The Pleasure of Choosing Quiet

It was one of those once a year summer days when the temperature hovered just below 80 and the sun was brilliant through piles of fluffy white clouds. A promise of autumn days arriving in the not so distant future.

We cooked and ate our supper outside tonight. Nature provided our entertainment. The hummingbirds zoomed among the flowers and feeders, occasionally stopping to hover and chatter in our faces. Mamma doe brought the fawns up for an evening raid on the feeders and a raccoon ambled in and out at woods edge.

Kevin worked this morning and took a nap this afternoon. We walked through a garden center nearby. Went to Mass early this evening.

It was a quiet day filled with simple pleasures.

I think we appreciated days like this before cancer intruded. What we didn't appreciate was the pleasure of getting to choose. There have been quiet days this last year because cancer decided; after days in a hospital or nights of sickness I was thankful for a quiet day when Kevin could rest.

I am more thankful tonight for the pleasure of choosing to fill our day with quiet.

The Largeness of Small

We are working through the 'what works/what doesn't' aspects of Kevin's continued healing.

Some days he wakes up to fingers and feet that are cooperative and some days he wakes up and wonders just how they're connected to his body because they don't seem to want to connect with his brain.

From my side of things the dropped cups and tripped up footsteps are small things. Clean it up, move it out of the way, adapt until it passes.

Kevin reminds me, though, that these are large things to him. Reminders of the worries and doubt of both cancer and treatment. The concerns of will it pass and how much more adapting does he have to do to accomodate the mess left behind by an uninvited and unwelcomed guest.

He continues to take Glutamine daily. Missing a couple of doses in conjunction with a rise in the tingling nerve pain leads him to believe Glutamine is helping. We're working on some dietary adaptations and reaching for an activity level that challenges him without increasing the tingling and pain the following day.

I need to remember that what appears like a small thing to me can be very large to the person actually living it.

The Reluctant Passenger

The great news tonight is that today's exam shows no sign of cancer.

Dr. Francis took care of some interior scarring at the surgical site and wants to see Kevin in a year unless any issues come up beforehand.

I would have liked Kevin's exam to have been clear to the point of boring--the memories of last winter's scare due to scarring at the surgical site are vivid. But Dr. Francis seemed confident this can be handled without additional surgery. That's a HUGE improvement over what we faced last winter.

Dr. Francis is great. His own little physician/artist sketches of what the potential problem is, full color photos of the inner deal AND a confidence level that's contagious. What more can you ask for in a surgeon?

Kevin did great. He was outspoken this time about how the sedation affects him afterwards and things went amazingly better on the recovery side. I couldn't believe how good he looked and felt immediately afterwards.

As on all medical days, he got to call lunch; he was eating coney dogs from Dog N Suds within the hour.

So we're home in Ohio tonight. He has a tune-up in a year. We're counting on things being calm for this year. An entire blissful year of no invasions. This is WONDERFUL news!

Kevin had the rare experience of being the passenger for the entire trip today. He closed his eyes a lot--maybe napping, more likely avoiding my driving. (This was probably a wise decision on his part--it got a little ugly along those orange barrels and cement barriers lined up on I-275. I always imagine all it will take is clipping one and then we'll ricochet between them like a pinball for miles.)

Kev's very kind about it, but it's hard to be the passenger when your normal role is driver.

Kind of sums up the last year for him. Being the passenger more than he wanted. On a ride he didn't want to take.

I'm as happy to relinquish the driver's seat as Kevin is to claim it. Now all I have to do is explain the orange barrel wedged up under the truck...

A Colonoscope Walks Into a Bar...

We have an eclectic bunch of friends. So it stands to reason we've had an eclectic array of support through this past year.

This is a good thing. It takes many skills to get through cancer. To get through life.

One of the under-acknowledged necessities in cancer care is laughter. We were lucky enough to have friends who knew this and made it a point to laugh with us.

