Counting My Blessings

This past holiday season saw me simply blown away and counting my blesssings. When I left all of you at Thanksgiving, my tumor markers were up at 183. My tumor markers are now down to only 75. I had a scan at the beginning of the month to find out if the cancer was indeed shrinking as much as the tumor markers indicated. I am so thrilled to report that this week I received word that everything - the cancer in my bones, my lungs, my liver, my lymph nodes - everything is shrinking!

The most significant shrinkage was seen in my lymph nodes and my liver. One tumor in a lymph node previously measured 2.2cm X 1.3 cm. That tumor has now shrunk to 1.3cm X 0.7 cm! The tumor in my liver used to measure 4.4 cm X 3.7 cm and now is 3.7 cm X 2.5 cm! Taxol is indeed working. My body is healing. I am still far from cancer free, but there are no shades of gray or mixed messages. I was worried for months that cancer in one part of my body would shrink away, but that cancer somewhere else would stay stable, or worse, even grow. But now, all around I have only good things to celebrate.

That said, my blog has been so helpful and healing for me. It has truly allowed me to come to terms with the realities of my journey. This same time last year, I was also over the moon and enjoying the positive results from the TDM1 clinical trial. I was just as happy and optimistic for the future on New Year's 2011 as I am now on New Year's 2012.

I realize now more than ever how lucky I am to have more time. In October, I didn't think I had much time left. My, how up and down this year has been. All of this positive progress could all change tomorrow, it certainly has before. While it is wonderful and natural to dream of children and a house with a yard, I also should simply enjoy the small blessings I already have in my life.

Please indulge me for a moment while I catalog a few of my most recent blessings:

1) Last week, I watched Daisy experience her first snowfall.

At first she was extremely fearful, sitting down at the door and barking at the falling flakes. Slowly she ventured out onto our patio, but every few brave steps she took, she'd run back between my legs. After an hour or so of sniffing and barking, a light seemed to switch on in her little dog brain. All of a sudden my girl figured out she had nothing to fear. Daisy spent the remainder of the morning  running around outside, bouncing everywhere with puppy joy. She stuffed her face into piles of snow and literally jumped off of our back steps into snow drifts. It was a joyful, puppy-filled day in our house, and by the end of it the house was a mess! I didn't care though. Watching a living thing that is under your care grow, change, and learn is really beautiful. I know she's only a dog, but she's truly remarkable.

2) I love my job, and I'm good at it.

All this month, I have had the pleasure of hosting Susan G. Komen 3-Day™ Get Started Meetings throughout the Boston area. I get to meet nervous new walkers, and talk people into joining me in the fight for a cure. It has been so exhilarating to hear other people's stories and to share my own. I get a thrill as I watch, first hand rather than online, as eyes get wide in the audience when I share my story. Heads shake and tears fall. Seeing that my struggle can convince an otherwise unmoved attendee to walk 60 miles and raise thousands of dollars has been exciting and humbling all at once. I am excited because I feel I am really making a difference in this world, and it has been humbling because I don't believe I am worthy of the love and support my 3-Day walkers have given.

Last night, I met a woman about a year younger than I whose mom was diagnosed over Christmas with Stage IV breast cancer. After an evening of crying together, I'd like to think she went home hopeful.  I don't think she realized that I also gained so much from hearing her story. I wasn't crying for her. I was crying with her. I know all too well the horrible Christmas her family had this year because of breast cancer. I cried at that 3-Day meeting because, meanwhile, I had the best Christmas of my entire life. It felt so unfair, but I was  thankful to have been reminded of my good fortune.

3) And now, on to Christmas...Christmas in Prague and New Year's in Vienna. There aren't words descriptive enough nor pages long enough to describe my trip with the Big Man to Europe.  The trip was beyond our expectations. We were both full of nerves the night before our departure. This trip was taking a big dent out of our savings - savings we were planning to spend on that house with a yard or on IVF treatments to make that baby of our dreams. We both were nervous that we were spending this money on something silly. We hoped we had made the right decision. From the moment we took off, though, our fears disappeared. The adventure began on the plane as we held hands and toasted Merry Christmas over our in-flight dinner. It was wonderful to leave the world behind and experience a new reality hand-in-hand. No cancer, no appointments, no health insurance paperwork to sift through,  no juggling a hectic schedule- only the thing that matters most...time together as a husband and wife. For one whole week we reconnected. Given all the fear and doubt, all the ups and downs of the past two years that we have tried to face with a smile, we realized that this wasn't money wasted on an extravagance. This was an investment. An investment in our marriage. An investment in making memories. Memories that will carry us through any other bad times to come.

4)My final blessing is one particularly special night from our trip. One night in Vienna, we were wandering the streets in search of a restaurant. I was grumbling because Big Man was walking too far ahead of me and because I was struggling on the cobblestone streets and sidewalks in heels. It was cold and I was cursing the quaint but impractical cobblestones. We had tickets to the Opera and we only had an hour and a half left. Our tummies were empty from a long day of sightseeing, and we were both grumpy and concerned that we would be late for the Opera. We were short with one another. Voices may have been raised.

