Update and Sentimental Ramblings


I’m almost five years away from my initial cancer diagnosis. That’s a big deal. Five years from the end of chemo and I’ll be released back into civilian life, perhaps never to see the inside of a CT scanner or MRI machine again.

I had my quarterly checkup last week, and all my blood counts were normal. “Normal” even for someone who’s never had cancer – imagine that. The worst news I heard was that my oncologist, who has been a rock through this whole horrible ordeal, is moving on to another project and won’t be seeing patients for a while. He’s off to research targeted immunotherapy agents and probably to be part of a discovery that will save thousands of lives – it’s good and important work. But he has to go back to working with patients directly again, because he’s one of those people who’s meant to be a caregiver.

I’ve been through all of this treatment in one of the world’s largest hospitals, and MGH can certainly be intimidating and impersonal. And yet – from the moment I first heard “it’s probably cancer,” I’ve had people whose time and energy are clearly stretched to their limits make sure to connect with me and take care of me.

My PCP, who insisted on referring me for that colonoscopy in 2011, called me at home on a Friday night as soon as she saw the procedure results, and checked on me again over that dreadful weekend, knowing that I’d be lying awake at night staring at the ceiling and wondering what to tell my very young children. She is now working in palliative care, which is exactly the right place for someone who knows that what people in pain need is compassion along with medical expertise.

My surgeon, despite his generally brusque manner, visited my hospital room when I was in recovery, held my hand and said, “I’m sorry all this is happening to you. You don’t deserve it.”

My chemo nurse told me silly jokes, brought my daughter popsicles, spent an hour with me sitting patiently while I struggled to learn how to disconnect my infusion pump, and called me after my second round, when she knew I’d be disconnecting it at home alone, just to be sure everything was OK.

And then there’s Dr. Faris, my oncologist. I’ve cried with him. I’ve told him I felt fine when I really didn’t, and he knew it. He, too, has called at night and on weekends to check on me, to make sure my husband was doing OK, to make sure my kids weren’t too scared. He came in to the hospital the day after my surgery – during his paternity leave – to check on his patients. He looked as exhausted as you’d expect the father of three young children, one of them just a few days old, to look, but he’d been through all the surgical notes and he sat through all my opiate-blurred chatter. He’s always late for appointments because he spends too much time talking to his patients.

I know that our health care system is in many ways a nightmare, and that it’s difficult to navigate, and much too expensive. But I also know that there are people who work in that system because, in the end, they really do care about saving lives. I’ve met them. I will be forever grateful.

Posted in colon cancer, survivor, survivors, caregivers | 3 Comments

Hermit Crabs Can Change Their Shells. I Can’t.

I’ve passed the four year survival mark. I didn’t even come here to commemorate it, which is probably a good sign that the fear of cancer no longer dominates my thinking. I’ve been tossing around a lot of thoughts lately, though, and had a recent conversation with another cancer survivor who asked me to share those thoughts, so here we go. Short version: I’m doing fine, managing the consequences of treatment, with no life-threatening worries. Long version below, with some negative thinking but not all bad news.

I had CT scans in May, and they showed no visible evidence of a local recurrence. What the scans did show was a compression fracture to one of my thoracic vertebra (i.e. the collapse/compression of a vertebra in the middle part of my spine). That’s not good. Spinal compression fractures are usually the result of weakened bone due to osteoporosis or weakened bone due to metastasis to the spine from another primary cancer.

So, you know, that was a bit scary. My oncologist ordered a follow-up MRI, which showed no evidence of spinal mets (whew), and then a follow up bone density scan to evaluate just how much my still relatively young bones are acting like old lady bones. All of this means that I’ve spent a fair bit of time during the past six weeks lying on tables while large, noisy machines whirr and clang and rotate around my body. I’ve spent a fair amount of time wearing unattractive hospital gowns and staring at the ceiling or the inside of a machine thinking, “please please please” and hoping for better news. I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering how I got to a place where my 47-year-old body feels like an object to be maintained instead of a vibrant, living thing.

Cancer didn’t kill me. It probably won’t kill me. I am deeply grateful for that. Radiation and chemo didn’t kill me, either, and they didn’t put me through the misery that cancer patients endured a generation ago. My heart still hurts when I remember watching my father suffer through the aftermath of surgery and chemo that left what looked like a shell of his body, but not much else.

