Metastatic Me

Where does one start this kind of a story? In the middle? At the beginning? It's all mixed up in my head, you see. Like a beautiful, horrible, tangled up mess of spaghetti noodles. Which I guess supports the idea that I should stick my fork in it and start wherever I dang well please.

Let's start with today. It's April 2023. And late last month I found out that I have Stage IV cancer. In fact it was four weeks ago today. 

Well wait. That doesn't really set the stage. Let's try this again. 

Four weeks ago today, I found out that I have cancer. For the third time. And perhaps for the last time. Somehow I'm okay with the "it's cancer" part of the diagnosis. I'm even okay with it being the third time. But I am having some serious freaking trouble with the part where this is just my story now. My big long sad ridiculous story. The kind where acquaintances tilt their head to the side, click their tongue, moan a little "oh no", and give you the pity eyes. 

It's really only a matter of time until I throat punch the a head tilter. 

I was originally diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer in the fall of 2018. No family history. I had breastfed like a champ - wasn't that supposed to protect me from this? I had two small kids - wasn't the universe supposed to take it easy on me (and them)? I was simply not who I thought was at risk for such a diagnosis. 

At the tail end of treatment (something like 10 months into the "journey"), I was diagnosed with an unrelated secondary cancer (papillary thyroid cancer). Like a bonus cancer - go me! 

And now, here we are three and a half years later, and the breast cancer is back. In my lung. On the other side. Where it has no business being. 

Is it funny that I have never smoked a day in my life and now I have cancer in my lung? I mean, come on, that's a little funny. Not funny-ha-ha, but funny somehow nonetheless. Did I waste my time being a good girl? Perhaps I did...

And so here we are. I am 45 years old. And I am dying. But we're all dying. Is my death somehow now accelerated? Is it imminent? Is it going to hurt? 

I am actually 45 years, 2 months, and 20 days old. I'm not likely to die of this anytime soon. It is, after all, "low volume" cancer spread. It is expected to be managed by injections and pills for what may be years to come. I have plenty of opportunities to die of other more traumatic things in the meantime. Car wreck. Lightning strike. Asphyxiation in my sleep due to tangling up in a necklace that I should have taken off before bed. Tripping on the scale as I adeptly avoid it, only to fall facedown into the commode and drown. I mean, we could come up with some pretty creative options for my death. 

However, if I'm being honest, I feel that I've just been told something that sounds an awful lot like "You will die of this. We cannot tell you when. The circumstances are murky at best. But this will kill you. You will be fighting for the rest of your days. And your dark humor will be more necessary now than it was last time around. No amount of crying or drinking or crying while drinking will solve this. You will die of this. In the meantime, we can extend your life if you get these injections that make you sleepy and these pills that make you nauseous. Your quality of life will diminish but if you have a good attitude it will help. Do you have any questions?"

I have some questions, yes. But how do I put them into words that make sense? And who can really tell me the answers?

Will my children be okay? WILL THEY? Will they grow up with a mom? Will they lose me when they are still young and scared? Or will they be old enough to understand my pain and trauma when I go? Will they essentially watch me whither away over the years? Will they see me as weak? If I cry will they be more scared and traumatized? If I smile as I whither, will they know the real me? Will I be able to teach them courage and optimism and strength OR will I just kind of go nuts and yell a lot and retreat into my safe space and be less of a mom than they need and deserve?

Will it hurt? WILL IT? Today? Tomorrow? Later? At the end?

Do I need to take up yoga and forest bathing and grounding and medicinal marijuana? 

Will I be able to keep working, at least for a little while longer?

Will I be brave? Will I make myself proud? 

Will I be able to get to the restroom in time when the nausea hits me like a bus? 

Will I lose my hair again before I die?

Will my husband be broken by this? WILL HE? Or will he find strength in my unflappable grace? Will I have unflappable grace? If I lose it and break down, will he recognize it as a call for help (and hugs) or will he be terrified and feel inadequate to walk beside me on this journey?

Will my parents be okay? WILL THEY? They have already buried one child, and burying a second seems like cruel and unusual punishment to me.

My head is swimming these days. Swimming with thoughts and questions and fears and something akin to "not knowing" or "not grasping" or "not wanting to know or grasp" the entirety of my situation. But grasp I must - and grasp I shall. I will soon start counseling (again) - trying to understand the process that is playing out in my most-human of heads. 

I've already alerted my sweet husband that I'm not quite processing this. I know I need to, but I'm just not there yet. I anticipate that in the next few weeks I will need to go dark, get off the grid, be alone, and spend some time with this diagnosis. To be alone in this body that has betrayed me so many times. To sit with all of it and decide what to do about it. 

Spoiler alert. I already know that I will decide to fight. It's who I am. I am not accustomed to backing down from something uncomfortable, and why should stage iv cancer be any different?

Until then, I go through the motions each day. I am remarkably calm almost all of the time, except when I am alone in the car, which somehow brings out the tears. And sometimes something random triggers the be-jabbers outta me. Like walking into the chemo waiting room, or the chemo infusion bay, or seeing the word "non-curative" on my paperwork.

I'm cool as a cucumber on the outside, but I'm curious on the inside. And a little worried about my good friend - me. Only time will tell how this one plays out. But for now, I stand near the precipice, peering curiously towards and a little over the edge, wondering if I will fall. Or when I will fall. Or if I will simply walk along the edge for quite some time now, as many others have done, avoiding the fall, becoming comfortable with those heights and depths, and with the not knowing.

Metastatically yours,

Me