Long December

I spent the New Year’s Eve that would ring in 1998 as a missionary in Honduras.  I was fascinated with a Latin American New Year ’s Eve tradition in which they would burn “El Ano Viejo,” a scarecrow which represented the dying year right at midnight.  The purpose was to do away with any negative energy from the old year, and usher in the New Year with good luck.  I have often wanted to adopt that tradition, but as I am a pyro-phobe it has never happened. 

If there was ever a year that I would love to burn, it is 2016! Even though I don’t have a scarecrow ready in my backyard, I will be doing some figurative burning tonight.

This post is dedicated to those that don’t always have an ideal holiday, or simply those who understand what it is like to have unmet expectations.  As I attended the funeral of the sweet dad of one of my closest friends on Christmas week, I was acutely reminded that life is what happens to us when we are busy making other plans. 

Earlier this month, as we were listening to Sirius XM’s Holly station, Carissa, who doesn't miss a thing is asked why “My Favorite Things” is considered a Christmas song. 

I’ve always wondered the same thing, but answered her that it was because of the “brown paper packages tied up with strings.”

On my "Favorite Things" list is Christmas music.  I have made several playlists of my favorites, ranging from record albums I listened to as a child such as The Carpenters  "Christmas Portrait" (What says Christmas better than Merry Christmas Darling ?)John Denver' s and the Muppets We Wish You a Merry Christmas (I love it when Animal shouts he 'won't go' til he gets some' figgy pudding),  to more contemporary  holiday songs such Sarah McLaughlan's  Song for a Winter's Night Sting's Soulcake.  And of course, I have every Christmas album the Mormon Tabernacle Choir has recorded for the past 15 years.  I love any spectcular Christmas choral  arrangements by Mack Wilberg, such as The Wexford Carol, John Rutter 's Angel Carol and most recently, Dan Forrest's First Noel

While I've listened to all those carols at least once this holiday season, the song which resonates most with me this Christmas season is Counting Crow's  "A  Long December".  The message of the song is both mournful and hopeful:

 "A long December and there's reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last." 

I love the image of frontman, Adam Duritz and his band jamming with the accordion and piano in the woods as the snow falls and they reflect back on the year.  It's deliciously melancholic, and quintessentially 90's, featuring "Friends" star Courtney Cox.  I looked up some background info on the song, and found out that Duritz wrote it while he was visiting the hospital of a friend who was seriously injured in a car accident. 

The lyrics,“The smell of hospitals in Winter and the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters but no pearls” rings a little too true this year.  I attend the hospital weekly for either blood draws or treatment, and I will never get used to the antiseptic smell which will ever remind me of the nausea which accompanies chemotherapy.

Traditionally I end the year and start the next by doing a reflective re-cap of each month of the year as I ponder what the next year's resolutions will be.  This is my way of checking off each month kind of like they do in the “Long December” video. Now, there’s a more convenient way than journaling to review the year as Facebook creates a photographic  "Year in Review" for you.  It simply pulls from what you post throughout the year, so it doesn't discriminate between your best and worst photos as that should be your job.  The first time I clicked on my 2016 "Year and Review," the following photo came up:

 I have to laugh, as this  picture about sums up my 2016. I wonder why I would post, or allow others to post such unflattering pictures of me swollen and yellow-skinned in hospital robes.  The answer to that is that I was on a lot of painkillers and narcotics.

 If I tried to write a bare bones summary year in review, it would go something like this:

January: I had the worst stomach flu of my life in conjunction with cumulative chemo mouth sores.  I remember my parents kindly putting away my Christmas decorations as I languished in bed, wondering if I would see the next Christmas or even the next week.  I did recover from the flu, but it took morphine to dull the mouth sore pain. The plus was that my weight was at a record low as was my jean size (It's a good thing I have multiple sizes in my closet).  I switched care from Kaiser to UCSD and met my new oncologist and liver surgeon and made plans for a 2-stage liver resection.  Chemo became less aggressive but was still painful.

