The most traumatic moment for everyone was the week of the cardiac arrests. However, I still have no memory of it and can only empathize with everyone else. My traumatic moment was the second week of taking the chemo pills and being unable to keep them down, along with my regular medications, knowing each pink pill was about $250 and not covered by insurance because a new year had started and my deductible hadn’t been met, all while not being able to eat anything because 95% of food, drinks, and even most bottled waters tasted like dirt, leaving me weak physically and mentally depressed and anxious (something my regular meds normally help with), and if I can’t keep down these pills the chemo can’t eliminate the last of the cancer cells and it’s game over.
That I remember vividly, to the point where I get nauseous any time I go to pay the bill for those pills more than 2 years later. The best I can do to cope with the missing week is to use my imagination. I was familiar with the idea of anthropomorphizing or personifying an illness. A therapist I worked with introduced me to Internal Family Systems which worked similarly only by taking different pieces of my personality and emotions and making them a character. If you’ve seen Pixar’s “Inside”, you’ve seen this in action.
Using IFS, I wrote down the perspective and response of each piece of what happened that week. For example, Humor had a stand-up routine of how much he could use a vacation, one with room service and constant attention to his every need. Then the audience would interrupt and remind him he enjoyed that very thing.
I made up a new story about that week from my own perspective, adding details Oscar gave me about my medical state compared to the kind of TV I wanted to watch.
The cancer and I had a truce in place. We both were in rough shape and nearly scored a tie when that embolism knocked us out. If I lost, the cancer would by default, so we came up with a plan to both survive. We built a basic framework for the information the doctors needed in order to pause treatment (Paw Patrol). Then we tested multiple strategies and refined the message we wanted to send (WWE, cut a promo). Finally, time to execute, with emphasis on the cute. I was physically feeling twice as old and practiced my new skills to scheme and pull the Respect Your Elders card on everyone (Golden Girls). It worked. Treatment was paused while I recovered. The doctors fell for our combo attack on April 28th and gave me No Evidence of Disease status.
Two years, four months, and 13 days after NED-Day, I realized it was too good to be true. I was naive to think cancer would wait until I was much older to return. That was the deal. It would back off for a few more decades, then I let it return to grow as large and stay as long as it likes. Luckily, I knew its Achilles heel and left an undercover spy behind.
While we were planning, the cancer let me in on its secret. It had a gene that leaves nothing but false negatives on blood tests. The carcinoembryonic antigen, or CEA marker, is always checked for, but the gene would fudge the numbers on the cancer ledgers. One of the first tests done in May 2020 was for these ledgers which included how many resources were being used for each cell. All blood tests for the CEA marker have been negative. This is why our plan was so effective and led to NED-Day.
One day, my body received an SOS. It was a warning, too short for clarity, but vague enough to remind me of a stat that was as steady as my blood pressure. My fellow cancer Avengers . . . and Rachel had lost a couple members recently, some had thought their nemesis defeated and were back at it, and some were dealing with the supervillain version. My scanxiety was higher than usual with the idea that I’d no longer be cheering them on like a sidekick. When my oncologist gave me the all-clear from the August 18th ride through the magnetic donut and blood tests, I let him in on the cancer’s secret.
The younger cancer cells are used to remaining hidden automatically because of the truce, so they’re sloppy about where they set up operations. I thought the spot was scar tissue from strep, pneumonia, and other ongoing super colds, but my oncologist knew it was prime real estate for colon cancer. He’d been watching that particular lymph node after NED-Day and saw it had increased in the last six months.
We set up a sting operation where all of the cells that make up ME go into rest mode. A big shipment of sugar water laced with radiation that goes undetected is released throughout my bloodstream. The greedy younger cancer cells take in all they can shove into their warehouse. Like Batman tech, the sugar water sends out signals when I’m put through the magnetic donut. The lymph node in my trachea lights up like Las Vegas at midnight. The truce ends.
I never gave cancer my secret. I knew all the resources I’d have next time. The tech and medicines would be better. I’d be physically and mentally trained to be a tougher opponent. When it came back, it wouldn’t stand a chance. I don’t feel bad for the cancer. It was planning my defeat all along. It just got caught. F&#% cancer.
We’ve done additional tests to confirm it’s just the one lymph node and verified it’s genetically identical to the cancer we found in 2020. The term for it is metastatic colon cancer, meaning it’s moved to another area. It’s not in the upper part of my trachea by my vocal cords, so I’m in less danger of losing my voice. We caught it before it grew as out of control as it was in October 2020. I’ve been on an LOA for a week since dealing with escalated calls from customers upset about a small crack in their vanity is not something I can handle in a healthy way and still keep my job. We have plans on using the Ood ball method for chemo treatment. Once we have the authorization from my insurance I’ll have a start date and a rough schedule for 6 months of chemo and possibly radiation treatment afterward.
I’m optimistic. We’ve already gone through the worst-case scenario with the first round. This time I have better resources, more experience, and less of a worldwide crisis to contend with. Oscar and I will have more help and options for our emotional, physical, and mental health. I’ve kept most of the supplies from before. It doesn’t mean I’m not scared. I’m doing what I can to be ready if the worst-case scenario does strike again. Anger is in full Valkyrie mode, especially if I have to lose my hair a second time. I still have Humor, Creativity, and Curiosity on my side. I’m already referring to the situation as National Lampoon’s Tracheal Vacation.
The only question I have is . . . who’s up for being part of Team Hedgehog this time?
Team Hedgehog 