Radiation and chemo work because they kill cells – cancer cells, yes, but there’s no way to avoid some collateral damage. While I laid staring at yet another ceiling during my bone scan on Monday, I found myself realizing how much I feel like a shell – not as much as my dad must have, but still. Radiation shrunk my tumor, and along the way it did some significant damage to my ovaries, too, so instead of a natural progression into menopause over a few years, my body was delivered there in one fell swoop. That sudden drop in estrogen has its consequences, most notably the accelerated loss of bone density. Now I get to worry about breaking a hip at 50 instead of 80, and there’s something truly odd about realizing that a little part of my spine has collapsed in on itself, apparently just from the work required to hold my body up. My skin is dry. My sleep is interupted. My weight is stablizing at a higher number and a different distribution than I’m used to, and while I can live with it, I wasn’t quite ready for that change, either. It’s hard to love what is still a relatively young body when it’s been thrust into the role of a much older one.

I want to love my body, to be grateful to it for what it has endured and survived. Most days, I’m worried about it or frustrated with it. Some days, I’m actually disgusted by it. I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about bowel function. I’ve talked about this before. So much extra time in the bathroom, so much time worrying about cleanup and accidents and embarrassment. So much discomfort – sometimes significant pain – from a digestive system that just doesn’t quite work. It’s gross; there’s no way around it. I worry that, when I am an actual Old Lady, I will be wearing adult diapers 24/7 and spending a great deal of time managing truly unpleasant bodily care – or, even worse, depending on someone else to help manage it.

And the neuropathy clearly isn’t going away. I’m used to it, and often don’t notice it. But I still struggle to thread a needle or manipulate small objects. My toes are still numb and my footing can be unsteady. If you hit me, I’ll feel it, but if you brush your fingers lightly against my arm, I might not. A diminished sense of touch is a strange thing, not as debilitating as loss of sight or hearing (or, for me, taste), but a loss nonetheless. It affects me in all sorts of ways.

So there it is. I’m living, I’m basically happy, I’m still grateful. I continue to learn anew what all of that means. I’m not a hermit crab, so I can’t trade in this shell for another. I’ll continue to carry it around – for a long time – and hope that it holds up for me.

Posted in chemotherapy, rectal cancer, survivor, Uncategorized | Tagged | 1 Comment

Stuart Scott, 1965-2015

My heart hurts today. ESPN anchor Stuart Scott, 49, died this morning. He lived with appendiceal cancer and its effects for almost eight years.

I’m a baseball fan, and I’ve seen my share of SportsCenter broadcasts. I knew who Stu was long before hearing about his cancer diagnosis. But the grief I feel today is not for the loss of a favorite celebrity. It’s for the loss of someone who was facing the same fears and challenges I faced during cancer treatment, and for the loss of a fellow parent who just wanted to see his kids grow up.

In May, 2011, a couple of weeks before my surgery, I tweeted about it and tagged a few others on Twitter who’d mentioned their cancer experiences, including Stu. I saw this in my Twitter notifications and felt that little thrill we all get when someone famous “notices” our tweets.

Screenshot 2015-01-04 12.17.46

My Twitter profile pic at the time was a shot of me with my daughters. The fact that Stu noticed the pic, took time to read my bio, and sent words of encouragement really touched me, in more than the, “OMG, a celebrity noticed me!” way. He clearly understood that he could do something meaningful for other  cancer “warriors” (his term), and he did it. This was a nice thing for him to do. It’s easy to use incidents like this to romanticize celebrities, to decide that they must be wonderful people. I don’t really know whether Stu was a good guy. It doesn’t matter whether he was. In that  moment, he helped me, because he was another parent who understood how important it was to survive.

Stu spent a lot of time talking about his daughters. Whatever parts of his public persona were real or not, it seems pretty clear that being a dad was hugely important to him. He was proud of his girls. He understood just how lucky he was to have time with them. Stu spoke often of working to survive as long as possible – not to make more money, have more fame, squeeze more out of his own life – but to see his girls graduate from high school and college and walk them down the aisle at their weddings. I’m heartbroken that he won’t get to do all of that, because the fear that I’ll miss those milestones has haunted me every day since I was diagnosed. I know exactly how he felt.