February:  I continued with chemo and signed my life away with my liver surgeon as we continued preparations for the surgery.

March:  On the Ides of March, (March 15th and my mom's birthday), I had a dual colon and liver resection.  I stayed in Thorton hospital 6 days following, and was on heavy pain meds for the rest of the month.  I was released from the hospital with a surgical drain.  Because I was on blood thinners, I had to do daily tummy injections. 

April:  I continued with the pain meds as I healed from the L-shaped incision which stretched from my chest to my lower gut.  I had to do another round of chemo to ensure that the cancer wouldn't return between surgeries and prevent the second critical part of my 2-stage liver resection. Everything checked out, and I signed my life away a second time with the liver session.  In each meeting, he wanted to ensure I could repeat what my odds of dying on the surgery table would be.

May:  Just as I began to recover from one major surgery, it was time to do another, only this time, instead of having a portion of my liver removed, I would have my entire right liver lobe removed.  I was told to prepare for a more difficult recovery, but nothing could have prepared me for what awaited; extra time in the ICU, a surprise IVC filter surgery with no anesthetic. I left the hospital with an even larger L-shaped scar, and a body that was swollen from the surgery, which meant that I had “kankles” and cabbage patch feet.

June:   A physical therapist came to my home to help me re-learn to walk.  I felt like I was missing half of my gut, because I was.  Thankfully, we had a downstairs room in which I could camp out, because stairs were off limits for the month.   I learned that healing meant pain, and a lot of it.  Twice during the month, I was racked with paralyzing stomach pain between midnight and 4am.  My mom had to come and hold my hand just to get me through the night.  I also had a shingles outbreak and a root canal, which delayed my chemo.  The nightly Lovanox shots in the stomach seemed like insult to injury.

July:  I finally started to feel better, but returning to my chemo regime post-surgery was daunting.  The fact that I had to get a 4- hour blood transfusion during my first session back did not help.  The chemo made me vomit while my abdominal scars still smarted.  I was hopeful that I would see a gain from all this suffering and that my first post-surgical scan would be clear, but I learned that this was not the case when my oncologist called me in 2 days later, and his dramatic delivery of the bad news felt like I was being diagnosed all over again.

August:  I learned that chemo was having a devastating cumulative impact on my teeth, and had 2 teeth fall out, just like that. I had a second root canal within 4 weeks.  I started to have trouble with low platelets.  Twice I went down to Moores cancer center at UCSD, waited around half the day for my scheduled chemotherapy, just to be told that I would be denied the treatment on account of low platelets.  In light of my recent recurrence, this was alarming.  I had a heated exchange with my oncologist and just prayed my platelets would come up.

September:  I failed my 3^rd and final blood test to receive the first-line-of defense chemotherapy.  My oncologist ordered the erbitux (targeted therapy) drug which resulted in an itchy, unattractive rash all over my face, neck, back, and chest.  How fitting that I would appear like I had a bad case of teen acne the month I turned 40!

October:  I thought that my regular consult scheduled with my oncologist would be business as usual, but when I asked him what the next steps would be, he responded by saying that he couldn’t give me any information because I may or may not qualify for a clinical trial, that I had exhausted my shot at a cure with failed surgery, that further surgery would only shorten my life, that my life expectancy was likely only 3 years, and that I should seek psychological help to accept this.  Carl and I reported him to Patient Advocacy and met with our surgeon and a new oncologist.  Both ordered new scans.

November:  Finally some good news and redemption from so much gravity, as the PT scan from my new oncologist came back miraculously clear!  I didn’t know if I could dare believe it!  It would seem more believable if the clearance meant I could quit the chemo treatments and everything that went with the cancer, but I would have to continue the same regime, every other week for the better part of the next year. 