Finally, we found a restaurant name we recognized from our trusty Rick Steve's Guidebook. We walked out from the cold and into a total time warp. We were in the Vienna of the 1800's.  The restaurant was all dark wood panelling with moose heads on the wall. The waiters wore liederhosen. The food that went by us on a tray was all meat, potatoes, and rich dark sauces. We were seated in a deep booth next to a table full of 90 year old men. The youngest might have been 89. They were all smoking and drinking and toasting and talking loudly in German. For some reason, I didn't mind the smoke. No one else was smoking, only this old table full of regulars who had probably been coming to this restaurant since World War II.

As the men raised a glass for their fifth toast of the evening, I raised mine too, and, opening the Guidebook to its page of commonly used phrases, I wished them a good evening and said I loved Vienna. The whole table turned and started speaking excitedly in German. I looked to Big Man, who shrugged and was laughing at my attempts to communicate. But a smile and a raised glass is universal, and they were patting our backs and trying to include us in their conversation for the rest of the evening.

Our Seats!

After an incredible meal that had Big Man and I making eager grunts to one another over our enormous plates of goulash, we left our WWII  buddies and made our way to the Opera. Big Man no longer walked too fast. He held my hand the whole way. We were full and warm from wine, and we arrived at the Opera right on time. Our seats, which could have been anywhere at all since I had bought them online on a website that was all in German, ended up being in the front row of a balcony box from which we saw everything. Big Man complimented me on my planning abilities. As the first strains from the Marriage of Figaro began, I started crying quietly. I was overwhelmed by the joy of being alive.

After the Opera we went out for Viennese coffee and some of Vienna's famous Sacher Torte. I cried again over the beauty of this  piece of perfect chocolate cake filled with jam. To make a perfect night even more perfect, as we started walking back to our hotel, it started to snow ever so lightly. I think the snow hid my third round of tears.

It is now no longer the holiday season. The Spences are back in America and back to work. We are back to reality. Now, instead of the joy of Christmas season, it is the bitterness of campaign season. This Presidential Campaign has been full of talk about Healthcare reform, an issue that means a lot to me. The debates and discussion in the news  have brought a lot into focus for me.

I know all too well how lucky I am to be responding to Taxol. Even though I'm bald, I'm doing really, really well. I have no complaints today. I do realize that this drug might only work for 3, 4, 6, or 8 months. Is $7,000 a week too much to ask for for only 3 more months of life?

 There have been some news reports lately that have made me feel about this big. Like the one I heard on NPR last week about how the "sickest 1% of patients" are responsible for the "lion's share" of healthcare spending. Recently, news about new and exciting cancer drugs often includes details about just how expensive those drugs are. It seems as though I have to justify the care I'm receiving.

When I heard an audience at a Presidential Debate cheer the prospect of letting a sick man die if he couldn't pay for coverage, I again felt this big. I work full time and can pay for my coverage, thank God. But what other difference is there between myself and that theoretical sick man?

Happy Couple in Prague
Thank you Taxol!

Several breast cancer drugs, most specifically the drug Avastin, have had their FDA approval revoked recently because they didn't improve patients' lifespans long enough in studies.  Yet dozens of women appeared at the FDA hearings to share their stories of miraculous recoveries on these drugs. While I am not on Avastin, a similar FDA rejection of my previous drug TDM1 was also in the news this year.

I am struggling to reconcile my overwhelming feelings of joy and the incredible blessings of my past three months with the energy of the nation to which I returned home. Who gets to decide which is precious enough...three months or six months???

These past three months have been my best three months ever. I feel I am no longer a girl. I am a happily married woman. I am so thankful for how far I've come, and I am thankful for Taxol for giving me that chance. No matter how long this blissful time of shrinking lasts, I'm glad for it, and I would pay any amount of money to receive it.

Time is a blessing. I can never have enough time.

My Blog of Thanks Giving

Happy Thanksgiving, readers!

I hope you are all snuggled up on the couch, catching up on sleep, reading a book, or enjoying a football game! For me, Thanksgiving took on a whole new importance after my cancer diagnosis. Prior to cancer, Thanksgiving for me was simply the dress rehearsal for Christmas. Now, after cancer, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I so appreciate this one day a year when I can sit back, surrounded by my loved ones who know me and my struggle best, and count my proverbial blessings.

Every year, my family goes around the dinner table and proposes a toast to his or her greatest blessing. Prior to cancer I always came up with something, but it was never anything that truly stirred my heart. Post-cancer, I was giving thanks for just about everything- from my health care insurance, to my co-workers who covered for me on sick days, to the plumber who cleaned a whole head's worth of my hair out of our shower drain. Everything, even the most inconsequential, took on a new importance post-cancer.

This year, for a moment back in October, that happiness, that ability to give thanks and mean it, even for the small stuff, the ability to count my blessings was taken away from me. I had trouble finding things to be thankful for when I was facing constant, aching back pain from my bone metastasis. It was hard to be thankful when my hair was falling out in huge clumps every time I took a shower. It was hard to be thankful when the Taxol started giving me daily nosebleeds. It was really hard to be thankful when, not only was I self conscious about my newly sheared head, but I also started breaking out in a hot red rash all over my face and bald head from the steroids. It was hard to be thankful when I missed a best college friend's wedding because I didn't have enough energy after chemo to make the cross country trip. But most of all, it was hard to give thanks for even the most constant blessing - my family and friends - when I looked around the room, remembered the terrible news my doctor had given, and imagined future Thanksgivings without me at the table.

