It’s been 3 ½ years since my terminal cancer diagnosis and I still hold out for the letter clearing the whole misunderstanding up. “Ms. Westerling, we apologize for any confusion. It seems like we got some images hooked up with your case file that were just, well, wrong; you are fine. Have a good day.”
My friends are ready to celebrate good news but the only good news I want is a full and complete retraction. Anything else feels like celebrating a delay in the inevitable. I know this attitude makes me an ingrate so do me a favor and don’t spread the word that I am unsatisfied.
This morning I finally tracked down my phase one end-of-study results. The lead up looked promising and I assured myself that the delay in the final details didn’t matter because, clearly, I am trending in the right direction. But judging by my response to the official ‘good news’, I was holding out for better.
Would I have been happy for the best-in-show possibility of No Evidence of Disease (NED)? A result that never denies that microscopic ovarian cancer is floating about. Or would any result in this relentless new life path of staying alive despite cancer have reminded me of how harsh this life path seems. (Psst, I want my old life back!)
A growing debate gained volume this summer over relabeling some types of lesions out of the cancer lexicon. It lead to some juicy headlines that crossed my screen. Maybe in lieu of the letter I imagine arriving any day now, I could just rebrand my cancer. But that hope was dashed as well.
Now that I have had my wail, I must recalibrate to the small miracles that I am allowed. They add up. They extend life. They are worthy of celebration. My job is to adapt.
The End of Study results show that my volume of cancer has decreased but remains visible. The best I can get towards quantifiability (is it the size of an almond, the head of q-tip?) is this – I entered the study with a volume of 405, now I am at 44, a hefty and measurable drop for my loved ones to celebrate. I might just need a few days to stay grumpy at the 44.
In the meantime, Herman Wallace, after 42 years in solitary confinement, is released to die as a free man. He is in the final days of liver cancer. What seems a bittersweet victory might be much bigger for him or so I hope. I wish him an end in some lovely, sunny field surrounded by the many who stayed by his side over the four decades rather than the hospital he is liberated too. But mainly I hope that breathing in his final breathes as a free man heals the hurt of injustice. And this I will celebrate.