December:  Even though my time commitment to chemo was just heavy as ever, I longed so to feel “normal” that I went through the holiday motions with increased festive zeal.  We decorated the inside and outside of our house, had the girls in The Nutcracker Ballet, participated in 3 Christmas choirs, helped with the girls’ classroom parties, sent out holiday cards, and tried to get out some neighbor gifts, and hosted and attended family parties.  By Christmas Day, all I wanted for Christmas was a long winter’s nap.  I longed for the holiday to end just as much as I want to put this entire cancer-filled year, and my bout with cancer behind me.    

So YES, I want to ceremoniously burn 2016!!!

BURN BABY, BURN!

 Yet as I think of the year in its entirety, I can’t help but realize the good parts of the year that would have been missed if the whole year were burned.  As Garth Brooks once sang, “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.” 

 The dance that I would not have wanted to miss is the Staying Alive flash mob at my incredible 40^th birthday party that my fabulous friend Amber threw.

In addition, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss:

• The amazing energy, love and support I felt from so many at The Colon Cancer 5K run before my first surgery on March 5^th.
• Rocking out with my cousin Stacy at The Gwen Stefani concert
  
• Having the opportunity to speak at the BYU-Idaho teaching and learning conference.  It was 5 weeks post-surgery, and I was barely able to get on the plane, but I made it and it was so worth it to be among dear friends.
  
• Celebrating my 12^th wedding anniversary at Duke’s by the Pier with Carl
  
• The surprise visit of one of my dearest friends from El Salvador.
  
  
  
  
  
• Seeing Carl dressed as David S. Pumpkins
  
• Seeing my girls in The Nutcracker Ballet. 
  
• Getting Miraculous News:
• 

Christmas carols are still "legal" til New Year's right, so I will take the liberty of closing this post with the sentiments from one of my favorites, "Infant Holy, Infant Lowly."

Thus rejoicing, free from sorrow

Praises voicing greet the morrow

Christ, the babe was born for you

Christ, the babe was born for you

Cheers to 2017, which will bring tomorrows that will surely be better than last year's! May we all find freedom and redemption from the yokes of yesterday.  

Miracles

I was feeling weary from the fight and in need of a pick-me-up, so I told Carl he would make my Halloween if he dressed up as David S. Pumpkins, from a recent SNL skit featuring Tom Hanks. I watched this video every day of Halloween week, to distract me from the ongoing monotony of my fight. 

Impressively, Carl found a perfect costume with 2 days to spare.  We had a great Halloween in our festive neighborhood, as friends, neighbors, and even strangers saluted him as David Pumpkins. Carleigh went as Rey from "Star Wars" and Carissa went as Evie from "Descendants."  We spent the evening with our parents, sister-in-law, Shanna, and some new friends we had met from Carleigh's soccer team.

It was a great and memorable holiday, but these days, nothing good can last, and I had to wake up bright and early to do my labs, a 2-hour PT scan, and 3 hours of chemotherapy.  I woke up exhausted, and slept through both my scan and my chemotherapy.  If sleeping through my life as much as possible was what I needed to do to survive for now, then sleep I would.

On Thursday we had a an appointment with my new oncologist to review the results of  Tuesday's scan.  I sat in the waiting room with stooped shoulders and with my face in my hands.  Carl told me I needed to perk up so that my doctor would feel confident about putting me on the best treatment plan possible. I knew I needed to stay in the fight for the sake of Carl and the girls, and all who love me, but I felt so depleted physically and emotionally. I especially did not want to face another surgery.  The mere thought made me cringe, but this is what we would likely discuss today.  These appointments always tended to emotionally drain me.  

We were escorted to the doctor's office.  While we waited, I started on my pile of Thank-you notes I can never seem to finish.  When the doctor finally walked into the room, I was surprised to see a big smile on her face.  

"Have you seen the results of your scan?" she asked.

"No," I replied.  "That's why were are here today, to review them." 

"There is nothing there!" she said, beaming.

"What?" I asked.  "What do you mean there is nothing there?  I just had a CT scan last week which showed 1, possibly 2 tumors."