In the fall of 2011, Stu tweeted that he was about to finish a round of chemo. Hundreds of fans sent him congratulatory messages thinking he’d won his battle, but of course a metastatic cancer patient’s fight is never over. Once the cancer cells have spread, there’s always a chance that they’ll return. I was about six weeks away from the end of my own chemotherapy, and faced that milestone with a combination of elation and fear. I sent Stu a few words of encouragement. He knew just what I meant.

Screenshot 2015-01-04 12.15.45

Once more – I felt a little flutter when I read this, not so much because someone famous mentioned me by name, but because someone else felt just the way I did. Stu’s very public expression of fear helped thousands of other people understand, at least a little bit.

That’s it. Those two tweets, no more than 300 characters, were the extent of my interaction with Stuart Scott. We weren’t friends. I never met him. I don’t know much about his private persona. But I know what frightened him, and a little bit of what hurt his body and mind, and most of all, I know that he wanted to cling to every last minute he could have with his daughters. He wanted desperately to see them reach adulthood, to feel that the largest part of his work as a parent was done. I really, really hate the fact that he didn’t get to have that. I hope every day of my life that I will get to have it, and if and when I do, I’ll send a little “Boo-yah” out to Stuart Scott.

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Three Years and Counting

Three years ago today, I was in an operating room at Mass General with a team of people who were busy saving my life. Apologies for the melodrama, but I really don’t think it’s an exaggeration.

I remember that the morning of my surgery was beautiful and sunny. My husband and I arrived at the hospital by 6 am; my mother did her best to comfort my worried kids and get them off to school. Some time in the early afternoon, I woke up in the recovery room and asked the nurse whether I had a colostomy bag (I didn’t). I had a few struggles, and wrote about them here, but ultimately made it through just fine.

It feels at times as if the surgery was a lifetime ago and at others as if it happened just yesterday. Ultimately, though, this is a good milestone. 80 percent of rectal cancer recurrences are discovered within two to three years of diagnosis, and 95 percent within five years. While I will never consider myself definitively cured, my odds are getting better every day. My last round of scans in early May were clear, and my CEA level was as low as it’s ever been.

So I’m healthy and grateful and moving on, doing all kinds of things that I love. My friendship garden is waking up again. I’m writing about food and food policy on a new blog, I’m working part-time at a specialty cheese shop in Concord, MA and learning something new every time I’m there, and I’m doing recipe development and social media content management for the Massachusetts Cheese Guild. And I’m enjoying my family, looking forward to summer strawberries (soon!) and awaiting the arrival of our new puppy, who joins us tomorrow as a reminder that life really does go on. I do not – ever – take it for granted.

He's 4 weeks old here; he'll be a little bit bigger when we finally bring him home.

He’s 4 weeks old here; he’ll be a little bit bigger when we bring him home on Saturday.


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Does Anyone Know How to Do This Right?

The Internet is a dangerous place, my friends. It’s risky to put your words out there.

There’s been an interesting and, to me, disappointing little scuffle in the world of social media and editorial opinion over the blog and Twitter presence of Lisa Adams, who is in treatment for metastatic breast cancer. Ms. Adams has shared a great many of the details of her disease and medical care. She has written about her disappointment with “pinkwashing” and the misallocation of resources associated with awareness campaigns. She has said countless times that she appreciates expressions of love and support, but reminds us that those things will not change the fact that she’s going to die from this disease. She is in the hospital now, in treatment for some severe pain caused by bone metastasis (important note: her current hospital stay is about palliative care – pain management – but not about end of life care), and she’s Tweeting about it. A lot.

On January 8, Emma Keller wrote a piece for the Guardian that questioned the value of Lisa’s tweets and blog posts and the ethics of “dying out loud.” Apparently Ms. Keller thinks that Ms. Adams’ writing is a cry for attention rather than an honest attempt to educate readers. I’m not sure that matters. Ms. Adams is simply telling her story to anyone who’s interested.

