Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my first chemotherapy session. September 17th also happens to be the birthday of my father in law. The irony of going for chemotherapy at 30 while my father in law celebrated his 71st birthday was not lost on me.
Anyways, I happened to have a follow up with my oncologist yesterday. It occurred to me that although I am less terrified now than I was back then, my prognosis today is significantly worse than it was a year ago. At the time last year the intent was to cure; currently intent is to “manage” as long as my body will allow.
I’m not going to lie I was looking forward to my appointment. Not the appointment itself. More specifically the drive to and from the appointment. All mothers will appreciate and understand this. Sometimes the drive to and from a doctor’s appointment is the only time I get to myself. I can listen to whatever I want, which is most often Armchair Expert with Dax Shepard – shout out to him!
I love my son more than anything, but I am typically at his beck and call 24/7 and it is nice to get a guilt free break. Oh, that’s the other thing, my mother-in-law watches my son once a week regardless of if I have a doctor’s appointment or not, but appointments are the only time I truly feel guilt-free about leaving him. How fucked up is that! We will delve into that another time though.
The point of this entry isn’t that I got some coveted “me” time. The point is as the title states that “I don’t belong here.” Where is “here” exactly? – you are probably wondering. It is the Cleveland Clinic Taussig Cancer Center, of course.
I am in good spirits as I park in the deck and as I walk from my car to the elevator that will take me to the skyway. I am even still myself when I walk from the skyway to the Taussig building. But, the moment I walk into the waiting room where I await having my labs drawn I am reminded of who and what I am. I am not a regular mom… I’m a cool mom. Wait, what? No, that’s not right – although kudos to anyone reading this that gets that nod to the movie Mean Girls.
Let’s try that again. I am not a regular mom; I am a metastatic mama. I am a BRCA1 mutant. You might think that this is always on my mind. But, it really isn’t. First of all, I don’t want to fucking think about it. In fact, I fucking hate thinking about it. I take my parp inhibitor and my aromatase inhibitor as prescribed every day, but I am fortunate enough that I don’t have many constant reminders of my illness.
My worst symptom at the moment is that my back and ribs ache from the depletion of estrogen in my body. Big fucking deal – who cares? I barely do, to be honest. It could be a lot worse, so I am grateful that overall I really do feel just like a regular mom. A stay at home mom that takes care of her son all day while finding time to attempt to keep up with the dishes and laundry and grocery shopping, etc.
But, when I enter that waiting room, the reality of my situation hits me. I see all my fellow cancer patients. They are all older than me by at least a few if not more decades. Most of them are accompanied by someone younger and healthier looking. Some are in wheelchairs. Many are bald. Many look like what you would imagine a cancer patient looks like. Maybe it is what some of you imagine I look like.
Spoiler alert – I don’t look like that. I have pep in my step occasionally, depending on how much Starbucks coffee I have consumed that day. I wear the uniform of a mom – yoga pants, a tank-top or t-shirt and a cardigan, because most places have the air conditioning on too high in the summer. I have hair and I am wearing a black headband from Anthropologie.
Side note – Anthropologie is a super expensive store of which I would only allow myself to splurge on something as inexpensive as a headband, which was still like 20 bucks a pop. But I bought them when my hair was growing back and when I thought that I would be able to start my career as a primary care physician. But again, as usual, I digress.
Where were we… Oh yeah, so my name gets called and I go back to get my blood drawn. The nurse, who is most likely around my age, accesses my port in a sterile manner and draws the tubes of blood that will be tested for blood counts and electrolytes such as potassium and sodium. Since I am on oral chemotherapy and not IV she flushes my port with saline and places a bandaid on it. Then I go up to the fourth floor and check into another waiting room. This one is bigger with floor to ceiling windows, but to me it is essentially the same. More reminders of my disease.
The funniest part is the clunky tablet I am giving that has a questionnaire regarding what I perceive my health to be. How would I rate my overall health? The options range from excellent to very poor – I choose good, because although I feel healthy I do have some persistent cancer cells that would disagree if I said “very healthy.” Also, I would probably come off as delusional if I chose that option.
I saw my doctor, which sometimes feels like more of a formality than anything. She asks how my fatigue is compared to my last visit about a month ago. I mean I have a one year old son, how am I supposed to answer that? Always intuitive, he woke up four times the night before my appointment.
I tell her that my only real symptom is the joint pain and she mentions that is from the aromatase inhibitor, which I had already assumed. She checks my lymph nodes, tells me my labs look good, and tells me I can see her at the beginning of November when I will also have a CT scan to see how my cancer is responding to my treatment regimen.
I probably spent only ten minutes with her. But being in those waiting rooms. You guys, it is a real mind fuck. I texted my friend that I don’t belong here. But, unfortunately, I know that technically I do. These are my people. I am part of the cancer community, whether I like it or not.
Until next time dear readers, love and light to you all.
The Reluctant Eternal Optimist 