I was running the risk of becoming jaded. I didn't like jaded Bridget. Jaded Bridget was not in line with my sunny personality. Had cancer finally won on every front? Had it taken away not only my health, my good looks, my physical ability to provide for my family, but even my happy personality?

I didn't know how to deal with this. I was having nightmares about visiting the pearly gates and being denied admission - very vivid dreams where I would be grilled by a scary looking judge about every piece of nasty gossip I had spread and every lie I'd ever told. I was petrified by and obsessed with the thought that we might have a vengeful God on our hands.

One Sunday afternoon, Big Man came home from a weekend away with friends. He asked me what I had done all weekend long in his absence and I did what so many wives would do. I lied. Did I tell him I sat on the couch all weekend and read that trashy chick lit novel I'd been meaning to get to since summer? Did I tell him I let the dog sleep in bed with me because I wanted some company while I ate popcorn and watched "Princess Bride" for the 50th time? No, I told Big Man that I spent the weekend at the grocery store, walking the dog, and "running errands" because Big Man wouldn't even know what errands exactly needed running. That beautiful fall Sunday evening, I fell asleep in our crisply cold room and woke up in a sweat at 4am from that same nightmare. Vengeful God had condemned me to an eternity in hell for lying to my husband about the dog sleeping and the book reading.

October was a tough month for me.

But then, without warning, hope and joy started peeking through in the most unexpected of places when I wasn't even looking for it.  Hope found me in the bathroom when I lost my hair.

The first time I went through chemo and lost my hair six years ago, I visited a fancy salon to have my head shaved. They took me into a private back room, and some woman I've never seen before or since shaved me in about 5 minutes. This time around, I was much more matter-of-fact about the whole hair loss. I was prepared. I had done this before.

Me in my wig the night after Big Man shaved my hair.
That's one good-looking wig & he's one good-looking hubby!

One morning, I woke up and I couldn't take the itching anymore. (Chemo kills your hair follicles so they itch and the hair shaving actually comes as a bit of a welcome relief.) I woke up Big Man. Without even a word of protest, even though it was only 7am on a Saturday morning, Big Man got up. He and I walked hand-in-hand to Walgreen's. We purchased a pair of clippers, I stuck my head into the sink, and my husband shaved off all my hair. He cried a bit, which made me cry. I thanked him profusely, which made him cry.  But in the end, a moment I had dreaded actually gave me hope. I will cherish that memory forever. After seven years together, shaving my head in the bathroom sink was certainly our most intimate moment. We were a scared young couple looking ahead toward an uncertain future, but at least we were doing it together. He had my back. He would take care of me. "In sickness and in health" we had told each other when I still had hair and boobs. Big Man proved he meant those vows when he shaved my head last month, slowly, carefully, and whispering soft words of comfort when I cried.

I also found hope that I was afraid to share with all of you. I'm still so afraid to share this news with you because I'm afraid next week the tide will turn. My heart and hope might be crushed again, and only God knows when. When this good news changes, I will be forced to explain the change to all of you, and then all of you will be crushed right along with me. I'm also so afraid that, by sharing my hope here with all of you, I might be jinxing it! I always prided myself on being factual, logical, grounded.... now I fear cancer is making me all religious and superstitious!

But I can't keep the news to myself any longer. If I jinx myself, so be it!

Taxol gave me hope. The most unexpected drug has given me hope for a future. Taxol was a drug that was given to buy me more time. It was meant to keep the "cancer at bay" and "minimize the pain from my metastasis." After years of enrolling in clinical trials and taking the latest, greatest, best, most touted new medicines, Taxol, first discovered back in 1967, has turned out to be "The Drug" that I was hoping for! At least for now....

When I last got scans back at the beginning of October, my tumor markers were extremely high. The most important tumor marker in my blood that my doctors look at each week is called CA 27-29 and it is a tumor marker that breast cancer cells leave behind in patient's blood. Normally, in a healthy person, CA 27-29 counts range between 0-38. My CA 27-29 count was 965! This critically high tumor marker number is what prompted all the discussion about getting my affairs in order and it's what prompted getting a CT scan earlier than expected, which is what uncovered the tumors in my lungs and bones.

Well ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to tell you that my blood work this past month has been steadily dropping! The first few weeks of Taxol, they didn't take any tumor marker bloodwork. They wanted my body to get used to my new drug before trying to measure its efficacy. November 2nd was the big day. November 2nd, I went in with Big Man and Mom to meet with my doctor to find out the results of my first tumor marker test on Taxol. I was petrified! I was so scared that the Taxol wouldn't have had an effect and we would be one more drug closer to death.

I was prepared to give you all an update on my hair loss and impending doom on November 2nd when, to my surprise, I was told my tumor markers had dropped from 965 to 587. I was shocked, I was thrilled,  I was completely unprepared for this foreign thing we call "Good News." However, I was still afraid. I realized then that I was afraid to hope. Cancer had left me jaded and afraid of hope.

Unable to share the news for fear of a jinx, I simply stayed silent. I stayed off the radar. As unused to good news as I had become, I continued planning as if the good news hadn't happened. I still want to schedule a meeting with my priest, but I no longer had nightmares about the pearly gates.

Then, at my appointment on November 16th, my markers fell to 300!

Then, at this week's appointment, my marker fell to 234!

