We spent the weekend adjusting to time zones and to being in the US, buying all our necessities, and settling in to our rental.
But we also went out to the Columbia River Gorge for a hike on Eagle Creek trail. It was somehow fitting that this was an experience we hadn’t been able to have in the final three years before we left due to the terrible wildfire that had closed it for years, and now we were able to.
We even saw salmon spawning in the creek, something we had not seen in our ten years living out here. Breathing in the smell of the PNW and the beauty of the area refreshed us and gave us stamina for the week ahead.
Monday morning we jumped straight into preparing for surgery. Day one was a CT scan and blood draws. I had my first reaction to CT contrast dye, but nothing too bad- just a bout of severe itching. (I also had my first “ugh, people actually like Starbucks coffee” moment after I paid twice as much as we were used to for a pretty lousy flat white. Not sure which was worse!)
We took the CD of my New Zealand CT and Ultrasound scans down to another Kaiser facility in Portland so they could upload them for comparison (something they were never able to do.) Hale got his COVID booster and flu shot – neither of which I was able to do so close to surgery so we remained hermits as much as possible.
On Wednesday, we had our consult with the gynae onc surgeon which lasted half a day and felt very thorough. We were grateful for the time she and her team gave us, as that had been a big fear returning to the US medical system. Her efficient, confident, and intelligent demeanor inspired confidence in us.
She explained the surgery and what she would be taking out – total hysterectomy and BSO which means ovaries, fallopian tubes, cervix, uterus, and omentum, along with the tumor of course. She would also take samples of the peritoneum and lymph nodes and would remove anything that looked cancerous. Meaning that if she needed to take part of my colon, etc., she would.
She also showed concern for all parts of us – acknowledging the trauma of hearing a cancer diagnosis and the impact it was having on every aspect of our lives. She seemed surprised we weren’t sobbing in her office, but we’d had the benefit of multiple doctors giving us this news and then time to steel ourselves for this meeting so that we could absorb as much as possible. She referred us to a cancer therapist for counselling, a service we are using and finding helpful.
Her news was not only as grim as Tom’s, but worse. Things didn’t look good. My tumor markers were all high, even higher than they had been in NZ just weeks ago, and one had skyrocketed from high to astronomically high. My CT scan on Monday had picked up spots in my chest and an enlarged lymph node in my shoulder. She wanted me to go that afternoon for a neck and head scan to see if the node could be biopsied and to check if there was any spread to my brain. Frankly, it was terrifying.
When we were finishing up, I found the courage to mention to her that I had seen FIGO stage 3 on the MDM report – hoping against hope that she would assure me this was a mistake. Instead she looked at me and said “yes, and with the new spots, we may be looking at stage 4.” I can assure you that she got to see some emotion from me then. How on earth could this be happening?
Her nurse came in and went through all the details around pre-op, time in hospital, and post-op plans. She was thorough and we left the office feeling ready logistically for what was to come.
I had already scheduled a mammogram for that afternoon, simply because I was due, and while there they snuck me in for the head CT scan. I’m so grateful that it happened quickly because too much time to think about spread to the brain would have been crippling. It was only a day before we had the excellent results that my head was clear. (Which gave us something to laugh about too.)
Next up were blood draws, an EKG, and pre-op appointments to ensure I was healthy enough for surgery and anaesthesia and to blood type me in case of the need for a transfusion. And then a nerve-wracking Covid test three days in advance. I passed them all with flying colors which was a lovely contrast to the onslaught of distressing test results.
We had a final call with our oncologist surgeon on Friday and she told us that she had presented my case to the tumor board and had been discussing me with her colleagues. My astronomically high marker indicated GI cancer rather than gynae cancer, so she consulted with a GI specialist. Everyone was in agreement that while they could do a thousand things at this point to diagnose, it was better to proceed with surgery. Doing a biopsy or a colonoscopy/endoscopy would delay surgery and clearly things were getting worse rather than better the longer we waited.
Throughout the week, Hale and I struggled to live up to our new mantra of “make it suck less.” We snuck in walks along the river, ate ice cream (despite my oncologist telling me to cut out sugar, although I did listen to her on alcohol) and snuggled up to lame holiday romcoms to try to avoid thinking. This isn’t a personal or relationship blog, so I will only mention this once, but I cannot fathom a better, more empathetic, caring, and supportive partner than I have. In the midst of feeling like my string of luck was at an end, I paradoxically felt that I was the luckiest girl on earth to have him at my side.
I did a round of calls with each of my family members to prepare them that the surgery would likely reveal it was cancer. I had downplayed the chance of it earlier so as not to cause undue anxiety and because I didn’t want to ruin their Thanksgiving together. I still didn’t share the scariest parts with them. What a progression I had made in three weeks – suddenly cancer wasn’t the scary part, cancer spreading throughout my body was.
I struggled mightily with guilt during this time period. I had destroyed Hale and my plans for summer in Welly, a year in Australia, and quite possibly the rest of our lives. I was causing anguish for Hale, my mom, my siblings, my in-laws, my nieces and nephews, and my dear friends. I’ve had such an incredibly fortunate life that I was often the comic relief character – the one who could be counted on to bring levity, adventure stories, and fun to a conversation. Suddenly I was just the opposite – I was preventing people I loved from sleeping at night.
I knew this wasn’t justified. Cancer was doing all of this, not me, but I couldn’t shake it. Weeks later when talking with our cancer therapist, I finally started making progress when he used the expression “uninvited” with us. I had a term I could grasp onto now. When I felt guilt for hurting someone with my news, I could remind myself that I didn’t invite cancer into my life and therefore into theirs. Cancer crashed this party and now we all just wanted it to leave.