She explained that there were masses there, but that the deeper PT scan revealed that nothing had lit them up, meaning there was no metabolic life in the tumors, meaning that they were dead.  The PT scan record declared me as now having No Evidence of Disease (NED). 

"I know the result is surprising, so I verified this with 4 different radiologists, just to be sure," she said, her smile widening.  

What????!!!! How could this even be true?  Our former oncologist had told us back in August that chemo or any type of therapy would never eradicate a tumor; that at most it could shrink it to either get it surgically removed or to simply keep it at bay for as long as possible.  This outcome was quite rare, as it only occurs in about 2 percent of cases. 

The doctor said that I did need to stay on the erbitux and the 5FU for 8 months to a year for maximum effectiveness, but that surgery was completely unecessary at this time!  Then she told me that even though I needed to continue my chemo regime that I should "go on holiday."  She has a lovely British accent which makes the word, "holiday" that much more inviting.  

Halleluah!!!  As we sat there, she emailed our surgeon a friendly note that the PT scan revealed only dead tumors, that she did not recommend surgery, and "the patient was shocked."  My mouth was hanging wide open, and Carl was jumping up and down while simultaneously texting everyone in our immediate family.  

We took the weekend to celebrate with the girls.  We went up to Palomar Mountain to view the Fall colors and to shout the good news from the mountaintops:

When we had a moment to catch our breath, we reflected on how the events of the past several months had lead us up to this point.  Carl reminded me that he had blessed me many times in prayer that the "chemotherapy would have an astonishing effect in eradicating the tumor, so much so, that even the doctors would be surprised."  

Because my platelets had been too low to receive the standard chemo, I had started the erbitux during the first week of September.  Apparently, this was the drug that connected with my genetic makeup just enough to kill the tumor.  Because my oncologist showed such poor bedside manner during our October appointment that I had to quit him, I was lead to a new one, who had ordered the scan which prevented me from having an unnecessary surgery, and gave me the hopeful news that I so needed to hear to keep going.

 I had found my new doctor from a friend of my dad's who had beaten colon cancer a few years ago and loved her oncologist. She wasn't sure if her former doctor was currently affliliated with UCSD.   I met with her and asked tips for continuing on the fight and if she would pass along her former oncologist's contact info.  When I looked up the contact in her phone, I was surprised to find that the address coincidentally matched the very location I received chemotherapy. I had recently moved from Moores Cancer Center to Encinitas.  The oncologist I wanted was with UCSD, and she was seeing new patients!

As I have reflected on recent events, I have realized that these were not coincidences, but small miracles which blended together to lead me to this grand, course-altering one that so many in my circle had hoped and prayed for.  The term, "miracle" has been defined by religious scholar, Daniel S. Ludlow as “a beneficial event brought about through divine power that mortals do not understand and of themselves cannot duplicate.” 

This reminds me of the movie, "Miracles from Heaven" starring Jennifer Garner, which portrays the true story of the miraculous healing of Annabel Beam and the spiritual journey of her mother, Christy Beam. 

Jennifer Garner's character describes miracles as:

• showing up in the strangest of ways through people who are just passing through our lives.
• dear friends who are there for us no matter what.   
• love
• pure goodness
• God's way of letting us know...he's here."

The ancient prophet, Mormon queries:  "Has the day of miracles ceased? Behold I say unto you, Nay; for it is by faith that miracles are wrought."

I'm not sure if my own faith has been that strong; there were moments when it has really faltered.  But I have kept one foot in front of the other, and have been sustained by the faith of so many loved ones. As Jennifer Garner's character Christy flashes back to all the people and events which lead them to their miracle, I think of my own journey.  Equally miraculous as my unexpected remission is the pure love of Christ I see in others.  I have written previously about the countless acts of service done on my behalf, and now I continue to see "pure goodness" as I share this glorious news with friends and they throw their arms around me shedding tears of joy.  I am amazed that others would care so much to both mourn and to rejoice with me.  This is love that approaches divinity. 