I feel a little bit like I'm watching a Thanksgiving football game, and my team just got a first down. Improbable as it might be, we got another first down, and then another. The TD is now within my sites. I'm allowing myself to dream. I'm allowing myself to set goals. If I could get down below 100... 38 could be attainable. 38 means normal. How I would love to be normal! I'm right there in field goal range of normal. I can taste it.

November has allowed me to hope.

Back in October, my doctor told Big Man and me to go on a trip. We should take a trip so that we could take quality time away together while I was still feeling good, today. My bone pain was manageable with Advil, today. We needed to take advantage of our time together because we were together, today. So we did, we booked a trip to Europe at Christmas and we're so excited! But our excitement was also tinged with sadness. What was this trip? People take honeymoons. People now take "Babymoons." What was this a "Goodbye-moon?"

 Now with this good news, that trip has taken on such a more fun and exciting feel. What other good news might we celebrate come Christmas? Maybe we could finally be like other couples and truly leave our worries at home? Maybe in the New Year we could start imagining a new home in our future? A home where we had the room to host more than 6 people for Thanksgiving dinner? A home of our very own, not an 800 sq foot condo? A home that we could decorate as we see fit for the Christmas holiday? A home that we could call our forever home? A home with space for an office AND a nursery? A nursery.

At chemo on November 23rd, instead of blogging as I should have, or answering emails as I should have, I allowed myself to google adoption resources in Massachusetts. I bookmarked the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families. If I get those tumor markers down to 38, down to the normal patient range, I'm going to allow myself to call their 800 number and start asking questions. Then maybe in 2013, when we're in our new forever home, I could actually schedule a home study. Hey, a girl can hope can't she?

I may be bald and covered in acne. I might not recognize myself in the mirror. I may have daily nosebleeds. I may have to sleep 13 hours every night, but at least I have hope. Those are just inconveniences. I wouldn't even elevate them to the level of "side effects." They are a mere nuisance, and they are a small price to pay for hope.

I realize as I'm writing this that I am getting all excited about just one month's worth of results. I know this is a marathon and not a sprint. I know that things can turn on a dime. But this Thanksgiving, I'm so Thankful for hope. I'm so Thankful for just one more day; just one more year. I don't want to get too greedy. I don't want to get ahead of myself. But I do want to take a moment and enjoy that future so many people take for granted. Thanks, God.

An Ode to My Mother

I have been MIA for the past few weeks, recovering. I had my swap surgery February 9th and started my Xeloda pills last week. My new "Girls" are looking pretty good, but it's hard to get excited about them when they are black and blue. Luckily, the new Victoria's Secret catalog came in the mail the very same day as my surgery. I treated myself to three new bikinis as motivation for falling in love with this new body.

On the chemo front of things, the Xeloda treatment is going well. I'm pleasantly surprised. I haven't had to call my doctor in a panic or get rushed to the hospital. So far so good, although I guess my previous medical dramas have set the bar kind of low!

I am definitely fatigued, but I can learn to fit fatigue into my lifestyle. There's nothing wrong with an 8pm bedtime; I've got nothing to prove. I also need to learn to live with a constant stomach flu. Most women my age have to remember to bring a change of shoes in their purse (heels for the office or the bar, flats or flip flops for getting around town) or they have a purse stuffed with technology: a work blackberry, a personal cell phone, a digital camera, an IPod, or the young mom carries a diaper bag stuffed with toys, snacks, pacifiers, wipes, and, of course, diapers. Not me. I can't leave home without making sure my Immodium is in my purse. I root through my purse at dinner to pull out, not lipstick or a mint, but those Xeloda pills that must be taken with a meal. I am not turning into my mother, like some women my age. I skipped that stage completely. I'm turning into my grandmother!

That said, my face may be suffering from the Xeloda even more than my tummy. The hives have retreated  everywhere but from my face. I have the face of a 14 year old now. This is not my face. I turned to the Big Man the other day as we were brushing our teeth and pointed in the mirror saying, "Who the Hell is that woman in the mirror? That is not the woman you married!" He, of course, told me I was beautiful, but later that evening he advised me against ordering dessert because the chocolate might aggravate my "rash." Don't be fooled, blog friends, the Big Man is not perfect!

I suppose this is typical of my cancer journey. I check off one item on the "Cancer To- Do List" and another To Do pops right up. Just when I  had finally gotten over the major self-esteem issue that was learning to love my post-mastectomy chest, I now have to learn to love my chemo-induced acne and nausea.

Like the Victoria's Secret shopping spree, I am now pondering a trip to a make-up artist. Do any of you Boston-area readers have a recommendation for where to go? I get nervous about the stands in the mall. I'm not looking to get "hot" for a night out at da club. I just want to look fresh faced for a trip to, I dunno, the grocery store.

So, I apologize for my absence, but I've been a little under the weather and also I haven't been too full of self-confidence. Blogging requires a bit of chutzpah. I'm letting it all hang out here on this website. I have to be in the right frame of mind to blog. I might wake up ready to take on the world, but when I look in the mirror these days, that attitude quickly disappears as my cancer-acne stares back at me.

Which brings me to my topic for today. I want to take this opportunity to praise my Mommy. She is truly the only person in the world who can help me at a low self-esteem moment like this one. My swap surgery was surgery number 8. In 6 years, I've had 8 surgeries. Mom has dropped everything and run to my aide for every one. After spending the last 3 weeks together, I've realized that I always proclaim my love for the Big Man and I really have barely mentioned the other major player in my life.

