Normally a head scan wouldn’t be included but I’ve been having some dizzy spells and frankly they’re freaking me out a bit.  Despite my best efforts, the words “brain tumour” crept into my mind like sneaky little spiders leaving clingy cobwebs of fear behind.   Reassuringly, my oncologist said that the problem is more likely related to circulation (it mostly happens when I stand up or get out of bed) but since I have a pretty good record of reporting symptoms that turn out to be indicators of disease progression, she’s not messing around. She tagged an “urgent” head scan onto my scheduled CT so we can get all the results at the same time. 

And so here I am again, trapped in the hope-fear continuum, as I always am whenever I wait for the results of tests like these.  No matter what I’m doing – working or buying groceries, talking or typing, listening or laughing – I can feel the almost magnetic tension between the poles of hope and fear.  It feels like walking a tightrope, where any slip can hurl me either into terror or wild optimism.

And this time in particular there’s a lot going on, pulling me in both directions.  There is the fear that the scans will reveal tumour growth or new spots, possibly in my (gulp) brain.  I’ve also noticed pain at the site of my original tumour, the one long-ago removed, and …is that a little lump under my arm?? 

But before I spiral down into the murky depths of Fearsville, let’s just shake off the slime of terror and foreboding for a moment and give the other end of the spectrum a chance.  Because there is also the lure of hope: pure and shiny and just as powerful a pull as the gravity of fear. And this time, offsetting the whirlpool suck of fear, I have to say hope’s got a pretty good leg-up. This time, I actually believe I have reason to be hopeful – dizzy spells and phantom tumour pain notwithstanding. 

Even though I’m superstitious enough to hesitate to blog it out to the universe for fear of jinxing myself, I’ve decided that I will share why I’m leaning toward hope because I also have a cockamamie theory that other people wishing for it too might help to make it come true.  So, here goes: I can feel that the lumps in my neck are getting smaller!  Its not just my imagination – my oncologist has on two occasions made a happy/surprised face and a little “Hm!” sound when examining me in the past few weeks.  (She is not the overly effusive type, so for her, I like to think “hm!” is the equivalent of jumping up and down and high-fiving me.) 

Anyway, I’ll know on Thursday. In the meantime I’ll walk the tightrope and try not to go completely mad.  Although I confess I’m rubbing my shrunken neck lumps like lucky pennies, and giving my brain and under arm lump 800-pound-gorilla status just by dint of the concentration it requires to not think about them.  

Luckily, I had a visit with my amazing cancer shrink yesterday, and he says “What-ifs” are strictly off limits.  No matter how positively you spin a What-if, reasons my amazing cancer shrink, it invites its opposite, thereby opening the door to anxiety.  And nobody wants to live in that house, located, as it is, in the reeking swamp of Fearsville.  So I just have to stay with what I know, which, right now, is …nothing.  Nothing is pretty hard to hold onto – but even if it’s not as great as good news, it’s still better than bad news.

Holding onto nothing… Oh my, my, my.  That’s the thing about cancer: you might beat the disease, but you’ll probably go crazy doing it.

We had fun doing it and I’m a big supporter of the whole idea behind the Rapid Diagnostic Centre — that being to cut down the wait time between testing and diagnosis to one day.  Yes, just one.  Not the several agonizing weeks it usually takes.  Imagine taking that excruciating time-warped endless agony of wondering if you have cancer and smacking it right down to size?  Waiting for results is like your standard what’s-behind-the-door horror film scene: no matter what’s hiding behind that door, the scariest part is the eerie music and the slow, creeping, spine-tingling approach to the unknown evil lurking in the dark. I always have to fast-forward through those scenes. And basically that’s what the Gattuso Center will do for that slow, creeping, terrifying approach to the great unknown of a cancer diagnosis.

Of course it won’t always be good news behind that door. But, like in the movies, at least once you’ve seen the monster, you can start figuring out how to destroy it.

You can view the commercial here (at http://www.pmhf.ca/)

Saturday was Exhausted and Depressed Day, but by Sunday we had kind of found our groove of Denial and Distraction.  

Now we’re mostly in the Numb and Calm stage, with a little glimmer of Hopeful and Determined: today I woke up to a sunny day and found that I actually believe that whatever the CT scans show, we will just take it in stride as best we can and get on with the business of beating this horrible thing. 

Which is not to say that I’m done with crying and asking impossible questions of the universe and my husband, but for the moment, no news is simply no news.  For the moment, as far as I’m concerned the cancer hasn’t colonized any new bodily territories and the neck lumps haven’t pushed their evil lebensraum campaign too terribly far.  And that’s good enough to get me through one more night.

But then, sometimes when I start feeling sorry for myself, I just have to look around and open my eyes to all the suffering that other people are forced to endure, and it gives me a little perspective. For example, I direct you to this link to a tale of incredible suffering and dignity in the face of outrageous circumstances. 

Wow, talk about a “perfect storm.”  I mean, that is just too overwhelming to contemplate.  

Just kidding.  What really does help me is all the encouraging comments and good mojo.  And barfing in the general direction of this Mischa Barton person.

Alas, this morning I came screeching back into cold hard reality at full-speed – right back into the routine that somehow never becomes routine:

• 9 a.m. needle to the port in my chest – check
• Extraction of 6 colour-coded vials of blood – check
• ECG – check
• IV fluids & drugs for about 2 hours – check
• Review bloodwork results with my nurse: all counts low, especially platelets. Am instructed to rest as much as possible, and to avoid getting any deep cuts or gashes. Cancel my sword-fighting plans this weekend – uh, check

This evening I’m scheduled for my first CT scan since beginning the clinical trial. They’ll scan everything from head to pelvis, looking for any sign of further metastasis (please, no more) and of course, measuring the growth of the ol’ neck lumps (please, no more than 20%). 

I’ve already choked back half the gigantic bucket of nasty chalk-juice, which, by the way, some jerk had the audacity to brand “E-Z CAT” – probably a relative of the jerk who came up with branding Fox News “fair and balanced.”  Now I shall proceed to eat everything in sight before fasting begins.  Then I’ll nap, if I can possibly quiet my mind, and later my husband will take me back to the hospital for the freaky sci-fi space capsule scan.

And then? 

Well, then we just wait. Probably until Monday. We wait and try to enjoy our weekend as much as possible, hopefully avoiding “deep cuts and gashes” or any manner of flesh-wound, and also trying not to think too much about the results.  This of course is like trying not to breathe too much.  

I really want to stay positive and only think of good things (my family, my new niece, lobster dinners) but the truth is I’m terrified.  Still, if there is something to know, I’d rather know it.  Can’t fight it if you don’t know it’s there, right?  And maybe there just won’t be any surprises.  Maybe the test drug is working, in spite of seemingly enlarged neck lumps, which yes I have stopped touching all the time.  Mostly. 

Anyway, on with the dragon hunt.  Again.