4/26/11 - Scan Results

When faced with adversity there comes a defining moment when you are forced to make a decision. Whether to fold or refuse to give in. Adversity can occur in all different forms, but perhaps the worst is when you don’t see it coming and it absolutely blindsides you. This is what happened to me on Friday. I wasn’t feeling well last week because I had come down with a virus and had a low fever, cough, headache, and sore throat for pretty much the whole week. I still went into the city and had my CT scan done as scheduled because I was very curious to see how these new drugs were working. I was very eager to hear the doctor tell me that the scans looked good and things were continuing to move in the right direction. For this reason, I was upset I was sick because I knew I would not be able to go into the city to meet with my doctor. Treatment would definitely be postponed until I felt better because I needed to recover first before my white blood cell count took the hit from chemo. I called my doctor’s office and made it known my main concern was to somehow get the results from my scan and luckily my doctor agreed to call me the next day to let me know how things were looking. I figured this was a good sign because if it were any sort of bad news she would probably want to talk to me in person. I’ll admit I was able to sleep a bit easier Thursday night knowing I was looking at another week of feeling great before having treatment and then most likely receiving some good news in the morning regarding my scan results.

I answered my cell phone around 5pm on Friday and it was a strange number so I knew this was finally the call I had been waiting for all day. My excitement faded, fast. This is not what I was expecting. How could this be? I could barely wrap my head around what I was being told. I took notes on my laptop and none of them seemed to make any sense. My doctor said she would call back again at 7pm when both of my parents were home so we could discuss what just happened. I put the phone down and didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to cry? Be mad? I sat there and stared into space. I could feel my heart pounding and decided to take a shower to pass the time. As I stood there and the water poured over me I realized I couldn’t cry. I realized it was no time to be sad, days like this were to be expected. I’ve always known something like this would happen, but nothing ever prepares you for it.

My parents got home and I tried to explain what was happening as best I could. They weren’t devastated, but they were upset. This long journey has taken a toll on all of us and it has weighed quite heavily upon all of our shoulders, not just mine. There were some tears, but we quickly pulled it together. I reminded them that whatever comes next is just the next step and that this is a bump in the road. My doctor called back promptly at 7pm and the conversation was a repeat of what I already knew. The chemo that I was receiving for the last three months of avastin and irinotekan did not work. While my colon and lungs remained stable, the tumors that engulf my liver grew, one even doubled in size. While they are still smaller than what they were when I was first diagnosed, this growth is a step in the wrong direction. Even worse, it means we can’t buy any more time on these drugs. The ones I had previously been on bought me almost two years of progress and stability. These haven’t done anything.

So what’s next? There’s a lot that’s up in the air. I’m meeting with a doctor on Monday at Sloan’s main facility to discuss the possibility of doing a procedure called SIRT which involved SIR-Spheres. If it’s determined this type of procedure could benefit me then it is done as an outpatient procedure. A small incision will be made in my leg and a small tube is then inserted into the main artery that feeds my liver. The tube is snaked through the artery and placed very close to the liver where it can direct microscopic beads (spheres) of radioactive matter that can potentially help. Side effects are minimal ranging from flu-like symptoms to nausea, but I most likely wouldn’t be allowed around people since I’d be radioactive. That, of course, is the simple version of what the procedure really is. Other options include another type of chemo which is given in pill form, but my doctor didn’t seem too enthusiastic about it. Another option is to try reintroducing oxaliplatin again. That drug sucked. Since I had such a bad reaction to it last time, my doctor said we’d have to turn treatment into a two or three day process and I’d have to be heavily medicated throughout. I’ll obviously do what I have to do, but I’d rather not go that route. Either way, none of these are cures and the list is starting to dwindle which is a very real and scary thing. I’ve begun the search of alternative treatments and have found one doctor that comes highly recommended by some people I trust. Right now my army is in intelligence mode, everyone is scouring the internet for information on procedures that could help, even if it’s a long shot. We’re not desperate yet, but if something could help then why the hell not?

So we’ll see what happens. I’m meeting with this doctor on May 2^nd and hopefully I’ll get some answers. Hopefully I’ll get some good news. Either way, this is adversity. This was totally unexpected. I could have felt sorry for myself. I couldn’t cry in the shower because my decision was already made…I am faced with a problem, there is a solution somewhere and it will present itself when the time is right. For now I just have to remind myself that no matter what happens next week, this battle is very far from over.