Oh, Mommy, How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

Mommy and Bridge on my wedding day
Don't we look alike?

1) Mom is my biggest cheerleader. When I am feeling unattractive, she knows just the right thing to say. When I lift my shirt up above my head in the living room and say, "Mom, does the left one look slightly bigger than the right?" She takes my self-doubt seriously. She never tells me I'm being silly. She takes it seriously and she tells the truth! Mommy looks, critically, at both new breasts. She might even get out a measuring tape to take a closer, more scientific look. She asks me to turn to my left and turn to my right. Then she kisses me on the head and says, "They're perfect! I love them!"

2) She talks
and talks
and talks
and talks

When your life is a living soap opera, the best medicine is to forget about all the really huge life-changing stuff that's going on. People and US Weekly come in handy, but really the best medicine is a good, long conversation with mom. My mother will talk about anything. We talk about interior decorating and real estate, politics, and, of course, gossip.   My mother is like an elephant, she never forgets a face, a name, an occupation and marital status, or a child's name, occupation, and marital status. My mom loves to read the high school sports section of her local paper religiously. Why? She hasn't had a child in high school in at least 10 years. She reads the sports page because her friends and her neighbors have kids in high school. She likes to be able to personally congratulate them on their child's accomplishments when she runs into them in the grocery store.

You get the picture. Next to going out to dinner with the Big Man, talking to my mother is my favorite activity.

3) Last, but certainly not least, she does whatever needs to be done, no questions asked and with no expectation of repayment. Five years ago, I was bald as a baby's butt and just one week post-radiation. I wanted to move back to Boston to be closer to my boyfriend of one year. My mother not only allowed me to move, she moved me. I couldn't lift a thing. I was just a few months post-surgery. She drove furniture cross-country and then moved it all in for me. No questions asked.

Since that move, she has come up to Boston every three months to sit with me and hold my hand as I received my three-month scan results. She books flights. She books hotels. She takes me out to dinner. She takes me shopping and out for manicures to take my mind off my impending doom. She goes grocery shopping and cooks dinners that are frozen and ready to use after she leaves. All in all, she keeps my life running.

When I had my double mastectomy, Mommy moved to Boston for more than a month. She uprooted her life. She left bills and friends and the comfort of her own home. She found a long-term apartment down the street from my house and was at my disposal before I woke each morning until I fell asleep at night. She found a lovely B&B owned by an Irish couple that is three doors from my home that has become her second home. (if you ever want to visit Boston, I highly recommend it! www.aisling-bostonbb.com)  I owe my very life and all of my cancer fighting success so far to my mother's constant help. I couldn't have faced all that I have faced without her help.

Two Hot Girls on a Hot Summer Night

My mother is the ultimate portrait of a lady: graceful, selfless, smart, funny. She knows how to handle every situtation in exactly the right way, from talking to doctors to making career choices, from gardening to cooking & cleaning, from buying a house to renovating and decorating it. Mom has never steered me wrong and she is such a source of help, support and advice for me and for my three brothers. In fact, now that I mention it, how in the hell did she manage to raise four kids who were all a year and a half apart in age? Many women are exhausted by two, imagine raising four kids all under the age of five!

When I was growing up, my mother and I could barely speak without arguing; I believe it's because we were so much alike. We knew how to push each other's buttons and we couldn't help ourselves! I hate cancer, but I will forever be, on some level, very thankful for this nasty turn my life has taken. Cancer brought Mommy and me closer than we ever would have been otherwise. My mother is the port in this storm. This life would be unbearable and the situation would be untenable without her constant assistance. I can sleep soundly at night knowing that Mommy's got my back.

 Mommy can never be repaid. Saying "thank you" will never be thanks enough. Helping her move, taking her to dinner, remembering her birthday or Mother's Day, nothing I do could ever be enough repayment. This blog entry isn't enough. This ode could be a book.

The only thing I could possible do is take this opportunity to reassure her, to promise her, publicly: Mom, I promise never to put you into a retirement home. In fact, I think I owe you and all your best friends a very comfortable old age!

I'll close with my favorite version of a "Thanks, Mom" courtesy of Poet Laureate Billy Collins

Scan Results

I knew something was wrong when my doctor came in and noticed my haircut. She was thrilled with the cut, but seemed uncomfortable gushing. She wanted to set a tone for the meeting and my smiling face and desire to be young, happy, and looking forward to a new year was something she was about to crush.

"We have good news and bad news."

My stomach sank, not to my toes, but all the way down the nine floors into the hospital lobby. Mamma grabbed my hand and clutched so hard it hurt, but I didn't dare pull away.

My latest scans showed that the tumors in my liver were stable. Not shrinking, but we were given the gift of stable. That was the good news.

The bad news was two-fold. The scans picked up on a new tumor: a dark spot in a lymph node in my abdomen, behind my liver, next to the celiac artery. Also, my tumor markers had increased markedly. Tumor markers, for my readers in the non-cancer world, are substances that cancer cells produce that can be measured in a blood test. When there is an increase in these substances in my blood, it is an indication of increased cancer cells in my body.