Today, Ms. Keller’s husband Bill (who happens to be a pretty formidable voice in the publishing world, what with that stint as executive editor of the New York Times) has joined the fray. He seems to want to get in another little punch, and apparently resents what he sees as Lisa’s “warrior” approach to cancer (that’s a fundamental misunderstanding of her thinking, by the way). I’m not quite certain what other points Mr. Keller is trying to make; he seems to find it a bit fishy that Ms. Adams won’t tell us how much her treatment at Sloan Kettering costs, and that her doctors won’t offer an estimate about how long the treatment may extend her life (which is, of course, impossible to know). Where’s the problem here? I can’t imagine that this single cancer patient is the root of some deep-seated conspiracy at MSK to raise and then waste money on ineffective treatment. Are there legitimate questions about the cost of health care in the U.S., and about whether end-of-life choices might be informed by cost? Are there inequities in access to good medical care? Certainly. Is Lisa Adams doing something wrong? Not that I can see.

I find myself thinking, “Why are the Kellers picking on Lisa?” I suppose this is fair game, and that Ms. Adams chose to participate in a much larger conversation about cancer treatment and how it affects all of us, but this little round of written bullying seems strangely petty, and I’m sorry to watch it unfold.

I also feel as if I’d better clarify some of my own thoughts, lest anyone misunderstand this little blog. Here are the basics:

1) Cancer is bad. Having cancer is frightening. It is often, but not always, fatal. There’s not really any way to know how that will work out, which is also bad and frightening.

2) As I said just last week, different patients have different experiences. Some people decide from the get-go that they will take a warrior stance and remain optimistic to the end. Some people are immediately devastated and frightened and see no hope. Most of us, I think, end up somewhere in the middle, working to preserve and appreciate the strength we have, and sometimes feeling really lousy. There is no right way to have cancer.

3) Some cancer patients find expressions of positive thought, offers of prayer, and suggestions about treatment to be uplifting and useful. Some people resent them. In general, statements like, “Keep up the good fight! We know you can beat this!” are both inaccurate and ineffective, but they are usually well-intentioned. It’s not really possible to say the right thing, because – here we go again – there’s no right way to think about cancer.

4) Cancer treatment is very expensive. The fact that lots of people die because they can’t afford good treatment is heartbreaking. The fact that a great deal of money is spent on “awareness” campaigns and pink merchandise is disappointing, because that money would most likely be better spent on research or perhaps on funding the care of patients who can’t afford things like chemotherapy co-payments. There are legitimate questions to be raised about whether some patients are over-treated, and whether the value of a few extra weeks of life justifies the financial and emotional cost of that treatment. I do not believe there are “right” answers to those questions, either.

5) I can’t speak for anyone else. I write this blog because it helps me to work through my thoughts, and because I enjoy writing it. I share only things that I’m willing to make public, and I try not to share anything that I think could be embarrassing to me or my family. Social media is a gift to people who seek connections that can’t be made otherwise, and the virtual communities that support cancer patients and their families are essential to many of us. My blog gives me a way to offer some information to other cancer patients, which I do because I had lots of questions about what would happen and how I’d feel that my doctors couldn’t answer. I found answers to some of those questions in other cancer patients’ blogs, and for that I am grateful.

We’re all just out there doing the best we can.

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3rd Cancerversary

Today – January 7, 2014 – is the third anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. Depending on my mood, three years either feels like an eternity (was it really that long ago?) or like a fleeting moment (three years isn’t much in cancer time).

The results of my quarterly blood test are in, and everything looks more or less normal, with a CEA of 1.4. Good news for a cancerversary. Once again, life marches on, and ordinary is something to celebrate.

Still, it’s been hard for me to feel celebratory. I learned yesterday that Gloria Borges, one of the people I was lucky enough to encounter during the course of my treatment, died on January 5. She was 32. Gloria attacked her diagnosis with humor and determination, and directed her considerable energy towards making a difference. She was unflappable. She once told me that she’d come east and run/walk/crawl the Mount Desert Island Marathon with me if I could get myself in gear to do it (never questioning whether she’d be able to get through 26 miles, despite her Stage IV diagnosis and dozens of chemo treatments).

