Well, phooey!

April 15, 2010

This past Monday I made the call to the Hope Cancer Center. I’d been watching the swelling/lump in my neck for about 10 days and was now convinced that it wasn’t my imagination—there actually was something getting bigger in that corner between my neck and shoulder. And in exactly the same place that the last recurrence recurred. For once, I actually got to talk to Willie, Dr. Williams’ nurse, and didn’t have to leave a message. She listened to what I had to say, and said OK, let’s get an ultrasound, new tumor markers, and an appointment with Dr. Williams.

Starting Monday afternoon during our cancer support group meeting, I began have episodes of light-headedness. I just ignored them and eventually they went away. Nerves? Then later on Monday, someone called with the appointments—Tuesday morning for the ultrasound and drawing the blood for the tumor marker tests, and next Friday to see Dr. Williams. Carol emailed that she’d be happy to go with me, so I let her know when the ultrasound was scheduled.

We get there. Everyone at Hope is, as usual, chipper, upbeat, pleasant. The sonographer begins her check of the left side of my neck. There it is on the screen. Or rather, there they are. Three enlarged lymph nodes, the largest one about the size of a pecan, the other two smaller. I look at the screen. I can feel my heart beating in my ears. I seem to have forgotten to breathe for awhile. I let out a big breath. When will I get the radiologist report, I ask. In a day or so, she says, although both of us have seen the three enlarged lymph nodes, and we know what the radiologist report will say. Biopsy recommended to confirm metastasis. But I don’t need the biopsy to know.

I can’t settle down. First I come home and eat a little something for lunch and then sleep most of the afternoon. Phone calls and Dancing With the Stars pass most of the evening. Wednesday morning I have a Candy Fund Board meeting that keeps me occupied, but then in the afternoon, the nurse calls with the results of the tumor marker tests. A year ago I would have been happy with the numerical results, but now, because they are going up again instead of down, already past where they were in March, and one is already higher than the normal range, that pretty much seals it.

The trembles begin. Not outwardly, but somewhere inside. It’s hard to draw a continuous breath. I take half an Atavan and the trembles go away. But I can’t concentrate on any one thing. I walk around the house, looking at my possessions, and wondering whether I should leave things to individual people—put their names on the backs of pictures, for example, or just let my relatives decide what to do with everything. I wish I had been more diligent about writing my obituary. I pace from kitchen to bedroom over and over, forgetting each time what I went for.

These feelings will pass, I know. They have before. But meanwhile, I’m in limbo, not knowing what treatment will be recommended, but knowing that three cancer occurrences in three years is a terrible prognosticator. Well, phooey.