Stage 5 Cancer

See previous post first or read series from the beginning. All posts link to each other.

August 1, nearly a month after my first visit to the physician for what was simply an annoying cough. 

Usually test results showed up on my healthcare portal before I got a phone call or news at a follow-up doctor visit, so I was refreshing the website every ten minutes in anticipation of my biopsy results. 

Which scared the shit out of me when I got a phone call from the pulmonologist before the results posted. There's no way this is a good sign. 

"We got the biopsy results and it indicates cancer. A stage 4 sarcoma of the lungs, most likely originating in the uterus based on the tissue sample." 

Stage 4. 

Sarcoma. I didn't know what that was but anything following "stage 4" had to be shit, right? 

She then said a lot of medical stuff that I can't recall because all I could hear was a ringing in my ears. Lung cancer. Lung cancer. Lung cancer. 

I DON'T EVEN FUCKING SMOKE. 

The doctor said they'd follow up with a PET scan in a couple days to get a more comprehensive look at the cancer and to confirm it originated in the uterus. 

Cancer. 

The big C-word. I miss the days when the C-word referred to cunt, not cancer. Cunt I can deal with--being called one, having one, bleeding profusely from one, but cancer? Not so much. This is all new to me. 

Sure I have relatives who have been diagnosed with cancer but they all became cancer survivors whereas I'm more likely to be called stage 5 cancer because the PET scan would reveal I have stage 4 sarcoma in FIVE DIFFERENT PLACES: the uterus, lungs, pancreas, liver, and bone. I didn't even know that was possible. I'm basically cancer with legs and a bobblehead. And oh, by the way, the left leg has cancer in it too, just for shits and giggles. 

I didn't know things like this existed. This is the sort of so-shitty-how-can-it-be-real thing that is a one in a million thing that makes the newspaper because it's so outlandishly fucked up. 

And it's happening to me. My name is Megan, and I have stage 5 cancer. Every day now I wake up and this is really my life. It's not some incredibly shitty nightmare that I get to wake up from and shake off in my morning shower. 

Yet I still wake up each day hoping for the same boring life I had only two months ago, because maybe this time I'll wake up to my old life. 

Maybe.

Biopsy

See first and second posts in the chronicle here and here. 

July 27. Thanks to an ER doctor (I went in because I heard hissing every time I breathed so I was worried I had a collapsed lung, but luckily I didn't) making a phone call, I got my lung biopsy moved up a week. In hindsight I wonder how many extra weeks or even months I will be given by simply having that biopsy a week earlier. 

That biopsy was NOT fun. And not just because of the sheer force of will required to keep from coughing long enough on top of holding my breath to be stuck with a supremely sinister looking six inch needle than have three samples extracted. I timed my latest cough syrup with hydrocodone plus a Xanax to hit at the same time the contrast dye would. 

The radiologist could only use local anesthesia on me because my oxygen levels were too low (eff you too, pansy-ass lungs) to risk full sedation, which would have required a longer stay as well. 

Honestly, I hadn't expected to feel the needle inside. I don't know why. I certainly didn't expect to feel the needle puncture the skin with such precision (and with local anesthesia supposedly at work), nor feel every additional eighth inch of movement as it embedded its way further into my chest cavity. It was a feeling beyond strange, the most painful half-gasp of my life. 

Meanwhile I had to hold still as possible for the doctor as he directed the needle ever further into my lungs, every bit of which I could feel. The needle may have been razor thin, but that didn't mean it didn't pierce like a dagger. I felt like I couldn't catch my breath, like I was stuck in between. 

The doctor asked if I was ready for a sample and I said yes. He counted off seconds for me to hold my breath (a task that was difficult before thanks to my cough felt downright impossible now) as he extracted one sample, then a second sample, than a third sample. 

As someone proud of my capacity for pain, I was fighting back tears by the end of the procedure. Once he withdrew the needle and I could breathe correctly again, I wiped away the single tear that had escaped in the last few seconds. You did well, the doctor told me with his hand on my back as I let out a heavy round of coughing. 

