too good not to pass on

i came across this op-ed piece in the new york times this weekend and it couldn't have come at a better time.  on friday i found a swollen lymph node in my neck, which sent me directly to worry central.  i haven't felt something like that in my neck since 2008 when my cancer recurred the first time.  i was less than thrilled.  then, sunday, i found this collection of words, put together by a stanford neurosurgeon diagnosed with lung cancer eight months ago.  he's my age.

i saw my doctor yesterday and there wasn't much to say or do - yes there is a swollen lymph node, upon review by a radiologist, yes it showed ever so faintly on the CT scan a couple of weeks ago, no we did not do a needle biopsy because there are important things like arteries and nerves and veins in that area, and i am on a blood thinner.  i have a PET scan on friday and we'll hear from the biopsy people, maybe today, about whether a needle biopsy is feasible.  after the PET scan i'll follow up with dr. evans and make a plan based upon the findings - if it isn't cancer, great.  if it is cancer and it is localized to that area, maybe i stay on xalkori and we radiate that stuff.  if it is systemic, with disease in other parts of my body, it is, sadly but appropriately, time to cut ties with xalkori and try something new.  we've had a long affair, xalkori and me, nearly four years.  it has felt like a security blanket at times, especially because of the amazing work it did with such minimal side effects.  life was blissfully normal - or as normal as it could get considering the circumstances.  wake up, work out, go to work, go on vacation, all pretty normal.  sure, last year was anything but normal, but even then, i operated on the understanding xalkori was still doing its thing for my body.  it would have been normal without the brain tumor.

but at what point should normal change again?  i'm not seriously pondering this right now, because we just don't know enough about what's going on (or not) in there.  but, as dr. kalanithi says so eloquently in his essay, what he lays out for the non-cancer-patient who might not "get it" is that this is every day when you are living with cancer, as i and so many other patients are lucky enough to do now.  there will not be a day without cancer for the rest of my life.  but, as each morning presents itself anew, "i can't go on" does indeed morph to "i'll go on" and that's precisely the reminder i needed this weekend.  i needed to be reminded of my own fortitude.