I am embarrassed to say that I love being right. It is childish and and annoying and probably a sign of insecurity. Am I right? I bet I am.
Do you remember the scene in the movie Clueless where high-school aged Cher schooled her step-brother’s super-smart college girlfriend? It went like this:
Heather: It’s just like Hamlet said, “To thine own self be true.”
Cher: Hamlet didn’t say that.
Heather: I think I remember Hamlet accurately.
Cher: Well, I remember Mel Gibson accurately, and he didn’t say that. That Polonius guy did.
Well, I love being right, except when I predict scary, dark, unbelievable things. Like cancer.
I received a call last night from my oncologist. He let me know that my scans indicated that my situation was “far worse” than expected. The cancer is spreading at a rapid rate in my lungs.
I also found out last night that I DO have cancer on my pelvic bone. My doctor confirmed that the scans showed “hot spots” (cancerous activity) in my pelvis–specifically a tumor wrapped around the right part of my pelvic bone. Remember when I felt like I had been kicked between the legs? Well, now I know what has been causing the pain. Cancer. Just like I predicted that ominous night in the bathtub.
So, what does this mean?
I don’t have time to waste. My oncologist suggests that I start chemotherapy right away. We spent most of last evening on the phone trying to find an oncologist in Baton Rouge who would see me, prescribe, and administer chemo as soon as possible.
My oncologist (who leaves town for two weeks on Monday) finally found a colleague in Houston who agreed to see me, work on the approval process, AND start chemo on Monday. This happened around 8:40 last night. These doctors… these angels… along with a doctor friend of ours in New Orleans, worked tirelessly yesterday: making phone calls, begging for favors, exchanging ideas to save my life (or at least buy me some time.)
Last night, Nani (my five year old) walked into my bedroom and saw me crying. More than a dozen wet wadded tissues were scattered around me on the bed.
“Mommy! Are you ok?” She asked. Her face was covered with worry.
“Yes, my baby. Mommy is just a little sad,” I said, attempting to normalize my voice.
“I think…” she said, her eyes bright with confidence, one hand on her hip. She took the other hand and pointed at me, knowingly. “You just need peaceful rest. And, don’t forget that God is always with you.”
My husband walked in the door behind her. He had been listening.
He walked over to me and kissed me on the cheek. I was curled up in our bed sniffling and trying to wipe away tears.
He looked into my eyes. “That’s right. You hear that, mommy? Rest and God.”
So, that’s my plan. Rest. God. And, chemo.
Breathe, baby, breathe. I can do this.
Please keep praying for us. Pray as we leave our children again. Pray that the chemotherapy works to stop cancer growth in my body. Pray that I don’t have terrible reactions to the chemo. And, pray for my sweet husband. He holds my hand through all this and that isn’t easy.
And, laugh for me. It’s the best medicine. Love and blessings, V