Mormon also proclaimed, "But behold, I will show unto you a God of miracles"

There is a beautiful song, "Miracles" which perfectly expresses the recent miraculous events in my own life.

Jesus is a God of Miracles

Nothing is at all impossible to Him.

But I know this, of all His miracles,

The most incredible must be

The miracle that rescues me

.  
Once a person has Stage IV cancer, the threat of recurrence is always lurking.  I don't know where my journey will take me, but for now, I can rejoice that my miracle of "No Evidence of Disease" came when I needed it the most.  No matter what happens in the future, I can testify that in my life, miracles have not ceased. 

My Song in the Night

Since my cancer diagnosis 15 months ago, I have become a true insomniac.  On many occasions, I’ve reached for the aid of Ativan, Ambien, and Benadryl to get me through the night.  Someday I will take up more natural sleep aids like meditation, but I haven’t had time for that yet.

There has always been something on the horizon.  An upcoming scan, a dreaded chemotherapy infusion, worry about potential irreversible side effects of surgery, the anxiety of trying to dissect an oncologist’s meaning, and on and on.  Insomnia had been especially bad since that dismal October 5 th appointment with my ex-oncologist.  I had “broken up” with him, and did not wish to give him any credibility by hanging onto his words, but they were still  haunting me between the unearthly hours of 3:00 and 5:00 am. 

• Had I really exhausted my best chance at a cure when my 2 stage surgery failed to eradicate all the cancer? 
• Would another potential surgery do me more harm than good or could it actually prolong my life?
• What if there were any shred of truth to what he said about my 3 year prognosis?  
• Should I be investing all my energy in fighting a losing battle, or should I just enjoy the possibly short time I had left with my family? 
• Should I be planning some great vacations for "bucket list" last hurrahs?
• Should I put all my energy into radically changing my diet, because some claim to be cured this way.
•  Should I be traveling to various cancer centers in the US seeking  get 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th opinions ?
• How was I possibly to balance the task of staying alive versus living my life, especially when my calendar was so full of lab draws, chemo infusions and follow-up oncology consults?  
• What if I was mis-using my precious time?

How I wished I could just turn off my brain and get a good night’s sleep!   Like the song, “Silent Lucidity” by Queensryche, which gave me a lot of comfort in my early teens when I went through a difficult bout with some mean girls, I wished I could just escape into a “dream domain” which would free my soul from this incessant worry. 

As I cried out in prayer for some peace, I remembered a Music & the Spoken Word by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir which Carl and I attended on an anniversary trip to Salt Lake to celebrate our 10-year 2 years ago.  

 The following Spoken Word message from that program has always stuck with me:

 James and Sarah Ferguson were Irish immigrants with dreams of making a new home and building a better life for their family in the American West. In the spring of 1850, they started across the vast American plains as members of a large wagon train of pioneers with similar dreams.Tragedy struck the family soon after they began. James contracted the dreaded disease cholera and died within 24 hours. He was buried in the trackless prairie on the banks of the Platte River. That evening, Sarah settled the children into their beds and then, with an aching heart and tired feet, went down to the river to wash off the dust of a terrible day. As she put her bare feet into the cool water, Sarah felt “the strong current of the river, and the thought came to her, in her grief, of how easy it would be to slide into the water,” sink into the depths, and join her dear husband in death.[1] But just then one of her young children called out to her, and she knew she had to carry on for them. She dried her feet, put on her shoes, and went back to the wagon. The next day, Sarah paused one last time at the grave of her  husband. Then, looking west, she and her children walked on.Sarah eventually established her family in the Rocky Mountains. She lived a long and productive life, and her posterity—which now number in the thousands—are grateful for the faith, hope, and perseverance of their pioneer grandmotherThe courageous example of Sarah Ferguson McDonald and many, many others like her inspires us all, especially when our hearts ache, our feet are tired, or we face a fearful future. Even then, we can remember inspiring examples from the past and walk on.

