Friday, April 1, 2011

No new(post)s is good news

Good lord, I realize it's been almost a month since I posted anything. "What gives, Shelldogg?" I don't have an answer to that, or perhaps more accurately, I haven't thought long enough about it to posit any theories. Give me time, I'll pop one out by the end of this post. UH-OH, IT'S A STREAM-OF-CONSCIOUS POST. Somebody get this girl an editor, please.

I feel like I should follow up on the various open storylines from my last two months, then we can march onward!

1- Surprise, surprise: Kauai was awesome. Yes, the tsunami came, no, it wasn't bad, though certainly interesting.

2-I will not know the actual effectiveness of my CyberKnife procedure for several months. Apparently, my liver will still gleam radioactively on a scan for some time, making it difficult to see what's actually happening (or better yet, not happening) in there. But soon, the dead tissue will darken, and all will be clear. I know it worked.

3-I do have a CT scan on APRIL 7 (next week), to see if the rest of me remains clear and normal. To me, this is really the crucial question. We knew the liver spot was probably still there. We know CyberKnife works. The scary thing would be if something new was suddenly growing. Because that would mean....IT'S ALIVE.

4- Based on the scan, we'll know what my treatment plan will be from this point on. Currently, and for the last few months, I have been on no medicines. Avastan injections may resume soon, continuing potentially all summer even if I'm symptom-free, reminding me with every poke that yes, this cancer I had was a very big, bad one, but I am somehow beating it.

5- I feel SO VERY WELL. Normal. Healthy. Strong. Unafraid. Balanced. Grateful, even. With a bourgeoning sense of perspective. I think about cancer less and less all the time. I guess that's why I haven't been writing. You know I'm truly feeling okay when I pour my energy into living my life, not writing my blog. Take Q4 of last year as an example. Remission hit, then the radio silence began. AND THE READERS WEPT! (Ok, there it is. The answer to my opening question. I knew I'd figger it out by the end of this entry).

BUT, 6: I still have lots to say, many thoughts, coming at me quicker than I can possibly write them down, on topics more interesting (to me, at least) than the inner-workings of my mind as I navigate yet another cancer procedure.

What is the so-called "gift" that cancer brings? What minuscule rubies have I found embedded in that burning box of shit on my doorstep?

They are starting to reveal themselves to me, subtly. Everywhere, all the time. It can't be summed up in a word, more as an evolution in my perspective. Sometimes it arms me, sometimes it steadies me, helping me cast away the inessential stuff and to feel light about things.

I don't mean to get heady on you here. I suppose I just want you to know, whomever you may be, that I don't view this entire experience as a loss. But I'm not ready to call it a gift, either. I need to get a few years behind me first.

1 comment:

  1. i think this might be be another stroke of brilliance (particularly the piece about shit on your doorstep). yes, a few years behind us first, and yet a bit of steadying--an inevitable change in perspective that we could all use, i guess, and all have gained (in part) from the way you've faced this trial. thanks for sharing, shel.