Tonight I was on Facebook, and one of my Facebook friends follows a blog written by a woman dying from metastatic breast cancer. I say dying because that is what she is doing. In the past two years, she has had six rounds of different chemotherapy drugs and three targeted therapy drugs--my targeted therapy is Herceptin. My story differs from this woman's in that I have only been on one chemotherapy and one targeted therapy in the last year, and luckily, I have responded very well to Taxol, and the Herceptin is still keeping my cancer at bay.
I am almost hesitant to say this for fear of jinxing my good luck. And that is what it is, luck. I've mentioned before that this disease splits people into three groups. The first group gets the disease, goes through several treatments, and then eventually dies. The second group gets the disease, does well for a period of time, and then the disease roars back and has its way, killing the individual. The third group (the most coveted group of all), gets the disease, responds well to treatment, and stays stable for many, many years. We all want to be in that third group. And ending up in groups two or three is a matter of pure luck. Scientists say that Stage IV cancer is individual. How the individual responds depends upon the chemistry of the tumor and the chemistry of the individual who has that tumor. Scientists have yet to determine what that biology is, so group membership is based entirely on luck.
At this point, it's clear that I am not a member of the first group, making me a very lucky gal indeed. But whether I am a member of group two or three has yet to be determined. That is a scary, uncertain place. Reading that dying woman's blog, however, made it clear that I need to be damn grateful. I have responded, and am still responding, well to treatment. I am still scared of the disabling and painful nature of this disease. And at the same time, I did not get metastatic cancer, and then go through chemotherapy after chemotherapy, leaving me laying helpless in bed, and preparing for my soon-to-come death.
Right now I am concentrating on loosening my poor pectoral muscles, and inviting friends to join me in fun and relaxing activities. I am reading book after book, savoring every word. I am doing enjoyable work that provides me with a paycheck and decent insurance. I am still avoiding cleaning my house, a pattern from before cancer, and not feeling a bit of guilt about the layers of dust on my shelves. I am drinking good coffee, making clever jokes, watching comedies and action flicks, and avoiding any and all conversations about palliative care or end of life--I've had my will and advance directive set up for many years, thank you very much. Right now I am able bodied, relatively physically comfortable, and heading for yet another tattoo (no, this one will not be visible).
Recently, a local group that raises money for breast cancer research announced a fundraiser. A photographer's wife had struggled with Stage IV breast cancer, and her husband had documented her journey all the way to her eventual death. The fundraiser will be an exhibit of those photos. I received the announcement in the mail, with a sample of a few of the photos. My immediate thought was, oh, Hell no. I do not want to attend an exhibit documenting someone's death. In whose world would this be of interest? Certainly not mine.
At some point I will have no choice but to deal with my death, hopefully years and years from now. But for now, I'll enjoy my good luck. As I tell people, I don't believe in God, but I sure do believe in knocking on wood. Somehow knocking on wood comforts me, even if it doesn't actually change things. And pennies. I pick up any penny I see, just for good luck. The slowly building pile of pennies comforts me as well. Luck is my friend. We hang. And I sure as heck appreciate her. If I have to knock a million times on wood and collect a million pennies, I'll be happy to do it. Meanwhile, I'm going to enjoy my good luck.
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