Another pebble in my shoe

My blues seem to be subsiding since I wrote last, thanks in part to the well wishes and thoughtful feedback from family and friends. I've since learned from a very reliable source that post-chemo depression is a common occurrence -- and one that should not be ignored. And I've also learned it may improve with the passing of time. Remember the phrase, "This, too, shall pass"? And here I thought it just applied to the complexities of raising children...

I'm now finding comfort -- okay, maybe even pride -- in knowing that I have actually completed four rounds of some pretty intense chemo. It's not rewarding in the same way as earning a degree or having a baby (since all I've got to show for it is my bald head), but definitely a life-affirming accomplishment nonetheless. And, as my friend Lisa reminded me, there's nothing to prevent my hair from growing back now. Somehow, I'd managed to forget all about this part! So that's definitely worthy of some feel-good thoughts.

More soul-feeding came during a short break in the winter storms when I managed to squeeze in some weekend gardening, both at home and at the kids' school. (The only real way to avoid the germs, I've found, is to show up when there are no children actually present.) At the beginning of the school year, I'd volunteered to plant three garden plots among Camryn and Hayden's two classes. Obviously, I haven't been able to deliver on that commitment. But as I pulled weeds and enjoyed conversation with my new friend Lynette, who heads the school's beautification committee, I realized how good a little gardening was for my mind as well as the school.

All that sunshine must have lit a spark because before the weekend was over, the kids and I were excitedly diving into the next holiday, making Valentine cards and related crafts. Who has time for the blues when there's hearts, glitter glue and cupid-shaped confetti all over the place? We became a crayon-making factory, as old broken crayons were stripped naked of their wrappers and dropped into heart-shaped molds, then popped into a low-temperature oven. The result was a collection of tie-dyed masterpieces, no two alike, for the kids to share with their classmates.

By Monday, I had switched gears to plain old anxious as Josh and I went to Dr. Blair's to learn the results from my latest PET scan. The good news is that the scan showed my tumor has continued to shrink -- yes! -- and now appears to be rounder than ever, measuring in at 5.5 centimeters. That's down from 7.5 centimeters, as originally indicated last fall.

(Incidentally, I loved reading and hearing about everyone's size predictions -- walnut, grape, raisin and all the rest. So funny, and even more encouraging. However, the winning prediction goes to...Bryte, who avoided a fruit comparison altogether and insisted it would most closely resemble the size of a golf ball.)

Dr. Blair was also pleased to report that the carcinogenic/aggressive nature of my tumor (measured by how intensely it lights up on the scan, reacting to the radioactive sugar injected into my veins) appears to be the dimmest it's ever been. Also tremendous news, thank God.

But there was something else on the report that was completely unexpected. The PET scan showed evidence of another tumor -- this one in my brain -- known as a pituitary adenoma. Apparently, these types of tumors are not uncommon and can exist for quite some time without any obvious symptoms. While Dr. Blair was quick to tell me they are "almost always benign," he said an MRI and a series of blood tests would give us the specific information we needed.

Depending on the tumor's size, he told us, it can usually be controlled with medication or removed altogether by a neurosurgeon. As for why it showed up for the first time on my third PET scan, Dr. Blair wasn't certain. He did explain that PET scans aren't considered the best source for identifying these type of tumors -- which is why I needed an MRI.

Dr. Blair tried to keep things light for the rest of our meeting, while I pretty much fell apart. He said that Stanford's tumor board would need to weigh in on this new finding and perhaps they'd even agree to tackle both surgeries at once -- like a glorified two-for-one special. My immediate concern was whether this could instead delay my chances at surgery to remove the chest tumor. After all, I'd already been told that surgery needed to happen soon after I'd completed chemo. The last thing I wanted was for those aggressive cancer cells to have the chance to get busy again.

On the drive home, my thoughts turned to a phrase I'd heard from my dear Aunt Florence. When news got out about my cancer diagnosis last fall, she sent me the first of many supportive email messages from her home in Saskatchewan, Canada. I can't remember too much of the specifics, but in her note she reminded me I was surrounded by a loving family and said she'd keep me in her thoughts "while you pause to get the pebble out of your shoe." I've loved that analogy since the first time I heard it, and over the last few months those words have helped prevent me from getting lost in the enormity of the situation.

But -- seriously -- TWO pebbles now? It was all I could do to remember to breathe. Just breathe.

Josh and I made the drive to Stanford the next morning, all the while trying to stay positive about the latest findings. During the drive, I kept busy by reorganizing my growing collection of medical paperwork and drafting questions to pose to the surgical team. Once we got there, we met up for lunch with Ali Morr Kolozsi, a friend of mine from high school who works in development at Stanford. It was great to see her and catch up after nearly 20 years, and especially comforting to now have a friend close by on that amazingly huge campus.

We waited in a tiny room for what felt like forever while the tumor board met. Josh passed the time by mostly standing and pacing, at time glancing through an ancient issue of Popular Science magazine. As for me, I stayed focused on speed-reading through a stack of overdue library books that I'd promised the Cancer Center's librarian I'd be returning later that day. Plus, I had a bag packed with puzzle books, snacks, drinks -- you name it. (Thanks to my buddy Karen Van Amerongen for all those goodies!)

Finally, Dr. Wakelee appeared with news from the tumor board. She reported that they were extremely pleased with the progress I'd made from four rounds of chemo, and they believed that no additional chemo was needed. Whew! As for my next steps, she told us their overwhelming response was something along the lines of, "There is nothing to prevent this woman from going directly into surgery." Finally...the words I'd been waiting to hear.

We spent an hour and a half with Dr. Whyte, my thoracic surgeon, who infomed us that I could plan on having surgery within two weeks. Then he walked me through the entire procedure. Even though I'd known all along I would be in good hands (literally), this man made me feel completely at ease. He even told me most patients agree that this surgery is not as bad as chemo! As for the pituitary tumor, Dr. Whyte advised against operating on it at the same time as my chest tumor because of the potential risk factors. He told us he'd discuss my case with his colleagues in both neurosurgery and endocrinology and await the results of my MRI.

As we were getting ready to leave, I remembered to ask about my dreaded PICC line. Dr. Blair wouldn't allow me to have it removed until I'd first checked to see if my Stanford docs needed it in place for surgery. Dr. Whyte quickly glanced at my arms (I was wearing short sleeves) and informed me, "I can't think of a single reason why you'd want to keep that thing in your arm for the next two weeks when I can see you have perfectly healthy veins." At that moment, I swear I wanted to create a Dr. Whyte fan club.

Despite the dark and rainy drive home, Josh and I felt the same sense of relief we had before on our previous visits to Stanford. It really is an amazing place, filled with such hope. My mind then turned to gratitude for every one of my doctors, who all seem to genuinely care about healing me. I know that whatever is to come, I am blessed with a talented medical team who can tackle it.

The first pebble in my shoe is almost out. I'll get to that second one -- all in good time.

With love and hope,
Angela