After this story was told, the choir followed with this beautiful rendition, “My Song in the Night”

The music and lyrics of this song perfectly captured my sentiments as I tossed and turned with my doubts and fears:

O why should I wander, an alien from Thee,
Or cry in the desert Thy face to see?
My comfort and joy, my soul’s delight,
O Jesus my Savior, my song in the night.

One October Monday, after an unkind night of troubled thoughts and itchy skin from my erbitux rash, I wondered how I could walk on.  It wasn’t that I was ready to sink into a moving current and end my life consciously in a suicidal act, but simply that I was tired of everything that was required of me to stay alive.  I didn’t want to face another surgery, another chemo infusion, the antiseptic smell of the cancer center, another oncologist, or even another needle in my arm.  I just couldn’t keep doing all this.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained.  I just wanted to stay in my room in the fetal position and cry, which I did, just for a little while.  I knew that I had to keep fighting for my girls, and I would.  But how would I even get up again to do it?  I thought about the account of Peter, trying to walk toward Jesus on the water in the account of Matthew 14:26-31 in the New Testament:

 26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.

 27 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid.

 28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.

 29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.

 30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.

 31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

This scriptural account gave me some comfort because if Peter, the great apostle could falter in his faith, then so could I.  Like Peter, I was afraid of “boisterous winds” of uncertainty of my seemingly bleak prognosis, and I was sinking with exhaustion.  My sweet friend Sarah had given me this portrait of the Savior with His outstretched hand after my first surgery.  As I internalized the the message of Christ lifting Peter up in his moment of faltering, maybe  I could begin to walk again and at least move toward the water. 

Disfrutar Cada Dia

For my 40th birthday, Carl gave me a better gift than I could have possibly imagined- a surprise visit from a very special friend, Sandra  from El Salvador.  Sandra and I were missionary companions 18 years ago. We spent 4 months together in a Honduran village called La Villa de San Francisco and even experienced Hurricane Mitch together.  Although it had been years, we picked up right where we left off. We danced to our favorite music, ate our favorite Central American pupusas and platanos, went to the beach, had a little reunion with some friends from our mission, , enjoyed Utah's falls leaves, and listened to uplifting messages as we attended the LDS General Conference at Temple Square.  

Sandra has always been one of my wisest friends.  As she left, she gave me some parting advice, "Recuerda disfrutar cada dia" (Remember to enjoy every day). How timely that advice has been for this month! Here's are a few examples of "disfrutando cada dia" this month:

Bates Nut Farm with dear friend Robin and our Girls:

Festive Day at Disneyland with The Fam

Teaching Fall Music in Carleigh's Classroom

I need to "disfrutar cada dia" to combat the negativity that threatens to suffocate me in the cancer world.  While Sandra was visiting, I was able to relive some of my best memories and put my cancer fight off for just a bit.  Then it was time for my monthly oncology consult. 

The day that Sandra left to fly back home to El Salvador on October 5th, I went to my routine appointment expecting it to be well- routine.  I expected it to be business as usual.  He would ask me how my treatment was going, and we'd talk about possible next steps.  Unfortunately, this wasn't how the meeting went at all.

He mentioned that the genetic test results he had sent for had come back and that my tumor had some mutations which may make me eligible for clinical trials.  When I asked him when these trials would take place and how I could qualify for them, he just said he couldn't give me any information. 

Then  he said, "Well, I want to know how I can support you, because it doesn't seem like you are handling things very well."

Because I had only exchanged pleasantries with him during this meeting, I didn't really know what to say to that, so I just said that I would like him to help me formulate an action plan.

"That's just it; you want to have a set plan, and you are only going to face more uncertainty and disappointment, more planning, and un-planning" he said.  And then:

"The best thing that you could do for yourself now is seek psychological help so you can wrap your head around this."

