Hurry up and wait
In the month of May, my friend noticed chest tightness, a cough, and difficulty breathing.
By the end of June, her cancer was detected and she began an array of testing.
Not treatment.
All through July and August, she went to Big City Hospital for one procedure or another, only to find out the samples obtained weren't good enough for what they needed to know how to treat it.
Her latest biopsy on Friday hit the jackpot.
Small cell (oat cell) lung cancer.
The really bad kind.
According to the National Cancer Institute, this type of cancer can only be staged in two ways. Limited-stage, or extensive. Usually, by the time SCLC is diagnosed, metastases has already occurred. As opposed to NON-small-cell cancers, which carry an array of letter and number coding to their staging, and have numerous treatment opportunities... this kind is inoperable. Chemotherapy is her only option. Which will be beneficial just in case it has spread. Oh, and the survival rates? Only 10% of the total population of patients remain free of the disease over two years from the start of therapy... the time period during which most relapses occur. Even these patients, however are at risk of dying from the cancer. The overall survival at 5 years is 5% to 10%.
One of her doctors called it "aggressive". They will not be doing any more cutting and sampling "just in case it were to enter [her] bloodstream or lymphatics". Shame they didn't think of that eight biopsies ago.
Now, to be sitting on this side of the news, having seen first hand how slim "odds" don't mean a thing (how many of my readers fall into the " < 1% " category?)... it is hard to be hopeful. My friend, who has a long and varied medical background, has also seen some amazing shit in her life. She knows. She's not wearing blinders. She watched her own mother died of gallbladder cancer, which is pretty rare. She knows what she's up against, and right now appears to be in the acceptance stage.. If you subscribe to the Kubler-Ross model of grief, MaryAnn went from denial and bargaining a few months ago, skipped anger altogether, was in depression while waiting so damn long to find out what she already assumed to be the answer, and has now landed dead-on in acceptance.
At 57, she is trying to get her affairs in order.
She hasn't told her children (three boys my age) the magnitude of her illness. She doesn't want to upset them. Her husband is completely out of the loop, even though he knows the diagnosis. He just doesn't know what it means, really. Either he wouldn't understand, or she doesn't want to sit down and teach him, so he's merrily moving along about his day without a second thought. She calls me when she needs to vent. I'm at a bit of a loss on how to deal with it, myself. I know the "right things" to say, and not to say, I have learned how to give comfort and care, but this is different than dealing the typical patient/patient's family. This is different than if it were my own family. If it were my parents or inlaws, I could swoop in and take control and be the hero.
She wanted me to come over and help her wash her hair. She can't shower yet or lift her arms above her shoulders, because this latest biopsy involved cutting out a piece of her rib and going in from the side to "punch out" a portion of the tumor. She has pain. She has to sleep sitting up on the couch. Life goes on around her, and she has (temporarily) lost her independence. She knows she will have to get used to it, though. Her independence went out the window once she got the final diagnosis. Chemo will completely kick her ass. She will lose her hair. She will be nauseated. She will become weak and sickly, and contract every virus she comes in contact with. She is a proud person, who doesn't want everyone feeling sorry for her, and for now has chosen not to share the news. She wants to spend more time with her grandkids. She wants to acomplish a few things she never got to do. She will be too weak. She isn't too hopeful about this whole thing. And rightly so. How on earth does one come to grips with something like this? I can't and it's not even me who is facing it.
By the end of June, her cancer was detected and she began an array of testing.
Not treatment.
All through July and August, she went to Big City Hospital for one procedure or another, only to find out the samples obtained weren't good enough for what they needed to know how to treat it.
Her latest biopsy on Friday hit the jackpot.
Small cell (oat cell) lung cancer.
The really bad kind.
According to the National Cancer Institute, this type of cancer can only be staged in two ways. Limited-stage, or extensive. Usually, by the time SCLC is diagnosed, metastases has already occurred. As opposed to NON-small-cell cancers, which carry an array of letter and number coding to their staging, and have numerous treatment opportunities... this kind is inoperable. Chemotherapy is her only option. Which will be beneficial just in case it has spread. Oh, and the survival rates? Only 10% of the total population of patients remain free of the disease over two years from the start of therapy... the time period during which most relapses occur. Even these patients, however are at risk of dying from the cancer. The overall survival at 5 years is 5% to 10%.
One of her doctors called it "aggressive". They will not be doing any more cutting and sampling "just in case it were to enter [her] bloodstream or lymphatics". Shame they didn't think of that eight biopsies ago.
