I was working on a day-in-treatment blog post, thinking it might be useful to someone on the interwebs, but it was so boring I didn’t finish, deeming a nap more interesting. 

Instead, you’re getting a detailed retelling of one of my epic post-surgery dreams. What I remember is that I was sitting …. Yeah, no. I’m not doing that. I HAVE had an incredible number of seriously epic dreams in the last month, which seems to be very common after major surgery. By epic, I mean, they’re like whole-ass movies, even though they’re actually rather brief. I’m not sharing them, though, because dreams suffer in the re-telling. 

Disappointed that you won’t be getting dream stories? Sorry. They’ll cool and all but we need to talk about something important. Are you ready?

Even though I told you not to, you’ve Dr Googled my diagnosis. You’ve seen the survival rates, haven’t you? Don’t try to deny it. I can tell. I too know the survival rate is in the teens because I got my biopsy results a full week before my follow-up appointment. Do you know what it’s like to sit with that kind of information – keeping it to yourself – for a full week, probably longer, while trying to interact in a normal way with the people most important to you? You probably don’t. 

The truth is that I read the biopsy report late at night, sitting in the broken down old recliner – my husband’s favorite chair – where I slept because I couldn’t yet lie flat. And yes, my heart sank a little when I saw “carcinoma.” I immediately searched the word, struggling to spell it correctly. I wanted to know what cholangiocarcinoma was. The 17% survival rate seemed to shout from the laptop that couldn’t yet rest on my lap because, even now, I have tender, healing robot holes. 

I have cried exactly once since I first saw the liver lesion on my MRI results. It was December. I was walking to the coffee shop to work and had to take a break on a bench down the street so the tears could fall unseen by the baristas. I didn’t cry for me but for my children who were going to be devastated if I had cancer. It’s the only time I have felt like crying because Dr Google only tells about 1% of the story. It’s useful for advocacy and for support but it can’t tell you what my doctors know.

The difference between us is important: you have a web browser and a search engine, whereas I have those AND a care team. Until you have the latter, you don’t have the whole story. 

Some of you have been in those oncology conversations, just as I was with my husband. Oncologists don’t sugar-coat. They don’t talk in percentages and they are straight shooters. We knew at our first appointment that Ken was terminal. Guess what I did NOT hear? Yeah, I did not hear that I’m terminal. 

I’ve told you all before that I, too, will give you the straight truth and I am. My doctors are absolutely delighted, smiling and excited about my prognosis. I don’t currently have any cancer in my body. My chemo is preventive. It might become a regular feature of my life. I don’t know and won’t know that for at least six months. 

There’s a lot that none of us know: how I’ll respond to chemo (since I’ve only been on it for seven days); who will win Lord Stanley’s cup; how many temperature records we’ll break this year; when each of us will die. 

So, that being said, my friends, stop being weird. I am exactly the same person I was last year at this time. I could drop over dead tomorrow or celebrate my 90th birthday or anything in between. There is no terminal diagnosis. Someday there might be. And if there is, I’ll tell you. 

Believe me; I appreciate you and your well-wishes more than I can say. It’s still a huge journey and the risks are great. That said; if you talk to me like I’m a walking corpse, I will make fun of you.  

Now, how about a few pieces of news? I’m back to working on my latest book. It had to wait a bit until I could sit up comfortably, stay awake, keep my brain working, hold a laptop, etc. I need to get it done before chemo brain fog sets in but I’m at somewhere around 60,000 words so that’s absolutely do-able. 

I’ve been walking with my daughter and our dogs as the weather has improved. The dogs are more tired than I am afterwards and we’re all appreciating warmer days. I’ve finally finished two of my medications. And after weeks sleeping in a chair, I can lie flat to sleep and have moved back into my bedroom, two steep flights of stairs (approximately 44 steps) from the living room where I spend most of my day. 

These accomplishments may seem small to you but I remember that first attempt to put on my shoes, touch my toes, pour a glass of juice for myself. And I’m delighted to be exactly where I am right now.

Much love.