Roller coaster's got to roll to the bottom

If you want to climb to the top again

I was going to write you this from the cancer clinic, but I got kicked out. Today’s neutrophil¹ count was too low for chemo, so I have been granted a week’s reprieve.

I am half relieved, half frustrated by this latest development. On the one hand (the tingly one, thank you, neuropathy), my body is plum worn out. I hear the fatigue in my voice. I nap for hours. I’m starting to get tired when I walk upstairs. I need a break.

On the other hand (turns out that one is numb-ish, too) I want to be DONE WITH THIS #*$@ CHEMO. Rounding the corner to October meant the month to kiss chemo goodbye. I was supposed to have my last infusion on Halloween, which would have been ghoulishly delightful. Now snow will likely line the ground when I get my last dose of doozy drugs, and I don’t like Minnesota winters anyway.

So.

A perennial favorite with my younger children. Toad’s malaise is my new refrain.

I do have fabulous news for you though, beyond today’s derailment of my calendar.

MY CANCER IS DYING. BIG TIME.²

I got fireworks-worthy findings from The Clinical Trial Head Honchos in sunny California: my latest MRI shows 98.8% of my cancer is GONE. 1.2% is all that remains. I laughed, I cried, I kept the note from my favorite nurse who broke the news.

What relief—body and soul—to learn that all this suffering and sickness is not for naught. Life doesn’t always work that way, which I also know in my bones. So I am holding hope close again. Tentatively. Skittishly. Doggedly.

Because look: all of us know and love someone with cancer, right? We knew the roller coaster analogy was apt long before The String Cheese Incident sang it out. This week alone has brought the exhilarating high of healing on the horizon, then the dip-down-low of learning I’m too sick to chase that healing right now. Fits and starts, peaks and valleys, twisting curves and stomach-dropping lurches. Sure, the metaphor flops when you consider that no one chooses the cancer coaster, but perhaps the ride is simply the human condition.³

Sometimes it seems like such a hard life. But there’s good times around the bend.

More red-letter news (the coaster clicks into place to climb yet another hill): I got a surgery date from Mayo! It may get changed after today’s detour, but at least I am on the books. On Monday morning I made the marital mistake of saying upon waking (without realizing my spouse had not been ruminating upon the same question all night long), “I hope I get a date this week!” Don’t worry; I scrambled and monogamy still reigns chez nous. Together we will drive hundreds of miles between home and Rochester to celebrate the early retirement of my breasts in November.⁴

So in the midst of a week of worldwide turmoil, I am well aware that I remain richly blessed. I may not have health, but I could again someday. I have family and friends and you fine folks, sending prayers and food and joy above and beyond what anyone could hope for. I have a safe, warm place to rest my head. I have good doctors and great nurses.⁵ Above all, I have five fantastic growing gangly humans to love and raise and fight like hell to stay here to bother for many, many years.

For the first time in such a long, long time, I know I’ll be ok.

1. Neutrophils sound like a nickname for your buddy Philip who doesn’t hold hard opinions, but turns out they are the most common white blood cell and thus your body’s first line of defense. Phil doesn’t care one way or the other.

2. How would something die big time? Not sure exactly. But this newsletter has no editor, so cheers. Maybe it’s like being “a little bit pregnant”: categorically impossible, but we get it.

3. Anyone who has attended a jamband concert—and I attended many, many in my wanton youth—knows that existential depths are just part of the show, man.

4. To discuss among yourselves: do we throw them an Over-The-Hill party? Why was that a thing in the 80s, yet no one today would say that 40 year-olds have reached mid-life? I would kick up my freaking HEELS if I make it to 84, so bring on the birthday bash.

5. Placement of adjectives is always intentional. Willing to upgrade synonyms if my oncologist subscribes to this newsletter and decides to start responding to my MyChart missives. Harumpf.