Watch out Ten Years: Here I Come!

What’s up with the camo bandage?

I meant to post this earlier, like the day it happened, but I wrote the draft and left it. Finally getting back to it now.

Anyway, March 6th was my six month oncology checkup. And it was a doozie…but in a good way.

Last time I went, Dr. Patton said I could advance to taking chest x-rays annually. Before I was doing them every six months too, along with my checkups.

Which weren’t as bad as having to do the annual CTs and get that awful dye, but it still caused a lot of stress and anxiety.

Cancer PTSD

My last chest x-ray especially nearly gave me a heart attack. There was some miscommunication with the techs. No one ever came to tell me that all looked clear and I was free to go like they normally did.

I think I was having some kind of pains or something going in and was afraid It would be back. Not Stephen King’s Pennywise “It,” but It…my damn hitchhiker.

I waited and waited and waited, watching the techs pass by, look in with concern, and confer with the radiologist. I braced myself waiting for them to come in and say they needed more shots. Or maybe to say they saw something and needed to take me to get a CT.

That’s what happened when I was first diagnosed. Even though they couldn’t tell me anything, I saw it in their faces. Something was wrong. Especially when I needed a CT scan. I knew that couldn’t be good.

It’s cancer PTSD. Blood draws are their own trauma (though not nearly as traumatic as they used to be), but scans are a beast unto themselves. I get extremely anxious.

Anyway, didn’t have to do the x-ray for the March 6 visit. It was the best I’d ever slept before an oncology appointment in the last nine years.

Nine Years…

Except for the first eleven months, when I was going in every three weeks for chemo and then later port flushes, I’ve been going to the same place every six months for the last nine years.

Nine. Years.

Most marriages these days are lucky to last that long.

The only two people that have been there that whole time are my oncologist, Dr. Patton, and Melissa, the phlebotomist.

Paige and Starr used to be at the front. Familiar happy faces that saw me at my absolute worst, and had been there for the Comeback.

Melissa helped me through the tears, fear and drama of blood draws. I used to have to be taken in another room, laid down, and given a pillow to wail into, a trash can in case I upchucked, and a towel to mop up all the sweat that poured off me. (Oh yeah. It was a whole “thing.”)

Nowadays I can sit in a chair. I still can’t watch what she’s doing, but I can sit there and by God that’s one of my proudest accomplishments. Besides being brave enough to face cancer, chemo and everything else that came with trying to stay alive, that is.

But I’m a stubborn little booger. If I want something bad enough, I’ll fight tooth and nail for it. I wasn’t ready to check out yet.

Early Remissionversary Present

At the March 6 visit, Dr. Patton said, “Court, you’re almost there. 10 years. When I see you back in six months, I’ll have you do a chest x-ray, but then guess what? If that’s all clear, that will be your last one. We don’t do them after 10 years. And you’ll only have to visit me once a year.”

“But my official remissionversary isn’t until December 31st. Will I have to come back then too?”

“Nope. You’ll be close enough. If it’s not showing back up by then, I think it’s safe to say you made it.”

O. M. G!

Ten Years Here I Come!

Ten. Years.

Five years ago I was shooting for Five Years in the Clear. That’s a big milestone in a cancer patient’s remission.

When I made it, I celebrated big. Parties, trips, special little gifts to myself.

Then came the big let down as we ended our Mediterranean cruise. (That was the end of the Five Years in the Clear celebrations.)

All that excitement and anticipation, and now what? It was over. I was so depressed.

Then it dawned on me on the long flight home from Venice: Shoot for another five and do it all over again! Maybe not another Med cruise, but fun stuff like I did during my five year mark.

And that’s how the Ten Years in the Clear vision was born. It’s what I’ve been focused on ever since.

Never Forget

Hearing that I’m almost there, and that come this September Dr. Patton will consider it close enough to count it 10 years? I couldn’t contain my joy.

I was smiling from ear to ear as I skipped down the hall to set up my return visit. Yes, skipped.

It didn’t dawn on me until I got home that thank goodness no other patients saw me.

I’m lucky. So lucky. So, so very lucky.

I’m alive at a time when lymphoma is curable. My kind of cancer use to have a 90% death rate. NINETY PERCENT!

That’s right, folks. Once upon a time I would’ve been a goner.

Now those odds are almost reversed. Lucky for me.

But when I take time to reflect and be grateful, you know who I think of besides Wayne, the healthcare team, and the friends who helped me pull through? All the researchers, scientists, doctors, and patients who have gone before me to develop and test the drugs that make it possible for me to write right now.

Simmer Down Now! Show Some R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

As I mentioned above, I had been so elated after my visit I had skipped down to the exit.

Thanks to my friend Sara, I had also laughed in the waiting room. She had sent me a message that had made me truly laugh out loud. I told her I’d raised eyebrows because not a lot of laughing goes on in the waiting room.

I didn’t think about that fully at the time. But the whole place, waiting room, exam rooms, treatments rooms…it’s all a somber place. Sometimes a sad place. A lot of fear is present.

But laughs? Compassion is plentiful, but it’s hard to even spot much more than a smile most times.

Yet, Sara’s funny message had lifted my mood, and Dr. Patton had sent it to the moon. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t contain my feelings. I’m a what-you-see-is-what-you-get person. If I’m happy, I’m happy and it’s obvious. If I’m sad, there’s no mistaking it.

However, not everyone walked out of that office happy that day. Some may have just been beginning their battles. Others may have gotten the devastating news that the arsenal for their fight had been exhausted and it was time for hospice.

Luckily no other patients were around to witness my glee. I didn’t have to worry about offending anyone.

A Respectful High Ten

It’s also made me more conscientious about how to handle the Ten Year Visit.

At five years, I cajoled Dr. Patton, and any other staff I could, into taking a High Five picture with me.

Dr. Patton remembered that and said, “I’m looking forward to celebrating ten with another photo.”

I think I was pretty respectful of other patients then.

Actually, my excitement was kind of dampened because my CT had shown a problem. Not a tumor issue, but something potentially wrong with my heart. Dr. Patton had actually been afraid I had congestive heart failure and had scheduled me to see a cardiologist.

It turned out all was fine. Murphy had recently died. The CT had caught evidence of my broken heart.

Anyway, I wasn’t as happy as I could’ve been that visit. Not as happy as I was this visit. And not as excited as I am about the Ten Year.

But, again, I must remember to use my inside voice. I can hoop and holler and jump for joy when I’m in the parking lot.

Or maybe when I’m back home. Dr. Patton’s office is on the second floor on the other side of the building, but I’m pretty sure if I let my excitement out even in the parking lot, it’ll be loud enough to be heard three buildings down.