Huh?

We asked him about another surgery, as we had talked about when he told me about the recurrence, and then he said that I'd already missed my best shot at a cure and that a surgery would only be a useless invasive process and the cancer would come back anyway.

I then asked him what the aim of the current treatment was, and he said it was just to keep the cancer "at bay,"  and that history proved that I only had at most 3 years to live.

I didn't ask for this prognosis, but he gave it unsolicited.

I responded by saying that my surgeon had once mentioned 5 years (which I was never buying) and to that he said, 

"The surgeon has a skewed perspective.  I am only telling you this because I care, and anyone who tells you otherwise either doesn't have the whole picture or they aren't being honest with you."

When I then tried to ask him what the aim of clinical trials would be, he held up his hand condescendingly and said, "That is the 4th time you have asked me the same question, which further convinces me that you need psychological help."

Carl and I looked at each other in shock.  This was clearly a side of this doctor we had never seen.  We knew the meeting was coming to an abrupt end, so Carl said, "We still want you to present us at tumor board like you said you would earlier," to which he responded with:
"If you want to get cut on, then get cut on," then promptly exited the room. 

So, I am not sure if he was angry when I pushed back a few weeks earlier about receiving chemo despite the low platelets, if he is having a major disagreement with my surgeon, if he has an issue with professional jealousy, or if he is just plain arrogant. 

One thing that I do know, is that he has no say in how long I have to live.  I am reminded of this classic clip from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."  When Ferris impersonates the Sausage King of Chicago at an upscale restaurant and the snooty host threatens to call the police, he says, "If I'm going to get busted, it's not gonna be by a guy like that."

Well, if I am going to have to die an untimely death, it's not going to be on the terms of a guy like that- my now ex-oncologist.  So, I broke up with him. Like any break-up, this one was somewhat painful.  I thought that he had my back, that he would advocate for my life, but I guess he wanted to weed me out of his over-crowded patient load and essentially said to me, "Your life is not worth fighting for."

Of course I know better, so we met the surgeon the very next day who offered a much more hopeful perspective.  He said that although it was unlikely he could cure me, that he could at least prolong my life.  

We met with my new oncologist Friday.  She said, "As of now, you have one tumor...no one is dying here.  You have time to consider your options, and there is a lot we can do."  She then immediately gave me several referrals, from a clinical trial specialist at UCLA to an inter-radiologist.  Surgery is still a possibility, but less invasive micro-oblation, and radiation are still on the horizon.  

Meanwhile, I am attempting to research natural methods of healing such an alkaline, raw foods diet and meditation on my own time, which is difficult to find outside of my standard treatment appointments and just trying to parent my girls and juggle the demands of regular life, outside of my cancer.

Although the appointment with my new oncologist went as positively as it could have gone, I left the doctor's office feeling very drained. As I explained my cancer journey to the new doctor from its beginning, I felt like I was starting all over again, and that I still have so many mountains to climb.  In some ways, I feel like I'm back where I started 14 months ago.

It doesn't help that the erbitux immuno-therapy that I am on covers my skin in a blotchy red, itchy rash.  I feel less than pretty, to say the least.  However, Saturday's LuLa Roe party that was kindly given for me definitely brightened my mood.  New clothes always do:

I know I have to take this journey one step and one day at a time, as trying to figure out the big picture is just overwhelming.   One of my favorite hymns is "Lead Kindly Light, which says:

Lead, kindly Light, amid th'encircling gloom;
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene--one step enough for me.

I love Mack Wilberg's arrangement, which was sung by the BYU Men's Chorus in 1996, and is performed often today by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir:

Tomorrow's scans will determine the next steps of my journey, and I can only look towards that vista and not try to view the entire mountain. I have to keep the faith that there will be light "amid th'encircling gloom" of negative oncologists and bleak prognoses.  Even if I don't know where tomorrow will take me, I do have control of how I climb this mountain.