There were times, though, when I was cynical about Gloria’s attitude. She was quick to label herself a “cancer warrior” and talked a lot about the fact that she wasn’t going to let cancer defeat her or prevent her from doing everything she wanted, and she certainly lived by those words. But that doesn’t work for some people, and I am always mindful of the fact that, no matter how determined we are to fight, or how many positive thoughts and affirmations we use, some people just can’t “win.” Some people can’t muster the energy to get out of bed, and when we praise the people who dance before surgery, we need to be careful not to condemn the people who cry. There’s no right or wrong on this journey, and being angry or frustrated or sad about your illness is OK, too. I think Gloria fully understood that, and she treated other patients with kindness and grace, even while she continued to insist that cancer wasn’t going to slow her down for a moment.

Once again, I find myself wondering why or how another beautiful young person had to die. I didn’t know Gloria well, but I am one of the thousands of people she reached with her advocacy and energy. I’ll miss reading about her exploits and seeing her silly photos. And I’ll try to honor her memory by remembering how very lucky I am to have this wonderful life.

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Here I am again, popping in sporadically as life marches on. I think about cancer pretty much every day, but usually fleetingly, and almost never with fear. More and more often I’ll remember some part of my treatment and have the strange sense that all of that happened to someone else, or that I dreamt it.

Occasionally, though, I’ll get a little reminder that it was all too real when I have a few days of pain. Usually, what that means is just that my bottom is sore, and most often the discomfort is easily managed. Every now and then, though, the pain flares up and it gets pretty serious, and that’s when I wax philosophical about it.

Let me say two things up front: a) I’m just fine today, lest anyone be worried and b) I fully understand that whatever I’m experiencing bears very little resemblance in severity or frequency to the chronic, significant pain that end stage cancer patients face. But it does give me some insight about what it means to live with pain, and, I hope, some sympathy for people who suffer it.

It’s fascinating to me that physical pain can have such a profound psychological effect. When it’s bad enough, pain shuts down the brain, making it seem impossible to function in anything but the most minimal way. It becomes difficult to think past the sensation, difficult to focus on anything other than finding some sort of relief. I’ve had moments when I can feel myself trying to hold as still as possible, as if that paralysis will stop the pain in its tracks. I close my eyes, trying to shut it out, but this is akin to what young children do when they cover their faces to “hide,” figuring that if they can’t see you, you can’t see them. Nice try, but no.

While I feel OK now, last night was one of those cover-your-eyes-and-hope times. While I neither have nor want a large supply of prescription pain meds, I can see how easily people become addicted to them. In moments of acute pain it seems that nothing else matters, that you’d sell your soul to the devil for just a bit of respite. I can talk myself through that when I know that I need simply breathe through a moment of pain, or when my rational mind is still intact enough to remind me that I’ll be fine in the morning. I don’t know how I’d do it if I were facing the prospect of hours or days of unrelenting pain. I’ve had only two experiences that truly brought me to what I imagine that point is like: the spinal headache I faced after my surgery, and the night I had what was most likely a blockage caused by post-surgical adhesions. Those experiences were exhausting, not just because of the physical stress, but because the feelings of desperation and loss of control left me so overwhelmed that I couldn’t imagine doing or thinking about anything else.

I find it frightening to have these glimpses into the way that pain can utterly take over the body and mind, can steal hope and rationality, can make everything seem impossible. I understand why some tribal cultures conduct rites of passage involving significant pain. The overwhelming sensation that pushes aside all other thought and feeling offers a kind of cleansing, a temporary eradication of self. In the right context, tolerating extreme pain might ultimately feel like an achievement.

I don’t often talk about pain when I’m experiencing it, because it feels like I need to direct every spare ounce of energy towards breathing through it and doing the bare minimum I need to function. And once it has passed, I’m always amazed by the way the human brain can’t truly remember pain. I know that it happened, and I know its emotional impact, but there’s no way to recall the physical sensation. Which is a good thing.

Lest you think I’ve wandered too far with this contemplation, I’ll leave you with a smile from the inimitable Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half. She re-imagines hospital “rate your pain” charts in this very funny piece (warning – contains a tiny bit of profanity). I think she got it just right.

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Thinking Through the Fog

Here I sit, on a Friday morning, surrounded by lists of half-finished tasks and a calendar that looks far too full, interrupting my ridiculous day to write something, or at least to try.

