Chemotherapy is life
July 31, 2023 - The tests are all done. There weren't that many, two passes through the CT scanner and three vials of blood (no urine, I sat uncomfortably for nothing). From these my oncologist (with the assistance of the radiologist, who I've never met but has had a tremendous impact on my life) will be able to tell how aggressively my cancer has bounced back in my four months without chemotherapy. A slow recovery for the cancer is obviously ideal, that gives me my best chance at a better quality of life, but that would also mean we could delay a few more weeks to allow the incision to heal more fully. But, in a less ideal case, we could start chemo sooner, and accept a longer healing period for the incision. The first case is preferable to me for many reasons, but since most of my physical restrictions were lifted last week when I saw my surgeon, most of my anxiety about the situation has lifted.
I recieved my diagnosis around this time last year. I barely remember any of it, things moved so fast, there was a new appointment every few days, I was in so much pain. Starting chemotherapy was terrifying. You can lie to yourself, pretend a bad thing isn't real, for a long time. It wasn't the CT scan, booked in days when before it took months. It wasn't the biopsy, which somehow hurt more than the tumor in my belly button. It wasn't the PICC installation surgery, even though seeing the little tube next to my heart on the scan screen was the grossest thing. Or even my first conversation with my oncologist. It was when they started the chemotherapy infusion that it became undeniable. Those chemicals are poison, the only excuse to deliver them is cancer. After then I had no choice but to live in the cold light of that fact.
A year gives us opportunity for a tremendous amount of change. Not always the way we want. Today, on the night of the final day of July, I am excited to restart chemotherapy, tobegin my third course of treatment. Excited like I was for Christmas when I was seven. Because I've fully accepted that, a year ago, I was given the death sentence of high grade, stage four appendectal cancer. I can never change that. I am at peace with it. The totality of it. But I still have time, and I won't get to everything I want (but wouldn't no matter what age I lived to), but through the scientastic magic of modern medicine, the chemotherapy will help me do more of those things.
I'm lucky, my mental health has so far allowed me to choose the sort of hope that I'd available to me. The call to despair hasn't been compelling most of this adventure. I rolled my eyes at radical acceptance when I was doing DBT years back, but it's helped free me from the perminant existential crisis my situation would otherwise require of me. I'm calm. I'm joyful. I'm at peace. I'm not putting on a show. I'm very excited for the next year, and for the medicine that's going to take me there.
From the comments
James Petrosky: At this point, I think the losses in cognative ability are probably perminant. I'm fine comversarionlly, was never particularly skilled with the written word and maybe even improved over treatment from practice, but I notice I'm worse at abstract thought. Last week I got so confused I couldn't recognize that a set was obviously countably infinite (more relatably mental arithmetic is much harder than it was a year ago, and I need pencil and paper for things I've been able to do in my head since grade 9). This sort of stuff has been a pretty important part of my sense of self since around grade 6, when math became fun, and this change causes me more mental friction than my own mortality these days. This, too, must be accepted, and perhaps the joys of pen and paper geometry rediscovered.