I asked to see the samples. The radiologist showed me a long thin line of pinkish-red. 

"It's red?" 

"Of course it's red, it's tissue. What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Neon green? Like kryptonite or something nuclear. You've seen the x-rays, that shit's not natural."

The doctor laughed and led me to the door. 

Right. Now we wait and see. 

One Year

This is what I posted on Facebook announcing my stage 4 sarcoma and prognosis. The comments and direct messages were overwhelming so I figured I should share what I wrote here. 

Two weeks ago I found out that I have stage 4 sarcoma of the uterus, lungs, liver, pancreas, and bone. That's pretty much the perfect storm of a death warrant.

As you can imagine, such a mindfuck as this has a way of completely changing the way you see the world. The things I found difficult about myself before--being bipolar, being a former alcoholic, living through a black mold contamination that required throwing half my personal belongings (including my massive book collection) away, being overweight and unattractive, still being single and childless at forty, forsaking my hard-earned architecture career to pursue my dream as a writer--I don't give a rat's ass about anymore.

Listen to me. None of that stuff matters when the oncologist is telling you "with chemo I give you one year to live." Sure this all sounds cliche and you've no doubt seen it a dozen times in movies, but let me tell you, that makes it no less of a smack in the face when you're the one it's being told to.

Live a great life despite all the bad shit that inevitably happens. Love the people you love, ignore the people you don't, visit the Louvre, hug your kids extra hard, take that beautiful hike, because you never know when one phone call will suddenly mean you can't walk to the mailbox without an oxygen tank.

Yes, I'm going to fight like hell. Friends have told me miracle stories of friends being given six months to live and then living for twelve years. I fully intend to be one those stubborn assholes who refuses to die. I refuse to until I've been published, after all! Preferably a few times. But there's a good chance I won't be that lucky.

After chemo in Portland I'm moving back to Dallas to live with my parents and be close to extended family. We're going to cook and watch tv together, play silly games and assemble puzzles, putter around the lake and shoot the shit. I'll write my book, blog, and make bad art. And if it's true that I only have a year--it's all those little moments that make for a life worth living when it comes to the end of things.

So please, learn from my shitty cancer epiphany and don't let all that other stupid stuff get in the way of the life you really want and deserve. Go live a life you can look back on and be happy with, even if you have only a year left to live it.

It's Probably Not Cancer

July 18. I saw a pulmonologist two weeks after that first phone call of doom. 

Two weeks of wondering what the fuck is going on inside my body. 

My dear cousins (sisters, really) shared their stories about the importance of not going down the Google rabbit hole of researching lung nodules, lung cancer, or any of the scary words used in the chest x-ray writeup posted online. Honestly, it was easy to avoid searching because I simply didn't want to know. I knew no matter what it was, it was bad and I wanted nothing to do with it. 

In that time I had a CT scan that was originally only supposed to be of my lungs but the pulmonologist decided at the last minute to include my abdomen and pelvis, which naturally only made me feel that much more fucked. Could other areas be just as screwed up too? 

When the CT scans posted online it was hard not to flip out. It seemed like every other organ had something wrong with it. Phrases like "consistent with metastatic disease," "hepatic steatosis," "lesions," "masslike contours," and "conglomerate lesion." I emailed the results to my aunt who used to be in the medical field and she said it raised more questions than answers, much to my disappointment.

Once I got to the pulmonologist's office she asked me a hundred super detailed questions, angling for anything that could possibly give us a clue as to what was wrong with my lungs. My NON-SMOKING lungs, mind you.

She showed me the x-rays from my CT scan.

Fuck meeeee, the x-rays. She showed me x-rays of my lungs that looked inhuman. Impossible. Unthinkable. Yet clear as day, my lungs looked like a pepperoni pizza. Or a Dalmatian. 

