Tag: cancer doesn't care

Smooth Sailing

L. Ryan StormsLeave a comment

The problem with the type of cancer that can be managed-but-not-cured is that you never quite know when to update the masses that the patient is on an upswing and doing well. It’s occurred to me recently that I’m always quick to let everyone know when we’re riding that cancer train, but not always quick to update when the ride has gotten a little smoother.

Time to stop talking in metaphors, I suppose.

Nate is doing well. One and a half years after two very rough liver embolizations, and fifteen months of monthly Sandostatin injections with little to no side effects, I feel like it might finally be safe to say (yikes, is it ever safe to say?) that he’s doing well. The numerous cancerous tumors in his liver have shrunk significantly in size, he’s had an increase in energy, and he’s been active and engaged with life. Fishing? Every chance he gets, no matter the weather. Ice skating? Frequently. Good thing older kiddo is taking lessons and wants to be at the rink as much as humanly possible. Hockey games? Attending whenever he can. Work? Oh, yeah, I guess he’s been doing a lot of that, too. (But who wants to hear about work?)

He’s living. And for that, my friends, we are overcome with gratitude.

Additionally, as of this week, he’s been given official disability status as a veteran from his exposure to burn pits in Kuwait in the 90s, which means we now get financial assistance from the government in managing his cancer. This is exceptionally helpful as every injection (you know, the injections he’ll get monthly for the rest of his life, those injections?) costs $27,000 before insurance is factored in, which means we meet our deductible every year in January. So this turn of events is a welcome one.

Is it the government admitting, “Hey, sorry we’re probably responsible for your cancer?” Or perhaps it’s just their way of saying, “We might have had something to do with this. Oops.” Or maybe it’s, “Damn, this diagnosis sucks and we’re sorry it happened. Thanks for serving your country; we’ve got your back.”

I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know. Regardless of the meaning behind it, the financial help is significant and we are positively, incredibly, overwhelmingly grateful for it. (Did I include enough adverbs there? Writers aren’t supposed to use them, right? Well, I’m really grateful. So there.)

So that’s the update. Nate is doing well. I typed it. Despite my fear of jinxing everything, I put it out there for all to see. Because you’ve all been with us on this journey. And you deserve to know. That bumpy train ride seems to have taken us to a port. And the seas seem fairly calm. Smooth sailing. At least for a while.

Thank you for being here with us, friends. Your love and your support has always kept us going.

How to Make Lemonade

L. Ryan Storms1 Comment

The day after husband’s oncologist used the ‘C’ word at his 4-year followup visit, he got up early to go fishing. (A common occurrence in our household, as our friends and acquaintances know well.) When he returned, he was mumbling to himself as he walked in the front door, but I caught only the tail end of the conversation as he headed through the house and to the shower.

“Just need to figure out how to make lemonade. That’s all.”

But making lemonade isn’t something you do with rotten lemons, and I’ve been pondering his words ever since. So I did something new today. I wrote an essay and submitted it for publication.

An essay.

Me.

I wrote an essay. Something that didn’t involve fictional characters, magic, and dragons.

I haven’t done that since my college days. But today, as my fifteen-year-old slogged through a 500-word essay on The Scarlet Letter (which, for the record, she hated, and let’s be real, who doesn’t?), I, too, tapped away at the computer keys, crafting a story of all we’ve been through in the past four years since Nate’s initial cancer diagnosis. Before I knew it, I had almost 1600 words of love, fear, support, uncertainty – pretty much everything that sums up life with a secondary cancer diagnosis in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.

Maybe it will go nowhere. Maybe it doesn’t need to go anywhere. Maybe I just needed to write it.

But I hope it’s accepted somewhere that will reach thousands of people, not because I want recognition, but because if my words can somehow help others who are also struggling through dark times, then I’ve succeeded in making lemonade out of some pretty nasty lemons. And that’s something.

Holding Patterns

L. Ryan Storms2 Comments

How do you begin a blog post you never wanted to write? How do you type the very words you never wanted to see again? How do you convince yourself that there’s anything good or fair or right in the world when you get the news that your loved one has cancer?

Again.

I don’t have the words. My heart has broken into a thousand million billion pieces and I…don’t have the words.

Nate went for his yearly oncology visit last Friday- 4 years cancer-free (or so we thought). Instead, we were met with a giant, nasty surprise – spots on his liver. Spots that weren’t there six months ago. Spots that have no business being there now.

There’s no way to describe the cold dread that washed over me at hearing the news – the literal icy sensation that swept from my head to my toes when the doctor said the word ‘cancer’ aloud.

“No, no, no,” I wanted to scream. “We did this already. We beat this. He’s healthy. We did this years before the pandemic. We shouldn’t have to do it now, again, in the middle of a global pandemic!”

But cancer doesn’t care what we think, how we feel, or what our plans are. So once again, our schedules have been cleared, and we’re in yet another holding pattern, burning fuel, awaiting test result after test result, waiting for some direction on where to land and what kind of crash to prepare for.

Hold your loved ones close, my friends. It only takes a moment for everything to change.