“And I will rise up with fists.” - Jenny Lewis

“I’m so nervous,” I told Joe, as we waited to see my oncologist. “I feel like I did something bad and I’m in the principal’s office.” 

I knew it wasn’t good that the cancer was back. I’d just had a CT scan in February and then, seemingly out of nowhere, BOOM new cancer. I’m not completely delusional (only a little), I figured this likely meant more surgery or chemo in my future. I’d (somewhat) resigned myself to more surgery, telling myself it shouldn’t be as bad as last time. I was less enthusiastic about the possibility of more chemo, but I could deal with it, I was sure. Turns out humans can deal with a lot, given enough time to adjust. 

When both my oncologist (Dr. R) and surgeon (Dr. B) walked into the exam room at the same time, I knew things were worse than I’d previously thought (you NEVER get to see two doctors at the same time). My surgeon gave me a COVID-illegal hug while my oncologist pulled up my scan results before turning to face me, legs crossed, hands clasped, face serious, and I knew things were pretty bad.  

“OK, do it,” I said. “Just rip off the band-aid.”

Dr. B explained that the scan showed the new tumor on my tongue was actually larger than they originally thought. Given the size of the tumor and how aggressive the cancer was acting, the extensive surgery I’d need in order to remove it would make my quality of life fairly shitty. At that point, Joe came to sit next to me and grasped my hand. I’d already told him that that’s what I was afraid they were going to tell me. But I wasn’t upset yet. I was watching Dr. R’s face and I could tell they weren’t done. 

Dr. B explained that they didn’t recommend the surgery, partly because of my age and the quality life issues, partly because of how aggressive the cancer was acting, but mostly it was because they’d found something else on my scan. 

It was a small spot, really, on my left lung. The oncologist said they couldn’t be sure without a biopsy (which they cautioned against doing given the risks involved with lung biopsies), but they are fairly certain that the cancer has metastasized and spread to my lung. Anyone who has watched Breaking Bad knows this isn’t good.

I’m struggling with how to talk about this. I want to sugarcoat things because a) that’s my MO and b) it makes me feel better if I can pretend things are, well, better and c) I don’t want anyone to be too sad, or sad at all ever, really, and this news is a real bummer. 

But everyone here has been on this journey with me since it began. You’ve supported me, sent me encouraging words (and stickers!), made me laugh, made me cry (in a good way), and propped me up this entire time. I’m not exaggerating when I say I wouldn’t have made it this far without each and every one of you, and I thank you for that. Because of this, and because I’m likely going to need all the support (and duckling photos) I can get going forward, I wanted to share the good, the bad, and the ugly. And this is news is pretty ugly. And unexpected, especially so soon after finishing an intense treatment of surgery, radiation, and chemo.   

As the doctors were talking to us, breaking the news that my cancer was no longer considered curable, I lost track of how many times I said, “This is unreal.” I remember telling them how good I’d been feeling lately. That I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life. Then Joe blurted out, “IT’S HER BIRTHDAY,” and I swear Dr. R put her head down and muttered, “fuck” under her breath. (This is why I love her.) She apologized but I told her not to worry about it, that I couldn’t have made up this detail if I’d tried and it would be perfect for the book. 

I’m sure you can imagine that this news has upended everything. I’ll never NOT have cancer. The best we can hope for at this point is that it can be stabilized with immunotherapy, which I start next week, and I can continue to live my life as normally as possible. But we’re struggling. We went from thinking all of this darkness was behind us, that all we had left to deal with was the sneaking shadow of possible recurrence until I hit five years and they told me I was in remission. I was sure that would happen, that it was only a matter of time. I just had to wait it out. Maybe this was overly optimistic. It feels that way now. 

I thought I’d be mad at my doctors, but I actually felt bad for them. I could only see half of Dr. R’s face because of her mask, but I could tell she was holding back tears. I know we all did everything we could. I know, in my head, that this is just bad luck. That my cancer is as stubborn as I am. But I can’t put a positive spin on this. I want to be optimistic. They have a plan and I’m in very good hands. But this has been unimaginable. I don’t know how people do this. And no one can really tell us what’s next. Every patient handles immunotherapy differently. As Dr. R told us, we’re headed into the unknown. (I’ve had Elsa singing “into the unknoooooooown” in my head ever since.) 

The day after I found out, I worked a half day (HOW) and then went to the beach to try to clear my head. The tide was going out when I arrived, meaning I had lots of time to poke along the beach and search for sea creatures. It was a beautiful day and, before I even got down to the shoreline, I’d already seen two seal snoots sticking up out of the water. There were crows scavenging through the rocks and tidepools, and there was even a group of buffleheads squeaking and diving just beyond them. Two eagles were harassing some gulls down the beach, just waiting for goodies to steal. A great blue heron stood still and silent in the water, bobbing its head as it hunted. I heard a killdeer shrieking by the train tracks and then spotted it on the rocks, skinny-long legs moving faster than I could see. A red-winged blackbird was calling loud enough to be heard over the sound of the wind and waves. I saw hermit crabs and snails and even a sea star before I took a break and sat on a log to watch the water. 

I wouldn’t say I’ve found my positive spin yet. But I am grateful that some things remain the same. Even with all of the heaviness on my mind, I was able to find joy in the act of gently turning over rocks, taking photos of birds and weird things on the beach, the sun on my face, the salt-sea wind tousling my hair. And even though the heaviness was back by the time I got home, there, at the beach, for just a moment, I felt a bit lighter. I felt like more than just cancer, I felt like myself. It’s nice to know that person is still there, somewhere, underneath all the stress and sadness and anger and fear. I hope she keeps coming to visit. 

Sea creatures live here.