My guess going into the appointment was that this was a bacterial or fungal infection caused by my CPAP sleep apnea machine being dirty, since apparently I was supposed to clean the damn thing every single day, not once a week like I had originally been told years ago when I first got it. 

The main thing was that the pulmonologist said it was unlikely that it was cancer. Possible, but unlikely. Cancer is usually only on one side, there's usually fluid in the lungs, and the lymph nodes are usually affected. None of these presented.

I left the office feeling fucked but not completely fucked. I would have a lung biopsy soon to determine what all this was, I'd get treatment, everything would be fine in a couple months. Easy peasy. 

Right? 

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Next post in series here.

Cough Cough Cough

Cough cough cough. 

July 5. I had been cough cough coughing badly for two weeks by the point I finally went to the doctor, no longer convinced it would go away on its own. It was annoying as fuck all. I thought it was allergies because this exact thing has happened to me before, which was easy enough to fix: some steroid inhalers and prescription Singulair, waited a couple weeks, and everything went back to normal. Easy peasy.

The nurse had advised I get a chest x-ray but I figured I'd wait to see if my allergies cleared up on their own after a couple days on the meds she gave me. However as I walked through the hospital I saw that the imaging waiting room was empty, so I decided to go ahead and get an x-ray, just to check it off my list of errands. 

Cough cough cough. I had a hard time holding my breath long enough to stand stationary for the shots. Rolling my eyes, I thought about how ready I was for this damn cough to go away already. 

Forty-five minutes later I was at the art store looking at paper. My phone rang. The number was from my doctor. Fuck. Cough cough cough. 

The nurse sounded edgy. And worried. "Are you still in the building? Can you come talk?"

"I left already. Cough cough cough. But I can talk right now."

"You're not driving or anything, are you?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

"No, I'm good. Tell me what's going on."

"There are innumerable nodules on both your lungs. It's cause for concern. We'd like you to see a pulmonologist right away." 

Fuck. Cough cough cough. We hung up a minute later with her telling me they'd get me in to see a pulmonologist as soon as they could, which would end up being nearly two weeks later. 

I wish I'd known then how important waiting those two weeks might have been because I would have raised a big fucking stink the size of Texas to see her sooner and get things rolling with treatment. But how could I have known? It could have been nothing. Not that I see how a swarm of nodules on your lungs that weren't there during your last mammogram eight months ago could have been nothing.

Cough cough cough. 

Sure I felt like crying, but I was currently in the paper section of the art store near two employees who had just heard my entire side of the conversation and were probably waiting for me to lose my shit in the middle of their store. Instead I took a breath, finished shopping for paper, and checked out, all in a daze. 

Had my entire life just changed? 

Cough cough cough.

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See next post in series here. 

The Wet Spot [Serious TMI Alert]

What started this whole thing was a horrible cough that wouldn't go away. I'm not talking about cute little coughs like you get during a mild cold, or allergy coughs that tickle the back of your throat, but big hearty coughs that wrack your entire upper body like you were just rear-ended by an F150. Big fucking heaving coughs that I was sure my neighbors could and would get me kicked out of the building for. 

Occasionally I coughed so hard that I nearly vomited. But far more often, I coughed so hard that I peed myself a little. Sometimes a lot. That says a lot about my cough considering my kegel muscle and I are old buddies. 

Pantiliners quickly proved they weren't up to the task so I ordered a maxi-sized package of maxi-pads from Amazon (my pulmonologist has forbidden me from getting covid, so I now do all shopping through either Amazon or the grocery delivery service Shipt). 

Have you looked at maxi-pads recently? Or smelled their fresh powdery smell of menstrual shame? They're vile. They took me right back to being twelve years old and trying to cram one (with wings! because those supposedly help the bloodbath in your crotch!) into my underwear and hoping my butt didn't look fat and bunched up in my jeans. 

But at least I didn't need to sit on a towel on my own couch anymore. 