I thought of this blog for the first time in a long while precisely because I’m feeling so overscheduled and overwhelmed. I think it’s the cancer’s fault that I’m so scatterbrained. Of course, it’s in some ways a good thing that I entirely failed to notice or commemorate the two-year anniversary of my resection surgery on May 23. I’d thought about that approaching anniversary during the first week of May, in which I had surveillance CT scans and bloodwork that all turned up clear (see? I didn’t even remember to announce that here), and then let it drift by.

The fact that I let those milestones pass unnoticed must mean that cancer does not dominate my thoughts, and that I’m not consumed with worry about how long I’ll survive. It does mean that.

Sort of.

It also means that I find myself wondering more and more about just how many brain cells that chemo zapped, how much of my cognitive function was lost as collateral damage while the chemotherapy was doing away with lingering cancer cells. I spend far more time than I’d like re-reading sentences, abandoning newspaper articles and books part way through because I realize I’ve lost track of what I’m reading, pausing in my own writing to look up, shake my head, and search for a word or a phrase. This post is going to be a short one, and yet when I finish it I know I’ll feel wiped out and won’t be fully satisfied. I just can’t seem to untangle my thoughts. I can’t seem to think clearly for more than a minute or two before something else catches my attention, or before I start to feel overwhelmed.

I’ve written about chemo brain before. Things are pretty much still happening the way I described them in October, 2011. I don’t quite know whether to find that reassuring or frightening. I’ve read a bit about a study that suggests this kind of cognitive “fog” can last for five years, perhaps even longer, and so I’m not panicking yet. On the days when life marches along in an ordinary way, cancer treatment feels like ancient history, but when I stop and look at a calendar I realize that it’s only been about a year and a half since my last chemo infusion. So I will forgive myself for not yet being fully functional.

My experience with colorectal cancer is mostly behind me (I’ll pause for a moment so you can appreciate my clever little word play). I have some souvenirs that I’d just as soon not keep, but numb feet and an unreliable digestive system are manageable. I’d just like my brain back, please.

Posted in Uncategorized, rectal cancer, survivor, chemotherapy, chemo, survivors, side effects, chemo brain | 3 Comments

Roger Ebert: 1942-2013

Roger Ebert is gone, and I’m really sad about that.

I was not much a fan of Ebert the movie critic, though I did rely on his reviews from time to time. I became a fan of Ebert the writer when I saw this post, “Nil By Mouth,” on his blog in January, 2010. He wrote about losing the ability to eat, drink and speak after his cancer surgery. He wrote about the sadness that came with not being able to jump into a conversation, to talk over dinner with a friend, and concluded with this note to his readers: “You don’t realize it, but we’re at dinner now.”

Writing, for Mr. Ebert, whether on his blog or in short bursts on Twitter, was a connection to the world, a conversation with his readers. And he did it beautifully. He wrote about his thoughts on politics, religion, art, and the favorite candies of his childhood. I found much of it fascinating, some of it irritating, all of it an education. He was clearly a man who loved to think about his life. I came back to “Nil By Mouth” a year after it was written, when I’d been diagnosed with cancer. Ebert’s attitude helped me. He didn’t write about soldiering on as a warrior in a battle against cancer. He just went on living. He found a voice even after he couldn’t talk, and he used it well. I liked that.

On April 2, Ebert announced that he was taking a “leave of presence” from his work, and would be cutting back but still actively writing and developing new projects. On April 3, he died.

I learned about his death on my Twitter feed. I read the announcement and said, “Not yet!” out loud, in a room by myself. I’ve said that too many times in the past couple of years, seen too many people make that transition into the final stage of an illness, preparing themselves for their last weeks or months, and then die too soon.

When I read about Roger Ebert, I sat down and thought about Jessica, who was in her twenties and had a beautiful 3 year old daughter. She told me, “What I hate most about all this is that my little girl probably won’t remember me.” Then she talked about trying to do a few more things to create memories for her child, and two days later she was gone. I thought about Bill, who took his son’s boy scout troop camping after his sixth round of chemo and made me think I could keep on going in the middle of mine. He had a recurrence a few months later, and started to talk about approaching the end, and then…there it was. I thought about Sherri. She was 35, with two young kids. She blogged on October 30 about not feeling so great and planning a talk with her doctors about treatment options for some new lesions on her spine, and on November 5, she was gone.

