you know you've plucked all the cancer. A clear margin means there are no cancer cells left behind. We left cancer cells behind.
The pathology report showed the margins weren't clear. Dr. Goldstein had cancelled his office hours to be in the OR while Dr. Garguilo did the surgery. We essentially traveled hundreds of miles and had two geniuses collaborating on how much uterine wall to take and how much to leave. And yet, we didn't do it good enough.
In addition to the bad pathology report, the Beta hCG corroborated our worst fears. The number went up. Two days before the surgery, the hCG was 7.1. Ten days later, more than a week after removing the tumor we believed caused the cancer, the hCG rose again, registering a 12.1. It's not going well.
I feel dead inside. I'm so sad. I'm so frustrated. I'm so afraid. I'm going numb. While I'm smiling on the outside, I'm not well on the inside. But before I take to my inner wrist with a paring knife, we'll wait. Wait until Wednesday when I get my blood drawn again. If it goes down, I will rejoice. Even for a slight drop. That will show progress in the right direction. If it goes up, we have some difficult choices to make.
I feel like I've been at this precipice before. I get all worked up and then it all works out. But it doesn't change the absolute anxiety I feel right now. It doesn't stop the racing thoughts, no matter how hard I try. Maybe Chris and I weren't meant to be parents. Maybe I was never meant to be pregnant and experience the joy of having your baby kick inside your belly. Maybe harvesting eggs and making embryos in a test tube and putting them in someone else's uterus is just not going to work for us. Maybe the cancer isn't in my uterus at all and it's moved somewhere else. Maybe we won't find it in time ... Or maybe it will all work out.
I went to church this morning and prayed so hard that it will all just somehow work out. Chris came to church with me. You know we're in bad straights if Chris came to church. We're very cuddly and lovey with each other. We're trying our best to comfort each other. I just keep telling him I love him. He tells me he loves me. Really what we're saying is, "I'm afraid. Who knows what will happen? But no matter what happens, I love you." I think for us, 'I love you' has also turned into 'Thank you.' We're saying "I love you" a lot.
I'm so tired. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Emotionally. But still, I know it could be worse. I'm blessed to be alive. I could be dead. Other cancer patients are dead. It doesn't change how I feel though. I'm so tired and I'm so scared.
We'll just wait ....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)