Fucking cough. Thanks to this stage 4 lung cancer cough, I have now gone through two plus sized packages of maxi-pads in a month. Fucking cough.

Sadly this is not where the post ends. 

On the day I was admitted into the hospital for chemo, it was a whirlwind of a day. The original plan was that on the next day, Thursday, I would be meeting my oncologist for the first time. That Sunday however, I had been placed on 24/7 oxygen after a visit to the ER showed that my lungs could no longer sustain me or my stage 4 sarcoma. Like, not even close. 

When the sarcoma nurse called to discuss my upcoming oncology appointment and it became clear my oxygen situation was indeed a true situation, she called me back and told me that medical transport was on its way to pick me up and take me to the hospital to be admitted so that I could start on chemo the very next day. 

Whoa shit, say what now? 

Well I guess when you have stage 4 cancer in five different organs, things get put on permanent STAT order. 

Within three hours I was in my own room eating a stone-cold hamburger (all organic, grass-fed beef, because Oregon) and hearing my prognosis for the first time. 

"Without chemo, you have weeks to months. With chemo, you have a year."

You would think that would scare the piss out of me, but it didn't. This was far from a surprise. You'd have to be stupid to think anything less with cancer as metastasized as mine. 

Nonetheless, it was still a shock to hear coming from someone's mouth other than my own. 

One year. 

The day had been such a whirlwind that I hadn't gone to the restroom in hours and hours. From the moment I ended the call on my phone with the sarcoma nurse and filled in my brother (who had flown in two days earlier to help me through my early days of cancer) on our new schedule, we had been running all over the apartment getting me ready for a three to five day stay at Kaiser across town. We had packed underwear, lots of snacks, coloring books and crayons, my Kindle, Harry Potter 4, and half a package of maxi-pads of course. 

They moved me from the admittance ward to the oncology ward where I would be receiving chemo the next day. My new room was pimped to the nines with a 54" TV, 65 channels (The Office! Big Bang Theory! Even Sex and the City!), private bathroom (not that I would use the shower, because I'm pretty sure I would have felt even dirtier after using it no matter how much it smelled like cleaning products), sleeping chair, and padded area in a window long enough for my six foot tall brother to sprawl out on with room to spare.

I changed into my gown with difficulty, since I was still getting used to maneuvering around an oxygen tube and neck holes are little bitches when it comes to that. I only managed to tie the lower cord on the back of my gown and that was hard because the cord was only six inches long on one side, and that was unfortunately the side that I'm a bit handicapped on because of scoliosis surgery I had at age 18 that makes it hard to bend over or twist to the side like a normal person. 

After an hour or two in the hospital bed talking to my brother, the night nurse came to introduce herself. She said since I had fallen earlier in the day, I had to be assisted to the bathroom for the next 24 hours and did I need to go to the bathroom?

I realized I hadn't been in ages and so I probably should. With one hand holding my gown closed in the back (the nurse had tied it shut for me, but I was untrusting of the gown by now), I dug through my purse looking for a maxi-pad, my face slowly flushing again. 

"Looking for this, Megan?" 

My brother held up a fat pastel green package taken from one of the many reusable Target bags we'd brought with us.

"Thanks, little brudder," I muttered, my eyes down as I snatched it out of his hand. We were still both traumatized from the granny panties incident only hours earlier.

***TMI STARTS HERE but seriously you're a grown up, you should be able to deal with the following so keep reading you big pansy

Everything was a mess, especially since my uterine fibroid had recently started acting up, obviously wanting to compete with the cough/my lungs for attention. My underwear was a bit damp after having been second place to all the day's excitement, so I had to go back into the hospital room to dig out some fresh underwear while my brother Jon graciously stared at his phone in the corner. 

I put everything right and went back to my bed, holding the gown closed with one hand and the oxygen tube with the other to make sure I didn't trip on it again. 

That's when I saw it. 

