Before this most recent MRI of the brain, we had the REALLY bad MRI of the brain. That was the one Stephen cried after seeing, the one that gave me that six-twelve months to live diagnosis.
This time, there are two spots that have grown. Last year, these spots were smaller than a mm and had not grown. Now, they are around 3mm.
I have the option of targeted, gamma knife, radiation. When the nurse first started explaining this procedure, he told me I would have a metal bar screwed into my forehead.
"What was that??" I asked.
He then pointed up to his forehead, demonstrating where this bar and screws would go--through my skin and into the actual bone of my skull.
"We'll give you medicine to numb you and calm you. Have you heard of Versed?"
"A time or two." {Stephen uses this drug all the time on patients.}
At this point, I was just thinking about how I'd look as Frankenstein.
Then, Dr. Wardak came in to explain more.
He showed me the spots they were targeting for radiation.
He also talked about another option than the metal bar and screws.
I could have a mask molded to my face and head, which would be clipped in tightly to the machine.
"Yes, please. That sounds like a better option."
"You have to PROMISE me that you will stay still and not fall asleep if you have the mask. You'll have to stay perfectly still for the whole time, about 15 minutes on each spot."
"I promise. Give me the mask"
I left not knowing when my procedure would take place, as it takes up to two weeks to get approval from insurance, but here's the next big adventure with cancer.
I've been thinking a lot about scars, the evidence of experience.
Scars can be a reminder of something traumatic, the proof of injury or pain. They corroborate stories of heroism, accidents, survival, or something miraculous, like bringing new life into this world. Then, there are those hidden or unseen scars, those buried in an emotional place, and perhaps not as easy to share. Over the years, I've collected all kinds of scars, some visible to all, some hidden behind the pain of heartbreak or tears.
My personal war on cancer has left me with a long list of evidence of the experience. Between the hair loss/hair regrowth, steroid weight changes, the physical illness and weakness, the disabling (at times) pain, the radiation tattoos, the port scars, needle entry holes, the fake belly button, the fake nipples, and the huge abdominal scar along the point of harvesting tissue for the fake breasts, I have plenty of proof of multiple battles. All the physical scars probably have emotional ones to go with them. Being on the front line of battle for this many years has been stormy and frightening, but hasn't been all bad.
Some of my breast cancer battle wounds are proof of what I have learned and overcome. I decided early on in the process that I was going to stand strong and "not shrink" from this fight. There have been times when my strength was taken and the pain seemed nearly unbearable, but those were the moments when I truly learned to put hope and faith in God. I have come out on the other side, free from pain or having the ability to bear what's put on my shoulders, often beating the odds and seeing miracles. I have learned to value all levels of difficulties, from the smallest frustrations to the largest fights, knowing that sometimes, getting out of bed might be the evidence of winning the day.
Over the years, it has been incredible to see glimpses of proof of how my example has helped others to survive their own battles-cancer or otherwise. I constantly strive to find the positive, whether in a simple smile or 'howdy' or the joy of an ombre purple wig named Katy (and all her friend-wigs). I have come to see that I have scars, but they are not to bring me down. I can choose to hate looking at my fake belly button or ugly belly scar and hate my body for not being able to fight off cancer, or I can be reminded of all I've survived and that I've come through this journey for a reason, maybe many reasons. I have learned and continue to learn through this trial. I think everyone has scars through unique journeys, so we all can inspire and share the testimony of overcoming.
I am often asked how I'm able to smile and feel joy or why I don't look sick, having "Stage IV Cancer." It's a choice. I could stay in bed and stop fighting and just wait to die, but I don't do that. I choose to fight as long as I am able. I'm hoping to leave evidence of my journey, perhaps even something to further research that might benefit cancer patients in the future. I'm hoping to leave evidence for my children, proving that they, too, can do hard things. I hope they will be able to look at their own scars and realize that they have survived great things. I hope they never give up hope and faith, even when more scars are bound to happen. Even though there will be more battle wounds and more storms to face, I am hoping that they know that they are never alone. They can look at my scars and realize that they have no reason to make excuses to shrink from their storms. They can think about being a survivor, even when the story seems to have a less than perfect ending. And, if my scars don't give that hope and evidence, I'm hoping they will see that my faith has been in Christ, who has helped me to have the strength to do all the things I've done, the One whose scars in His hands and feet give the most evidence of hope and faith and overcoming all.
Today, I got results from my scans. My CT came out great. There was no change or evidence of growth. My MRI of my brain was less than great. The two lesions that we've been watching, (I'm going to think of them as battle scars). have grown. They were less than 1mm in size and are now 2-3mm, about the size of a grain of rice. I'm going to see Dr. Wardak again. Dr. Cole hopes that he will be able to do some targeted radiation, just on those scars, and be able to clear that right up. I am feeling fine about this new development. I have an incurable disease. New battles will pop up. I will keep fighting them until I can't, and even then I know I will have survived the journey because I never gave up and never let fear overtake my hope and faith. I am a survivor.
I have the scars to prove it.
After my infusion, I decided to try to spread a little happiness to other patients by giving out some "Seeds of Happiness," my aunt had collected.
My crazy friend took a video of it. Here's a little clip:
Today I made a visit to Dr. Raza's office. She really is awesome and even remembered to ask about how our family tradition of modeling the scenes of The Twelve Days of Christmas went.
I had prepared myself for the EKG I was told would happen with EVERY visit:
comfortable clothes, nothing too bulky or fussy, as I would have to remove it all from the waist up.
I undressed, as directed, and waited on the bed for the tech to bring in the cart.
Then, what to my wondering eyes [or EYE, in my case!] should appear?
The doctor, with no cart to her rear.
My BP was fine today. My last ECHO was "great!"
We needed to to schedule the next ECHO for next month,
and she wanted to schedule my next check-up for three months.
"I see you wore your workout clothes today.
Did you just get here from the gym?"
Umm...nope. About the only thing I'm doing is carrying laundry up and down the stairs!
"Well, that's more than many of my patients do, but I think you can do more.
Keep working at it for the next three months.
Don't hesitate to call me if you ever need anything.
Until then, take care, and I'll see you soon!"
I got out of bed and drove all that way for five minutes?
[I should've stopped and got that Dr. Pepper, after all!]
