Fresh Horses
Sorry I’ve been so quiet lately. The Magical Mystery Drug has been doing a number on my stomach, and between napping to kill the heartburn and napping to kill the grouchies, I’ve been a little hard to engage in conversation.
Last week’s Monday visit was a bit of a surprise. Although in hindsight, I sorta knew there was some news coming down the pike, seeing as how I waited FOUR AND A HALF HOURS for the results of my CT scan. The news is: lung mets don’t like the Magical Mystery Drug anymore, and they don’t want to play. They’re going to keep on growing the way they want to, and pfphthbpbhpt to anyone who says different. Pelvic tumors are following orders, shrinking and softening and being little Trial’s Pets, but noooooooo, not my lungs.
Thus I’ve spent the past six days waiting for an appointment with my other oncologist, who the Phase I doc said would probably want to take me off the trial and start chemo again (but I should keep taking the nine delicious pills a day just in case she didn’t want me to stop, because once I stop I can’t start again, etc. etc.). Today I met with her, and once we’d worked out that no, Phase I doc didn’t want me to continue the trial even once I’d met with her; he said SHE’d probably want me to stop it and go on chemo (you’d think the inter-office communications over there at that world-class Cancer Factory would be a little clearer), there’s a new plan in place.
Starting next Tuesday, I’ll be hopping back on the chemo train: carboplatin and Alimta. Supposedly not too debilitating, and I’ll get to keep my hair. (Good news/bad news: while I like having hair, mine is really pissing me off, and I miss my perfect, ten-second-toilette wig.) And the schedule will allow for me to still make my First Descents climbing trip on the 19th.
I was pretty discouraged, feeling like, “how many more damn things do I have to throw at this disease?”, but now I realize I have lots of options still open to me. Once chemo has stabilized my lung disease, we can start looking once again at the over 300 clinical trials that are available to platinum-resistant ovarian patients. So many choices… think I can find one in Miami for the winter?
Photo here.
I'm a two-and-a-half time ovarian cancer survivor who is not only determined to make it to sixty but also to look damn good while getting there. My two boys, husband, and dog are counting on me to get out of bed every day, so I might as well wear something cute and make each one COUNT. I'd love to hear from you about your odyssey - sharing makes it all easier to take. And laugh at.
The Carcinista 
Kathleen said,
August 31, 2010 at 9:29 PM
Sarah thanks for the update. I’m so sorry to hear that you’ll be on the chemo again. UGH. I feel your disappointment but I think you have the right perspective. Keep thinking about your climbing trip and a trial on South Beach Miami. Stay strong and enjoy all the snacks at the cancer factory.
WhiteStone said,
August 31, 2010 at 10:04 PM
Damn mets!
Haven’t read up on Alimta (will be doing so) but hope the combo of carbo/alimta hits those cancer cells hard.
Damn mets!
Connie Reeves said,
August 31, 2010 at 11:27 PM
You do a great job at taking the bad and using your humor. I wish I could do that all the time like you, especially to buoy your spirits. You are a real trooper, and my heart goes out to you. Don’t give up and don’t give in.
Dan Gennari said,
August 31, 2010 at 11:53 PM
Good attitude. I’ve been wanting to make a sign for my hospital room out of three iconic stickers….No Fear…Livestrong…Life is Good. Between the three of them, they kind of sum up how I feel about my Lymphoma. Your humor will pull you through. I know it seems scary when the plan appears to be going off track, I’ve been there. But remember, they are not paid gajillions of dollars to be great communicators, they make that money because they know how to keep fighting our internal nasties with everything the worlds collective sciences have dreamed up so far. You are in a good place and you will overcome. Where are you going for First Descent. I really want to do that after I have recovered from my bone marrow transplant.
Dan Gennari
sandhy said,
September 1, 2010 at 2:46 AM
How odd. I woke up this morning and one of the first thoughts that popped into my head was ‘where the hell is she then?’ too much quiet in the camp…and here you are. And ‘here you are’ is great, usual humour and I don’t know how you do that.
Keep on keeping on, you’ll get there I am sure. Not sure about the hair mind you, mine pissed me off for over a year ;o) Good luck with the chemo.