Remission Accomplished

While my last post was more philosophical, this blog has long served as a play-by-play account of my Lumpy takedown, so I wanted to get the NED details down for posterity as well.

I worked from home on Monday because my doctor’s appointment was at 3:30, but it’s more than a little difficult to concentrate on work when you’re waiting to find out whether or not you beat cancer. Theresa arrived home from work to join me for the appointment and our nervousness for the verdict was reaching a boiling point when we arrived at the hospital. The first step in the process was getting my port flushed (one of my favorite activities in the world), since it needs to be flushed once every 4 to 6 weeks and I hadn’t been to the doctor since my last chemo appointment five weeks ago. (Time flies when you’re done with chemo!)

Avid readers may recall that my port started acting up at my final chemo session, and the nurse was able to put the poison into my port, but unable to remove blood from it. A chemo nurse I’d never met before was assigned to me yesterday (short straw?), and she was apparently already aware of my port’s issues, but wanted to try anyway. She put the needle into my port–for probably the final time!–and flushed it, but couldn’t get a blood return. She had me sit in one of the recliners as that can sometimes open it up, but to no avail. She flushed me one last time and removed the needle from my port–an unceremonious end to a device that actually served me rather well. It will most likely be removed next week.

To get the necessary blood test, I went back to the usual Office of Blood Procurement, but warned the nurse that my usual left arm vein hadn’t worked for IV purposes during last week’s PET scan and that they had told me it was potentially clotted. She didn’t believe them, so she stabbed the vein for herself. Then she believed them. She switched to my right arm–which was the third needle of the day for those of you scoring at home–and finally was able to convince my blood into leaving my body.

By the time they got the blood, the doctor was ready to see us, so we were brought into an examination room and braced ourselves for the news. But the doctor is never really ready to see you, so we waited on pins and needles for about 10 more minutes. Finally, the door swung open and the verdict was in. Sort of.

Doc: Hi! How are you feeling?

Me: Anxious!

Doc: Aw, go celebrate. The news is good. You responded very well to the treatment.

Now, to anyone else, that might have been enough. They would have shaken his hand and headed out for a cancer-free steak dinner. But it wasn’t for me. You see, this was the exact script he had used to describe my previous PET scan results…the results that meant I needed four more rounds of chemo instead of two. I don’t care if I “responded very well.” Was the cancer gone or wasn’t it?!

The doc continued my suspense by telling us that he wanted to go over the results of the test because there were “some things on there that might look concerning to you.”

Alarm bells were going off in my head. Was this a nightmare? Was something left? Was I going to need radiation now? I confess that no part of my brain was expecting bad news. I felt healthy. I was done with this. Moving on. Right? RIGHT?!

The doctor explained that lymph nodes with a SUV reading (whatever that is…the PET scan measures it) of 4.5 or higher are concerning. Usually lymphoma makes the number between 11 and 20, which is probably where it was for me back in the day. On this current test, however, my lymph nodes measured a reading of 3.0

Doc: They responded very well to the treatment.

Me: [desperately] So is this considered NED? Am I in remission?

Doc: Yes, this is No Evidence of Disease. You are in remission.

At that point, I think I took a breath for the first time since he had entered the room and managed to give Theresa a triumphant high five. Then he started talking again.

Doc: There is just one more thing. Your spleen is still enlarged.

Doc: We staged you at a higher level of lymphoma because we saw that your spleen was large and assumed that there might be some activity there. After going through the treatment though, your spleen is still large. So it seems you have a large spleen.

Me: Wait, so if I never had cancer, my spleen would still be this size? So is this a problem?

Doc: No. People come in all shapes and sizes.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am incredibly grateful to be cured of this horrid disease. But I really have to wonder how an oncologist could be so absolutely terrible at delivering GOOD news! With all the death and dying that many of his patients endure, you’d think that he would be over the moon to get to share some good news for once. Can’t he find a way to do it that doesn’t force me to be readmitted for a stroke?

My analysis of this situation was done in hindsight, however, because in the moment all I could think about was the fact that my scan was clean, my cancer was gone and I have an impressively large and healthy spleen. Bonus!

I am officially free of hospital visits for the next three months, at which time I will have another PET scan and doctor’s visit to ensure Lumpy has really packed his bags. The once-every-three-month visits will continue for two years, then once every six months until I am five years out and considered “cured.” Cured of cancer! What a sentence!

Theresa and I celebrated with a quick stop of thanksgiving at a nearby Adoration chapel and a quick 5-mile bike ride on a trail near our house. The real celebration came later in the form of a queen cut prime rib and redskin mashed potatoes from Wildfire.

It was a difficult journey, but remission starts now, and I feel an uncontainable joy and gratitude. Life is so, so good.