Stories

I thought I was becoming a hypochondriac: indigestion, constipation, mysterious aches. My symptoms changed on a daily, if not hourly, basis. I was uncomfortable, but never in pain. I'll never forget the horrible feeling that washed over me as soon as I scheduled the appointment. I left the doctor's office with a prescription for an antacid and instructions that if the medicine didn't help that I should have an ultrasound. Well, the medicine didn't work and it wasn't long before a new word entered my vocabulary: adenocarcinoma.

Actually, I've learned a lot of new words since last December, very intimidating ones like para-aortic adenopathy, confluent ground glass opacification, satellite hypodensities. Yes, they are very scary, but they didn't compare to the word eke. We will try to eke out a remission.

After years of medical training and practice, my doctor decided that eke was the most appropriate word to define my prognosis. There is no strength in eke, certainly no confidence. There is a hint of hope, but not much. Funny, but I can't think of a word that is more opposite to how I'm feeling today.

After twelve months of treatment, I've eeked myself to partial remission. The tumors, once too numerous to count, are retreating. I take great comfort in this victory, knowing how lucky I am to still be alive.

What are my chances? It's the first thing you want to ask and the last thing you want to hear. A percentage has never held so much importance. I know now that whether the answer was 99% or less than 2%, it's just a number. It's a statistic that's filled with a zillion variables. Sure, I have moments when the statistics are almost unbearable, but it's at those moments when I try to focus on how strong I am, both mentally and physically. And, really, isn't that more important that a statistic?

It goes without saying that my life has radically changed this past year. Everything I do now is focused on one goal - living. I read once that the secret to survivorship is 'finding a balance' between life and cancer. But really, it's more than that. It's about throwing everything I love, everything wonderful in life, at the tumors; recognizing my fear and anger, and still finding the strength within to seek out my dreams; ultimately, squeezing as much life as possible in between doctor visits, PETscans, and treatment; and simply loving life.