I keep hoping that I'm going to wake up from this. After the clean PET scan yesterday, I had a wave of "they'll cut off the toe -- and then this will be done". That just isn't really the case. Today brought that home.
We had our first meeting with an oncologist, Kubiak, and she brought home a great deal of reality. She asked if I wanted to hear the percentages. I'm a glutton for information that I probably don't need. Of course I said yes. She talked about 5 year survival rates and 10 year survival rates. Even if you are just stage 2. This just doesn't go away. I've asked Chris to help me learn how to live without fear and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've always had a hard time with this -- and now, I'm worried that I'll spiral down into continual panic that any mole, any bump, any anything is a sign that it's back and worse.
We've promised each other that we're going to focus on living our lives -- and I will do my best to live up to that promise. In the meantime, we will focus on one day at a time - and working to figure out what our new normal is. And - get through tomorrow.
I also had my brain MRI done today. Checking one more box. I had asked the tech to play current music -- and then, after it started, thought to myself that I'd rather listen to classical. She managed to change the music about every five minutes -- so, I really got a little bit of everything...at least, what I could hear over the noise of the machine. But, in the middle of it all, in a space between the noise, Copeland's "It's a Gift to be Simple" started. Another song that I sang as a child. One of my mom's favorite songs. What hit me was that God was with me. I felt him. I felt ready. And then I started crying...and my eyes itched...and I'm not allowed to move. Always happens.
By the time we got home, we got the call that the brain scan was clean. We had another win today -- but both Chris and I were feeling the enormity of what we were facing -- no matter what. We also learned that one of the top pathologists in the state reviewed my slides to confirm that initial diagnosis. It seems, that of people that have of melanoma on the bottom of their toe -- less than 1% are white. Seriously. Toe melanoma = me and Bob Marley.
We continue to be overwhelmed by the kindness and care of friends -- and even strangers. I've developed a tendency to cry to nurses. They ask how I hurt my toe, I tell them melanoma -- and that they are cutting it off -- I see their reaction - and I start to cry. My MRI tech from today, her father has stage III melanoma. By the time be both shared our stories, we were both in tears. After my scan, we were hugging and promising to pray for each other. Emails from dear friends, both nearby and far away...text messages from family...the simple power of care and compassion -- why are we not appreciating this when we aren't in crisis?? We are damned lucky...and I'm not going to forget it.
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