The Cancer Is In My Lungs

I am sorry to share this news.  I’m sorry for myself and my family, but I’m also sorry for those of you who read this blog and draw inspiration and hope from me.  The latest news is horrifying, shocking, devastating, and is anything but inspiring and hopeful.  I feel so defeated and destroyed, so incapable of doing anything right now but going through the motions like a robot, in between bouts of racking sobs.  I have about 20 2-4 millimeter spots — also known as nodules — in my lungs.  We are fairly certain they are cancer.  If they are indeed cancer, then I am no longer curable, and my prognosis according to my oncologist is, assuming I respond to chemo,  “several years.”  That is the long and short of it.


What Now???

It’s 3 o’clock in the morning so I’m going to keep this as short as I can. It’s been a few weeks since my last post, and I know some are wondering what is going on. I haven’t written because things have been crazed! First, there was Thanksgiving, during which we traveled for 5 days which entailed flying four hours and then crisscrossing the state of South Carolina and parts of North Carolina in a rental car over the course of eight hours. Then, the day after we returned, work on my kitchen/dining/living room began. For the last week, we’ve lived with dust, holes in walls and ceilings, exposed wires and steel studs, the dining chairs and coffee table hanging out in my bathroom, plastic covering our couch, my kitchen knives sitting on my bedroom window sill and Josh asking me where the paper towels are and me telling him I don’t know. I’ve been busy staring at the six squares in various shades of beige painted on my wall as I hold up a fabric sample of my soon-to-arrive new couch and a chunk of the textured faux wood, the same material from which my new entertainment unit is being constructed. I’ve been completed engrossed in conversations about what kind of LED lights to install under the kitchen cabinets and whether the contractor can mount the TV just a couple inches lower. And in what I feared would be the most stressful aspect of all this, I’ve been frantically trying to sell and give away all my dining and living room furniture through various means to make room for all the new furniture.

There was a surreal quality to all of these acts of incredible normalcy, like I wasn’t supposed to be standing there talking to my contractor about such mundane and trivial matters when I have cancer, like there was an unnerving incongruity between such ordinariness and the monumental questions of life and death I have faced and continue to face. I acknowledged the surreality, even embraced it, for in doing so I rejoiced in the act of living, ever so grateful to be able to do what I was doing, ever aware that it could all slip away from me in the blink of an eye, with the next CEA test, with the next scan, with the next strange pain.