Honey, I Shrunk My Tumor!

It's a hard day when we have to go see the doctor. I used to think going in for my annual lady exam was the worst...this beats that, hands down. Seeing the oncologist, a fancy medical term for cancer doctor, reminds us of how real this all is, every single time we go.

I wish I could say we live daily in the reality of what we are dealing with here. But we don't. We pretend a lot. At least, I do. It's easier to think of everything as fine. I suppose for the most part it really, truly is. Except, when we get in the car to make that trip to the clinic. Once we pull in and valet park; as soon as we're inside that cancer center, it becomes all too real. There's no escaping what we are really doing here.

Today we made our way up to the second floor to check into the lab, so blood could be drawn and analyzed this morning before we saw the doctor.  We accidentally left the images and MRI report in the truck and I had to go back and get them, while Scott was getting his labs done.  Our truck had already been taken to the parking garage on the other side of this huge campus. The attendant told me I would need a ride, and to wait so they could just take me over to get what we needed, myself.

A few minutes later, this golf cart pulled up and a guy waived me in. It was like getting a tour of Universal Studios, complete with recommendations for where to eat and what to do when visiting in the future. I felt bad I didn't have any cash to tip him with.

It took me about 30 minutes to get to the truck and back. Scott asked me what took so long. I sarcastically told him a cute guy in a convertible asked me if I wanted a ride and I couldn't resist, so I let him take me for a spin around the hospital. I couldn't help it. I needed to make him laugh.

"Are you serious? I knew I should have gone myself!"

"Not really...a guy in golf cart pulled up to take me to the truck.  It couldn't go over 8 miles and hour! I have no idea what he looked like, I only saw him from behind."  I handed Scott the MRI CD and told him all about my tour and the cool shops and restaurants behind the hospital, which all would've been useful info back when we had to stay here, but today, not so much!

The thing is...none of this was planned. It wasn't even a spectacular event. So why am I telling you all about it? Because. I also didn't plan to have any fun today. In the middle of my reality of having to go to the cancer center with my husband to talk about his chemo schedule, side effects, and all the not so great things that accompany living with cancer...I had, what my Grammy would call... an adventure.

This random event took my mind off intruding thoughts about negative what could be's, rescued me from that downward spiral, and changed my perspective. I couldn't help but smile. I was satisfied with my quick wit, able to fully be there for Scott and not dwell on negative things that don't matter. 

As we sat together in the exam room, waiting for the doctor, we laugh, talked, and joked some more. Scott is always giving people a bit of a hard time and joking around. He immediately puts people at ease. I wanted to do the same for him.

His voice is soothing. His laugh, infectious. He doesn't fit the image of what we see around us at the hospital and I am so thankful for him. I am grateful for his way, for his ability to make light of a very heavy situation, and even make his doctors laugh. I especially love that he is able to still make and take a joke. He laughed when I pointed to the CD of his MRI and said, "This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs with part of it missing." (Children of the 80's might remember this PSA.)

I was glad for the chance to help give him a reason to smile. The doctor came in and we put all kidding aside. Scott turned to hear what he had to say about the latest scan. He listened for about 5 minutes, put his head down for a second, then looked right up into the doctor's eyes.

"So....what are you saying?  Just tell me straight, how long do I have?"

His words hung there for several seconds. My eyes welled up with tears. Awkward silence filled the room. This new doctor, never seen before today, gulped hard. He tried to pacify Scott's request by explaining why he couldn't give an accurate life expectancy for anyone with these exact genetics and tumor type.

This guy was a bit uptight and not at all used to being put on the spot. Just the kind of mark Scott loves to tease. True to form and without missing a beat, Scott took back the conversation. "I guess that means 20 or 30 years then, maybe even longer."

Scott knows and I know, he will live, no matter how long he has. Even if doctors can't give him a number of years, he is certain he will make it. He tells me all the time, he is not going to die from this and I believe him.

So here's the nitty gritty of what we learned today...

By looking at the latest MRI compared to the post-op one from February, the affected area appears significantly smaller than before. There is obviously a section of brain missing, that will not grow back. There will always be a fuzzy greyish area on his brain where the tumor is, but it is reduced and will likely continue to get smaller and smaller with treatment. The hope is that the tumor will stabilize at some point and not grow anymore.  No growth would be considered remission.

Scott's not having seizures or any other negative neurological symptoms at this point. He will have to remain on anti seizure medication until he has been at least 2 years seizure free, post-op. Then they might discuss weening him off that medicine.

Since it appears by all accounts radiation and chemo were successful in this first round, he needs to complete another 2 rounds of just chemotherapy, which completes the standard protocol for treatment. This will take another full year to do. If the chemo continues to shrink the tumor without any new growth, his doctors will say that treatment has worked. 

The good news about treatment is the hardest part was the surgery and radiation and that's now over. Scott tolerated all that so well, his doctors don't expect him to have too much difficulty with just the oral chemo alone.

What exactly does all of this mean? Scott isn't out of the woods just yet, but we are on the road where hope lives. We are positively on the right path. Recovery is in our grasp. Hair is growing back in the bald patches where aggressive cancer treatment made it fall out. We have more good days than bad. Scott's tumor is smaller than it was 3 months ago. He is recovering from surgery extremely well. It's all still really hard but....

All signs point to the hope of beating this, completely.

We are faithfully expecting a miraculous victory 12 months from now and hope makes that possible.