Too fast. I know there’s no real way to prepare for death, no way to predict when it will happen, but I’m reeling from this one.

The day before he died, Ebert wrote:

At this point in my life, in addition to writing about movies, I may write about what it’s like to cope with health challenges and the limitations they can force upon you. It really stinks that the cancer has returned and that I have spent too many days in the hospital. So on bad days I may write about the vulnerability that accompanies illness. On good days, I may wax ecstatic about a movie so good it transports me beyond illness.

I would have liked to read all of that.

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May 23 – just a bit more than two months away – will be the second anniversary of my TME surgery. Depending on my mood, it seems impossible that it’s been only two years, and equally impossible that it was so long ago. While I’ll never use the word “cured,” as time passes, my odds of cancer-free survival continue to increase, and that feels pretty good.

This spring, I’m in surveillance mode. We cancer patients spend lots of time with doctors, even after active treatment. But my check-ups are gradually becoming fewer and farther between (that’s a good thing). Here’s the pattern:

I see my medical oncologist every three months. These appointments include bloodwork to monitor things like liver function and total blood count, and to monitor my CEA (carcinoembryonic antigen) level, which can be an indicator of tumor development. My CEA has never been higher than 2 (under 5 is usually normal, and patients with active tumors can see numbers in the hundreds or thousands), so it’s probably not a great marker for me, but it’s worth a check. I expect that I’ll continue to see my oncologist every three to six months for the next few years, and then less often once I’ve passed the five-year mark. Colorectal cancer, unlike some other major cancers, can be slow-moving, so I’ll be monitored closely for eight to ten years instead of just five.

For the first year, I had CT scans every three months as well, and then in November when things looked clear we decided to wait six months to do another scan. If this one (in May) is clear, we’ll probably wait a full year to repeat. There are no universal standards for this post-treatment surveillance. Some doctors may insist on three month scans for a while, some six – and some may want to start out with yearly scans. There are serious risks at play here. A CT scan is essentially a collection of lots of x-ray images, and that means the radiation exposure multiples accordingly – perhaps a hundredfold. It’s not something to take lightly, and there are people who develop secondary cancers as a result of all that radiation. I would be very angry indeed to learn that I had cancer because I’d been successfully treated for cancer. No thanks.

Then there’s the surgical follow-up. These appointments are with my colorectal surgeon, and I’ve been seeing him every six months. He started with a sigmoidoscopy to check post-surgical healing, did a full colonoscopy a year after my diagnosis, and has repeated the sigmoidoscopies twice since then. I had one yesterday, and got to watch the process on a monitor (the inside of my disgestive tract is now quite familiar to me). My anastomosis site has healed very well, and there are absolutely no signs of cancer in the area where it originally appeared. Well, that’s not quite accurate, as that original piece is now gone – but the surrounding area is clear. This is a very good thing indeed, because about 75% of local recurrences of rectal cancer occur in the first two years after diagnosis. 85% occur in the first three years, so if next year’s scope is clear, then my odds, in that respect at least, are excellent.

Let me just say that, while I very much enjoy my surgeon’s company, I am fine with seeing him every twelve months instead of six. The unpleasant part of a colonoscopy is the prep, which feels unending, but patients are typically sedated during the procedure, so once you’ve cleared the decks, you’re pretty much done. Sigmoid scopes don’t look at the full colon, just the first part, so they are office procedures. Upside – a bit less preparation. Down side – you get to see and feel the whole thing. The scope takes only a couple of minutes, but during that time the little camera is inserted in a tube, and in order to better visualize the area, the tube pumps air in. Air that has to, at some point, go back out. This means that the aftermath of the procedure is both painful and, eventually…loud. While my children find this amusing to no end, I’m not sure the other passengers on the subway would agree (when I decided to take public transportation, I clearly wasn’t thinking ahead).

At any rate, things are fine today, and I’m moving past a critical milestone in the process. What I think of as the “nuisance” problems – neuropathy in my feet and frequent flyer status in the bathroom – are continuing, and won’t likely change much. But it’s good to be alive.

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