This new tumor and my tumor marker levels meant that I had stopped responding to the TDM1. I was removed from the clinical trial. I can no longer receive my precious silver bullet. Somewhere in the distance as I stared blankly out the 9th floor window, I heard a heavy door slamming shut. I could see my "case" being added to the clinical trial outcomes. My seven months before "disease progression," dragging down the drug's success. My performance dragging down every other patients' average.

I pictured somewhere, perhaps in another room in this very hospital, another metastatic patient was hugging her husband with joy, not fear, as she learned that there is a newly open spot on the TDM1 clinical trial. I probably know this patient. A dark part of me was struggling with my burning jealousy.

My doctor paused to let this news sink in before weighing in with her opinion.

"Bridget, we are disappointed. We are very disappointed. I know everyone in this room hoped that you would be on TDM1 longer, but you have to realize that, from a clinical perspective, this trial was a success. You are in a better place vis a vis your liver now than you were in May. Your liver lesions shrunk 22%. This is a success, and tumors in your lymph nodes, while hearing that is certainly scary, those are not vital organs. Better the lymph node than the liver or another vital organ. We are disappointed, but I am not worried about you. OK?"

I know my doctor is right. I find comfort in her words, and I relish her confidence. My doctor has confidence in me and in my chances.

But I also struggle with other facts. With every drug that is taken away, with every drug removed from my "arsenal," I get closer to running out. I am scared. I am angry at myself for not doing better. Was it something I ate? Too much red meat? Too much red wine? Too much stress? Late nights? Not enough exercise?

Over the past few days, as I have digested this news, I have felt like a spurned lover. I am recovering from a horrible break up. I thought TDM1 was "The One." I had visions of babies and suburban homes and years of happiness. When I was sent home on Wednesday without my scheduled infusion, I cried. I felt hit in the gut. I felt like a woman feels when she stares desperately at the phone and begs it to ring. When she picks up to make sure there's a dial tone. When she calls and hangs up without leaving a message and then yells at herself. Why can't I have him? I miss him! He was perfect! It all seemed to be going so well! What happened?

Just like with a bad breakup  I have to learn, "It's not you, it's me." There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. My cancer simply figured out TDM1's weakness too quickly. It found a detour to continue along its path of destruction. My cancer has some sort of as-yet undiscovered personality trait that makes TDM1 less than ideal.

And, just like my single girlfriends everywhere, I have to take a deep breath and say, "On to the next!"

Although I've been on 11 different drugs since 2005, and that might not seem "early" in the cancer journey, my doctor assures me I was actually able to grab a spot on this TDM1 clinical trial a little "earlier" than the other patients. Unlike many members of the trial who had exhausted all other standard therapies, I still have, according to Doc, many standard therapies still available to try. So now, we will try a standard therapy first approved by the FDA in 2007, the targeted therapy Tykerb with the chemotherapy Xeloda. 

In 2007, a clinical trial found that Tykerb plus Xeloda given to HER2+ metastatic patients who had progressed on other treatment regimens, gave patients 27 weeks without disease progression versus 18 weeks for Xeloda alone. While 8 months without another progression is certainly not a cure, some patients on Xeloda and Tykerb did see their cancers disappear and have been on the drug for several years. The 8 months is an average. We are entering an age of individualized treatment for breast cancer, my treatment over the last six years has certainly been individualized, and I am hoping to be one of those 'no evidence of disease' recipients of this drug cocktail. I am hoping that this combo will be "The One" for me.

My new drug regimen is all pills. I no longer have to visit the infusion room, which is fantastic, but also feels a little funny. I've gone to infusion every three weeks for the past six years. I feel like my nurses should have some sort of going away party. I know every receptionist, nurse, and clinical assistant. I know their kids' names. I know their upcoming wedding dates. Infusion was a social occasion for me, and those nurses answered a lot of my questions and laid to rest a lot of my concerns. They brought me warm blankets and sandwiches and drinks. They took care of me. They were caregivers. Missing infusion also feels a little like a break up. I know that this could be a great thing; it will just take some getting used to.

Instead of monthly infusions, I will be taking 11 pills every day. Talk about picking your poison! I've already started taking the Tykerb and I'm feeling....funny. I have problems with nausea and I just don't feel quite right, but I figure I can handle funny. We shall see what the Xeloda brings.

How am I doing? I am still digesting this news. I am torn. I have dual personalities here. I feel yet again like I am trying desperately to hold onto my life, grasping at straws, and I am concerned about the continued bad news we've been receiving over the past two years, but cancer can wreak havoc on my body, but it cannot take my soul.

If I've learned nothing in this cancer journey, I've learned that every cancer has a personality. My cancer has multiple personalities: when it dies, it dies quickly, but when it grows, it grows just as fast. This beast struck fear in my heart this week. In just nine weeks the news turned from "shrinking, shrinking, shrinking!" to growing. For cancer to turn on a dime, for a whole new tumor to appear in nine weeks....
This beast doesn't just die and stay dead. It has got a hold on my body and it will not go quietly into that dark night.

We have more dancing in the kitchen to do!

Regardless of cancer's intentions, I am adamant that I will continue to live the life I have made for myself. I will witness my best friend walking down the aisle. I will visit the beach with Mamma and Company this summer. I will write a book. Big Man and I are season ticket holders to our local theater and I am seeing every single show and having a pre-theater dinner to boot, even if I do feel a little 'funny.' Big Man and I want to take a trip to Wimbledon some summer soon, he's a tennis player whose never been to London, one of my favorite cities in the world that I can't wait to share with the man I love.

