Writing did all the right things it was supposed to in 2019. The discipline calmed my mind, and the words allowed me to communicate what I was going through to people I care about. I have to say--I also enjoyed it. The blog project was a short-term way to get through a very difficult time in my life. And it worked. Sort of.
The one thing the writing didn't do, the thing that I didn't know I needed it to do, was to end my cancer journey. Someone in college called me "terminally romantic" (he stole that line, I found out later). I think he thought it was some kind of back-handed compliment because in my late adolescence, I acted as if there would always be another day, another chance, that good would always win, and that my pessimism was a luxury I could afford because, in spite of my terrible choices, everything would be fine. So I found myself in 2019 believing that the cancer/radiation blog would be a small slice of a long and mostly healthy life.
Terminal romantic? Terminally naïve.
My partial vulvectomy was June 22, 2019, not quite a month after my oldest daughter's wedding. In November of 2019, I completed 5 weeks of radiation. Done. In early 2020, the docs ordered another PET scan, and everything seemed okay. You might recall that in the spring of 2020, the world fell apart. There was that attempt to overthrow the government and then the total shut-down of everything. In the midst of having to relearn to teach, run a department, and manage a bunch of projects by Zoom, I visited the gyn-onc who had some more earth-shattering news: suspicious vulvar tissue, again. Surgery in July confirmed that there was more cancer, but it seemed fairly superficial, and he believed that chopping out more tissue would take care of it. Maybe it did for a while. But in October 2020, a gigantic (plum sized by the time it was removed, y'all) lymph node showed up in my groin. To be specific, it was right in the crease of my left leg. Walking was PAINFUL. The cancer cells had escaped the somewhat secluded vulvar area and were now running amok in my lymphatic system, all over my groin. This time, along with the radiation, I was prescribed chemotherapy. There were days when I wondered if the treatment was worse than the disease, but I won't dwell.
Another PET scan in late spring showed no cancer whatsoever. I celebrated. My husband and I took a much longed for and much delayed vacation together. It was magical and healing.
I'm beginning to hold PET scan results with the same skepticism as, say, a mega millions lottery ticket.
That brings me to October 2021. In spite of good reports last spring and even as last as September, I am now back to square one: more franken-tissue, odd bouts of fatigue, and sleeplessness. I sent a photo to my gyn-onc and he called me an hour later, moving my next appointment up to this week. I can predict what will happen at that appointment: He'll take a quick look, call me into his office, and tell me we need to remove it. A couple of hours later the nurse will call to set up the surgery date. He'll order another PET scan (or maybe we can just hire a psychic?) to determine if the lymph nodes have joined the party this time.
I really just wanted an uninterrupted semester. I get back my optimistic give-em-hell attitude by Thursday, but for now I'm just going to drink up a little self-pity. Maybe I'll go for a walk. Maybe I'll rent a Delorean and see if Jerry can fix the flux capacitor with junk from his garage.
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