The doctor’s eyes shifted slightly when he looked at me during the meeting following my scan. I knew.
And I knew immediately.
In the scan following my initial surgery, there were tiny, tiny spots in my lungs, as well as one in the T-11 vertebra. Too tiny to biopsy. So tiny the first radiologist said nothing. Possibly just part of my body.
In a scan just before Christmas, the spots on my lungs had grown and changed.
To be or Not to be
The tilt-o-whirl ride started when I was referred to a surgeon. He spoke positively about resecting the lung spots, although we might have to wait since they are so tiny that there is a risk of not getting all of the cancer — don’t want two surgeries on the same lung. My surgeon wanted to get a closer look at the spot on the T-11 vertebra, so I went for a spine MRI.
The surgeon called the next day. “I think the spot on your spine is cancer. That means we will not do surgery, and I’ll be referring you back to your oncologist.”
Basically, if it’s in my spine, I’m screwed. The subtext is this, “Lady, I’m not doing surgery. I mean, why would we put you through it?”
Okay, so that afternoon in my office, I began thinking — endgame. What do I want the last year or so to look like?
At home in the early evening, my oncologist called and we talked as he looked at the new scan. He doesn’t think the spot on the spine is cancer. We have a long talk. A day later, after having multiple radiologists compare scans, they decide that it is not cancer since it has not changed in size or shape. It may be a bone island.
So. Now, I’m not dying. (Okay, we are all dying. But I don’t need to make immediate plans).
It’s the feeling of being handed the Death card. You hold it. You look at it. And this time, someone takes it back.
I then did the most logical thing in the world.
I got on a tall ship and headed to sea.
Here is the review my trip on the Royal Clipper, one of the Star Clipper line.
Cancer Update
March 6, 2016: Great news! My CT scans are stable, so no treatment planned — instead, I get to travel this summer. Woohoo!
January 1, 2017: Better news — after a year of thinking the cancer was back, it wasn’t. The Year of Last Holidays.
Thank you for visiting!
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*** Image of the carnival at night is from Pixabay.
Ann Fisher
Every story starts the same way which is called the “Beginning.” But each one of them end in ways that we called “Different.” Good Luck in everything you do, and keep writing!
All stories have endings – some good, some bad. We like the good endings better. We especially like the good endings to happen to people we like. in a time when there are far too many other endings, our good friend Ann’s good ending is welcome indeed. What a remarkable woman this is, for those of you unfamiliar with her prior life as a teacher. I have the privilege of having known her at a different time, when she toiled tirelessly on behalf of young men and women unaccustomed to being treated as brilliant opportunities by an obviously gifted and superbly well educated mentor. There were no failures in her classes, no basket cases, no irredeemably defunct non-learners. Ann simply didn’t permit them. Everyone learned; and she routinely received formal and informal reviews from students and colleagues alike that most instructors only dream about. So it is gratifying in the extreme that now she has brought her unique talents into the full light of day, making the narrative of a life well lived available to one and all who care to listen, giving voice to happiness, joy, courage, and the indomitable optimism of a genuine hero. Sail on, Ann; the farther shore beckons.
Congratulations on the clear scan and trip! Whew, so grateful that they took back the cancer card. I’m a survivor too (breast) and just got divorced. So nice to find your blog! Keep up the great work! You inspire me!
happy for your good news!
I really like it: the doctors concluded it wasn’t bad, so you went on a cool trip. I am myself waiting to see my doctors and hear about what they have to say after a scan. I am concerned about calcifications that the report says must be considered in the context of the marker and a PET. I open the scan, and slice by slice, I can only see what’s up and what’s down, and not really much more. I was also thinking about what I would like to have done before I reach the finish line, wherever it may be, and I still don’t know. We enjoy life more than the rest.
All of us who deal with cancer — we handle the scans one at a time. We take treatment. I take nothing for granted now, and deeply appreciate the time that I have.
Have a great Summer. Cancer is going to be disappointed. It will have to live in your blog posts from now on. You’re too strong for it. More power to you. 🙂
Thank you, Ann. I’ve come across your blog by accident – I read the “Train” story and loved it. I look forward to enjoying more of your future posts!
I’m happy you found me . . . now I’ll head over and find you :-).
I am happy for your good news. Although I do not have cancer myself, I know the roller coaster experience of the cancer adventure all too well – my partner has stage IV colon cancer.
Enjoy your travels this summer!
Thank you so very much. And I will hold all the best thoughts for you and your partner.
Sensible…..
The sense of flying on the ship under full sail gives me a great feeling of calm and well being. It will help carry me through the next battle.
I’ve always read that calm and well being are good when a serious illness or the thought of one is lurking Ann, so going sailing seemed perfectly logical to me.
Thanks, Joe.
Honesty, humor and metaphor. Spock would have found this eminently logical, Ann.
Hhmm. I’m not sure Spock would have found going sailing logical. But I am very sure we would have interesting conversations about it. Kirk would have come sailing with me.