Let me be clear, though. We do not have a bucket list! I don't like the phrase bucket list. I might be aware and prepared for death, but I am certainly not racing toward the finish line while checking things off. Instead, I see the plans I've made as physical evidence of my fight. The battlefield is at the tissue level down in my belly, but I find symbolism from my actions every day.

As I'm swallowing the last five pills of my day, I smile with the realization that this is a physical act. "Take That!" I smile picturing the cancer cells running for the hills as the pill slowly dissolves. Like roaches scattering when you turn on a light. In the same way, if I were to get on a plane for London tomorrow, I would look out the window and say, "Not today, Cancer. Today, I am living!" After getting home from a fantastic party or double date, I think to myself as I kiss Big Man goodnight, "I am alive today."

I feel like, when the end comes, I'll know it. I have seen my grandmothers grow old. Dying from cancer is not like falling over from a heart attack or getting hit by a bus. It is a slow progression like the progression of old age. You slow down. Your plans get a little smaller and closer to home.

Hiking in the White Mountains this summer, crossing the finish line of the 3-Day this fall, planning babies and houses with Big Man at Christmas, yoga classes, dramatic hair cuts, I have very broad and ever broadening horizons. I have big plans.

This cancer might scare me, but I am going to stand my ground.

The Big Man and I went to church together today and left at peace with this news. At peace, but still clinging to one another. We can't seem to hold each other close enough, even while in church. Brushing elbows turns into me slipping my arm through his elbow and Big Man pulling me close. Brushing fingers turns into hand holding. One hand turns to both hands intertwined.

I laid my head on Big Man's shoulder today as Father John talked about the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord. Father John argued that, while the babies who are welcomed into our church every weekend will certainly not remember their baptism, baptism is the most important sacrament. Symbolically, it is during baptism when God enters our world and makes His mark on our souls. We are His adopted children. He does not give us our eye or hair color, but He has given us all of our best qualities.

God gave me the Big Man

My strength and fortitude, my gift of gab. Big Man's ability to make me laugh when I feel instead like crying, Big Man's kind eyes and even kinder heart.  Those are the gifts we symbolically received at our baptisms. Those very qualities that get us through cancer and help us to actually grow with it. We don't remember baptism, but our souls remember.

God didn't give me cancer, but He gave me the tools I need to beat it and to carry on.

So, here we go, carrying on!

Victory!

I hope my blog silence hasn't led you to believe that I dropped dead during my 60 mile walk! Far from it, in fact. The Big Man and I walked every step together. We crossed the finish hand in hand. We are victorious!

I am not sure how to sum up our 3-Day for the Cure weekend in a way that will do it justice. All I can say is that, over the course of those 60 miles, Alex and I fell in love all over again.

You see, the Big Man and I had only been dating about six months before my diagnosis back in 2005. We were still getting to know one another and then this huge cancer thing was thrown into our laps. Over the past six years, we have done a little dance when it comes to my cancer. I want him to be involved, but I also want to be independent. We want to communicate about complicated emotional issues and we don't quite know how. He wants to get involved and help, but at the end of the day, this cancer journey is mine.

The most difficult step to learn in this cancer dance has been that my man wants to make it all better and take the pain away. We are learning that is impossible. Every day is a new chapter in our relationship. Every day is a learning experience. It can be beautiful, but it is so hard.

The 2010 Susan G. Komen DC 3-Day for the Cure was the high point of our relationship, the culmination of all our hard work. We embarked on the journey still doing our little "figuring this all out" dance, but we left totally in sync. It could have gone either way. I was so nervous that he would hate the walk or wouldn't get the emotion behind it. I should have had more faith in my man's heart. I should have had more faith in how he understands my struggle and appreciated more that he is dealing with a struggle all his own. He may not come to every appointment because there are simply too many, but he feels deeply every ache, pain and every set back.

Each day we were both pleasantly surprised at how much we enjoyed walking and talking together and we were shocked that we could laugh until we cried and come up with brand new nicknames for one another. Our team, The Million Dollar Babies, was perfect. The perfect amount of support and encouragement and comic relief, and it was a large team so that we could have our own private journey as a couple, but we were never ever alone.

As we walked across the finish, Alex looked at me and smiled and said, "Congratulations, Little One." Next to the words, "I Do," that was the sweetest phrase I've ever heard. Alex was proud of me. I was proud of him. We were both in incredible pain!

When we left the 3-Day Sunday night we were no longer those two people traveling the same difficult road. Instead, we left as one person looking forward confidently toward the future.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so, without further ado:


The Big Man and Big Girl 3-Day for the Cure journey



music courtesy of Ingrid Michaelson: "Soldier." Everybody. 2009.

The Big Man

I am feeling really wonderful today. I had an infusion of TDM1 on Wednesday and, although the day was long, I sailed through. My tummy was a little upset and I slept all afternoon, but on Thursday I woke up and felt ready to take on the world.

Let's keep our fingers crossed that this continues. I am confident that I can fight this cancer and not compromise my day to day life. Balancing treatment and quality of life is a fine line to walk. It sometimes feels like I am walking one of those really, really high tightropes. All I know is, today I am walking that tightrope proudly, and I'm walking it in some hot pink high heels!

