Some of you might have noticed I haven’t been as active online in the past six months or so. This is in part because I’m becoming increasingly disenchanted with Facebook (more on that later), but also because last year life hit us with a big nasty bomb, and we chose not to speak publically about it until things were resolved. We kept it close to focus on the tasks at hand.
In September of last year, Ken was diagnosed with cancer. He had a biopsy late in the month—two days before his birthday, in fact—and then it took some time for the exact cancer to be determined. Why? Because if you know Ken, you know he can’t have some kind of garden-variety, bog-standard cancer. Oh no, he had to have something unusual.
The final diagnosis was embryonal carcinoma, a rare, fast growing cancer that normally occurs in much younger men.
Rare cancers call for unusual treatments. We’re amazed and impressed at how specifically chemo can be targeted to an individual and their cancer. For Ken, it was three different drugs that took about twelve hours to administer along with other medications and fluids. For five days in a row. So from October to late December, he was in the hospital four times for a week, with two weeks off in between treatments.
Providence St. Vincent is a spectacular place in so many ways. Every single person was competent, smart, on top of things, personable—from doctors and nurses to the staff in the most excellent cafeteria I got food from twice a day during Ken’s weeks in hospital.
Ken’s oncologist studied under the oncologist who cured Lance Armstrong’s cancer, which gave us a lot of hope. Plus she was direct and clear about what was going on, and always available for questions. The oncology ward nurses were also wonderful. Of course, Ken charmed them to the point that they’d fight over who got to be his nurse for the day. One even came in early to change the schedule. (No, seriously!)
The only downside was that the hospital is thirty to forty-five minutes (or more) from our house, depending on traffic. I can probably drive the route in my sleep now. It made for long days, especially with the autumn time change; I’d get home at 7 or 7:30 pm and think it was bedtime. (I’d leave after traffic in the mornings, and eat dinner with Ken and leave after traffic in the evenings.) Then during the in-between-chemo weeks he had to go back for blood draws and bandage changes twice a week.
The chemo itself went very well. His oncologist said he was making it look easy. Almost no nausea, no pain, no swelling, no real side effects. We were told that at some point, he’d very likely develop some sort of infection (because chemo kills white blood cells that fight infection), but he was careful and followed all the rules, so he never did.
The first week he was home after chemo, he was wiped out and mostly sitting/napping in an easy chair. He’d start to feel better on the second week—and I knew he was better when I’d wake up to the sound of power tools. One time it was rewiring the Internet in the house. Another time it was pulling stumps from the yard. (Me? I’d go back to sleep, succumbing to the cat gravity of felines cuddling with me on the bed.)
He was done with chemo as of December 21. We had out-of-town friends visiting in December/January, and we had a quiet Yule at our house. Our friends rented an Air BnB for New Year’s, so the cat-allergy folks could safely hang out. They made sure there was a comfy recliner for Ken, which we greatly appreciated.
So. The surgery, on February 25 (almost exactly five months from his biopsy surgery), was to remove the remaining masses that were showing up on scans. They could have been dead, they could have been holding some cancer; we wouldn’t know until a post-surgery biopsy. It ended up being a ten-hour operation that the surgeon said in his notes was in the top ten most difficult surgeries he’d performed. We’d expected about five hours and a four-day stay in the hospital, which ended up being a week. The masses were around his aorta, and there were also lots of delicate nerves and blood vessels involved. The post-op complications were apparently not unexpected, but it seems I wasn’t clear to be expecting them, so all in all it was a pretty stressful situation.
The first few weeks after surgery, Ken was pretty wiped out, but he’s slowly regaining energy and strength. He’s starting to do more around the house, although projects that would normally take a short while end up taking several days with lots of rest breaks…and that’s okay. He goes back to work next week, although he’ll be focusing on paperwork, and will be limiting travel. Ken’s company has been absolutely supportive during all of this, and has kept his job safely on hold for his return.
Most importantly: on March 6, 2019, he was declared cancer free. The oncologist said the chemo had “The best of all possible outcomes” and the surgeon said, “Everything is clean—there’s nothing more I can do for you.”
Ken’s amazing mom, Jackie, flew up for his first week of chemo and recovery at home, and again two days after his surgery for another week plus, to help out. Thanks also go to my mom and sister for sending lots of cards and get-well gifts; our friends Thorn and Leslie, who organized funding for professional house cleaning right before Ken came home from chemo each time (to minimize the risk of infections); my friends who bought me a concert ticket and let me stay in their room for a Styx concert in Vegas because I “had” to be there (even caregivers need a break now and again); and everyone who wrote, called, sent gifts, and sent energy and well wishes. We wouldn’t have made it through this without all you.
We’re still processing that we made it through, honestly. “Cancer free” is the most beautiful and astonishing phrase in the universe.
So now we return to “normal life,”, with a much better appreciation for what makes it special. And with much more appreciation for family, friends, and most especially, for each other.