And once they were certain we could find humor in the bits and moments, all bets were off. My cell phone would light up with one line text messages while we were sitting anxiously in a doctor's waiting room. A friend sent a joke a day for weeks after Kevin was in the hospital last winter.

I had no idea how much I needed to laugh about something until the jokes began to arrive. When Kevin was feeling rotten through those weeks, there were some days when those emails brought the only smiles I saw on his face.

Getting through the embarrassment of talk, tests, treatment and recovery was much easier with laughter.

"Hey, doctor, while you're in there, if you see my dignity would you grab it for me?"

So here we are this morning, just over a year into this 'new normal.' We're in a hotel room in Indiana. Kevin has an appointment later today with his surgeon. It's time for the one year check-up of last August's surgery.

Which means another colonoscopy for Kevin. The good news is that he's been through this kind of stuff enough in the last year that it's kind of a 'so what' procedure for him. (The bad news is that he's been through this kind of stuff enough in the last year that it's kind of a 'so what' procedure for him.)

If you've had a colonoscopy, you know that the "prep" portion can be the roughest part of the deal. And you know why we aren't driving into town this morning, opting, instead, to arrive last night.

Kevin is sleeping soundly after a restless night of , er, "prep" work. I was awakened when my phone lit up with a text message from a friend:

"When I had a colonoscopy, my boss insisted on having a note from my doctor. He wanted to know if my head really was up there."

Cancer War, the epilogue

It's been a year. An entire year since everything in life rearranged in 182 minutes of a 'routine' colonoscopy. Kevin still wishes he had never had the colonoscopy, still imagines he could have gone on indefinitely not knowing.
I imagine an untreatead TOM (Cancer so quickly took over our lives, had a personality of its own, that Kate named her dad's tumor "TOM." It really was like an unwanted gate crasher had suddenly joined our party, ate the best food, drank the top shelf liquor and had to be forcibly evicted.) growing within, like some pulsing pile of radioactive waste. Becoming more powerful, stronger, building his empire. Kind of Jabba The Hut Star Wars-esque.
But he was discovered through the miracles of stealth butt cameras and a battle ensued. Laser sharp weapons. Biological warfare. Nuclear attacks. One ravished landscape later the enemy within has been defeated--not merely beaten into submission but erradicated, defeated, destroyed.Permanently.
So now we work on restoring the empire to prosperity and making sure the valiant Jedi warrior gets to enjoy the spoils of war.

Ordinary Things

Kevin and I celebrated the good news of his scan results with an ordinary kind of day. Nothing fancy; ate lunch streetside at a tavern (that's tourist for "bar") across the river in Kentucky, checked out the local farmer's market and wandered along the river a little before going to Mass.
That's what we were celebrating. Ordinary things.

Maybe it was the day or just the natural rhythm of healing, whatever the reason, Kevin was energetic and we were surprised to get home this evening and realize we had spent 10 hours out doing nothing and thoroughly enjoying ourselves at it.

Here's to the blessings of ordinary!

Free At Last

"Oh, this is good news!!! I am so glad to hear Kevin is cancer-free! Can you hear me singing “Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, he’s free at last”? You can bet your bottom dollar I will send up a prayer of thanksgiving and for God’s continued watch over both of you! Thank you for this news! It is wonderful!" --Zelda

I was searching for a great way to share the wonderful news from Kevin's PET/CT scan when our friend Zelda sent the email I've copied above. Her response to hearing the scan results expresses our excitement and gratitude better than anything I will write.

Kevin's PET/CT shows no cancer cells!!

The image is "overall clear." There's some inflammation in his right chest that needs to be watched; he'll have another PET/CT in 3 months rather than waiting a full year.

Tonight we'll end our day with prayers of gratitude and thanksgiving. Not only for a patient and persistent God but for the prayers and support of friends--known and unknown--who have been a constant reality through the good and the bad.

In the meantime, Zelda said it perfectly, "Thank God Almighty, he's free at last!"