Because I am doing so well, I am going to take advantage of this opportunity to shine the spotlight on another. It's time to highlight The Big Man!

The Big Man makes me happy. I hope that everyone is blessed with a love like ours at some point in their lives. I met him fall of my senior year in college. CC, my best friend at BU, brought me as her wingman to a party. She was there to meet a boy and, somehow, I was the one who ended up meeting a boy.

The Big Man obtained that nickname on this blog because he is my 6 foot 4 red head with freckles and the body of the David. He who smells like lemons, and sunscreen, and all things that are good in the world. When he throws his arms around me, he makes me feel safe and I fit just right.

That first evening, the Big Man held the door open for another girl as our group started leaving the bar. He held the door open for another girl and there, in that moment, I felt the wind get knocked out of me. I wrapped my sweater around my shoulders a bit tighter and thought, “He is such an idiot. We would be so good together, and he doesn’t have any idea what he’s missing.” That was when I fell in love, but I kept falling every day after that. Everyday since I met him six years ago I've been falling ever deeper. Even tonight, as he screams at the Celtics on tv, I have to giggle and a part of me falls even further in love.

After  my double mastectomy, the husband helped immensely. He slept on the  floor of my hospital room. He held my hand. He brought me special soft  blankets from home. He helped me with my IV pole and awkward open  hospital gown as I shuffled down the hospital hall trying to offset any  risk for blood clots by getting active. He really was my knight in  shining armor. I do fall particularly in love with the Big Man at the hospital, but not because he is my knight in shining armor and not because he nurses me back to health, but because he is always so totally and completely himself.

When people get nervous, everyone does a little something different. When I get nervous, I drop things. When my mom gets nervous, she talks super loud and super fast. When my oldest brother gets nervous, he gets bossy. When the Big Man gets nervous, he helps. He likes to volunteer to help out in any way possible in the hopes of working off his nervous energy.

When the Big Man met my parents for the first time, he was constantly hopping up. Offering to carry drinks, opening doors, and cleaning. He would get up before anyone else and, while my entire family had breakfast in their PJs, Big Man was dressed to the nines in khakis and a button down and would sweep my parent's back patio...in the rain.

You get the picture.

Anyone who has spent any time in the hospital knows that it is a big game of hurry up and wait. After checking in at the front desk, you are ushered into a waiting room. Twenty minutes later, your name is called and you are escorted to....another waiting room. Five waiting rooms later, you are awkwardly sitting in a paper gown on an uncomfortable exam table...waiting.

Chemo is no different; lots of activity for very little forward progress. The tactic the chemo peeps like most for making you feel like you are moving forward when really all you are doing is waiting is providing you with bogus updates. The Chemo Pharmacy takes HOURS. My infusion only lasts half an hour. The active dripping of drugs into my veins takes 30 minutes. And yet...I wait for the pharmacy to mix up my drugs for two hours. Two whole hours.

So the greatest trick that the chemo nurses use is providing you with "pharmacy updates". A couple weeks ago, the Big Man graciously accompanied me to a whole full 10 hour treatment day. After hour 3, the nurse comes to apologize for the wait. "The pharmacy is just mixing up your drugs now. Really, they should be ready any moment. I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but hang in there!"

I smile and open a new magazine knowing that this explanation is code for, "You've got at least another hour, babe." The Big Man looks confused and then quickly stands up straight, nervously wiping down his khakis.  "Do you need my help at all?" He asks the nurse,  "Can I do anything to help you?"

Ahh the smile that came across my face. This is why I married the Big Man. No, honey, you can not go back into the lab, throw on a white coat, and start stirring a big bowl of chemotherapy together like it's potato salad. But I love that you offered!

Thank you, Big Man, for being you and thank you for loving me.

Results

I just got off of the phone with my doctor and my biopsy results came back malignant. That spot in my liver is cancer.

As I mentioned before, bad things happen to good people. No matter how hard we pray, things don't turn out the way we had hoped.

How do I handle these results? I snuggle into bed with the Big Man and he strokes my hair, he kisses me, and we talk about how I really deserve a puppy. He also tells me the doctors must be wrong- I look too beautiful to be sick.

He is going to take me out to dinner tonight. Somewhere insanely expensive with slow service, cappuccino, and really good dessert. We are going to take a long, long time over dinner. We are going to hold each others' hands like we're afraid we might fall off the side of the earth if we let go. We are going to look into each others' eyes because we don't want to imagine a day when we won't be able to see the face we love so much.

After that dinner, we will be fine. We will be ready to fight. We trust the doctors. The doctors point blank said I have more than just six months or one more year to live.  We are not yet at the stage where we talk time lines and statistics. They believe I still have a very long life ahead of me.

My life is just going to be so terribly difficult. There will be many more tests, and more pain, and many, many, many, many, many more drugs. But tomorrow, we will wake up and the sun will be shining. We will be in love and we will continue with this beautiful thing that we call life.

I may be sick, but I am still alive. Tonight we will cry, but tomorrow, I promise you, I will be smiling.

The Big Man is a saint. I cherish him. He is my angel. We don't deserve this.

So we are off to feel sorry for ourselves. I hope all of you can take tonight and look around at your husbands, wives, children, parents, friends. Hold on a little longer than is usual. Pull someone a bit closer. Thank God for a peaceful evening; not everyone is blessed with one tonight.