A very clearly defined ring of moisture in the middle of my bed, right where I had been sitting the last two hours. My face turned bright red in an instant. 

The nurse was turning to leave when I said, "Um, this is so embarrassing..." and started to point at my bed.

"Oh the stuffed animals? No, I think they're cute! We see them all the time, there's no need to be embarrassed!"

"No, um... I meant that..." With nothing short of complete mortification, I raised my finger to point at the wet spot I'd left behind on the bed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my brother look at it then look away quickly. AGAIN. We had just been through ONE horrible sibling experience, why did we need TWO? ON THE SAME GODDAMN DAY. I MEAN SERIOUSLY.

"Oh! Let me take care of that real quick." The nurse jumped into action and expertly changed the sheets while I stood there waiting, still holding my gown and oxygen tubing. When she was done I muttered thank you and slid awkwardly back under the sheets. Things like this must not be uncommon because the nurse had left a pad in place for future accidents, although fortunately I only experienced this wretched moment of "improving my character" once during my stay. 

As I leaned back in my hospital bed, freshly dry, I thought to myself, I miss the good ol' days when "the wet spot" referred to something else entirely and only led to laughs and a bigger wet spot an hour later.

Fuck coughing.

Feeling Like a Cancer Patient

It wasn't being wheeled from the medical transport/ambulance (necessary now that I was on oxygen 24/7) that made me feel like a cancer patient. 

It wasn't the hideous hospital gown that made me feel like a cancer patient. Not even the bright yellow hospital booties with the anti-slip grip on the bottom (see header), nor struggling to tie the back closed on my own--made all the more difficult because they gave me an average-sized gown when I'm way more of a fatass-sized kind of girl. 

It wasn't the parade of nurses I got, each asking me my name and birthday to confirm my identity that made me feel like a cancer patient, even though that got old after the third nurse.

It wasn't getting into a bed with its own remote control that made me feel like another sad hospital patient, although playing with the buttons was a teensy bit fun.

It was when I tripped on my own oxygen cord and tumbled to the ground, feeling my entire bare back exposed to the room, the nurse, and my brother as he half-caught me on my way down. 

Granny Panties. My poor younger brother got an eyeful of my aged pastel pink granny panties. Before I stood up I pulled the back of my gown closed, my face flushing bright in shame. The nurse fluttered over me, making sure I was okay because I had just tripped and fallen so spectacularly within ten minutes of arriving in the chemo room.

Once upon a time, that tribal tattoo on my ass was sexy and fun, something guys rubbed their hands over greedily when we were in bed together. Now knowing that it was showing through my semi-transparent full-size underwear? Not so much. In fact it may feel forever tainted by this moment in the hospital.

I looked at my brother, relieved that he was looking away even though he seemed as embarrassed as I did. We had just shared something no siblings should ever share and I am sure we will both be trying desperately to forever forget happened, when in fact it felt like precisely the moment that everything changed. 

It was as I was falling and my brother attempted to catch me that I felt like a cancer patient. The gown, the room, the beeping, the tubes, the special hospital socks, the IV, the cold hamburger on a tray, it all hit me at once. My brother later said he felt it in that moment too. Cancer patient.

Once the nurse was sufficiently placated that I was fine after my fall, I asked her to tie the back of my gown closed nice and tight, please damnit. Restore me some dignity, here. They never gave me a gown that fit better, or maybe that was the biggest one they had? Who knows. Not that it matters, because I won't be 245 lbs for much longer if chemo ravages my body they way I've seen on TV. Which it will no matter how many gourmet meals my brother cooks for me in the upcoming weeks or pints of artisanal ice cream my cousin overnights me from halfway across the country.

I'm a cancer patient. I can never, ever go back to being normal. I will always be or have once been a cancer patient, or I will be dead from cancer because my prognosis just sucks that much.

I am a cancer patient. That's my story from now on. So fine. That's where this blog and even the blog name come into play, because cancer can Kiss My Chemo.