Now, to be sitting on this side of the news, having seen first hand how slim "odds" don't mean a thing (how many of my readers fall into the " < 1% " category?)... it is hard to be hopeful. My friend, who has a long and varied medical background, has also seen some amazing shit in her life. She knows. She's not wearing blinders. She watched her own mother died of gallbladder cancer, which is pretty rare. She knows what she's up against, and right now appears to be in the acceptance stage.. If you subscribe to the Kubler-Ross model of grief, MaryAnn went from denial and bargaining a few months ago, skipped anger altogether, was in depression while waiting so damn long to find out what she already assumed to be the answer, and has now landed dead-on in acceptance.
At 57, she is trying to get her affairs in order.
She hasn't told her children (three boys my age) the magnitude of her illness. She doesn't want to upset them. Her husband is completely out of the loop, even though he knows the diagnosis. He just doesn't know what it means, really. Either he wouldn't understand, or she doesn't want to sit down and teach him, so he's merrily moving along about his day without a second thought. She calls me when she needs to vent. I'm at a bit of a loss on how to deal with it, myself. I know the "right things" to say, and not to say, I have learned how to give comfort and care, but this is different than dealing the typical patient/patient's family. This is different than if it were my own family. If it were my parents or inlaws, I could swoop in and take control and be the hero.
She wanted me to come over and help her wash her hair. She can't shower yet or lift her arms above her shoulders, because this latest biopsy involved cutting out a piece of her rib and going in from the side to "punch out" a portion of the tumor. She has pain. She has to sleep sitting up on the couch. Life goes on around her, and she has (temporarily) lost her independence. She knows she will have to get used to it, though. Her independence went out the window once she got the final diagnosis. Chemo will completely kick her ass. She will lose her hair. She will be nauseated. She will become weak and sickly, and contract every virus she comes in contact with. She is a proud person, who doesn't want everyone feeling sorry for her, and for now has chosen not to share the news. She wants to spend more time with her grandkids. She wants to acomplish a few things she never got to do. She will be too weak. She isn't too hopeful about this whole thing. And rightly so. How on earth does one come to grips with something like this? I can't and it's not even me who is facing it.
posted by Julie at 5:30 AM
10 Comments:
We watched a family friend (my substitute grandpa) die from that type of cancer when I was in high school. In short...it sucked. You are doing everything that can be done...you are there for her as her friend. That means more than swooping in, taking control, and being the hero. {{{hugs}}} to you and your friend.
I am so, so sorry for your friend's diagnosis. It must be incredibly difficult facing the loss of independence like that, especially if her husband is still in denial. As Catherine said, you are doing a wonderful thing by being there for her. Much love to you both.
Uggh. That's horrible. It's great that she has you - if nothing else to listen and lend a hand. I wish her peace... and lots and lots of time.
I am not good at words in such instances, Julie, so I will just say you are a wonderful person for supporting your friend through this, and lots of (((hugs))) for you both.
I'm so sorry. I can't even think of anything to say, because I have never had anyone around me get sick like this, the worst is my aunt who I'm not actually close to. (She lives in another country)
You are a wonderful friend to her, just keep being there for her. *hugs*
What a horrible thing to be faced with. I can't even imagine. I'm so sorry for your friend and for you.
I am sorry for your friend, and for you. It is a terrible thing to be faced with, i don't know what else to say. I am glad you are there for her. Sending you both strength...
I'm really sorry. I don't have any experience in saying or doing the right thing when it comes to these things. But know that both of you have incredible strength in such dynamic ways.
I'm so sorry for your friend.
I saw my father die from a very aggressive brain tumor when he had just turned 50. He also knew that his chances were pretty much nothing. At some point, he accepted that he was going to die soon. How he managed to do this, I have no idea. The memories of his silent strength, dignity and acceptance during his last month(s) are beautiful and heart-breaking.
I wish you and your friend strength and peace during this very difficult time.
It's very bad, lung cancer. But... When my mother-in-law, (who also had gall bladder cancer last year) was diagnosed with the cancer that eventually killed her, my good friend (who's best friend died of lung cancer) said to me "You don't have to believe that the miracle will happen to you, you just have to believe that miracles are possible." It was so very powerful. I carried that with me every day until the last few weeks when it became absoutely clear which way things were going to go.
I couldn't believe that my mother-in-law would beat the odds, but I believed it was possible. I thought it was worth trying everything, holding onto hope, because anything is possible.
And, as you mention, this comes from one of those readers that has been in the < 1% category more than once.
This will be a very hard road for you, no matter how it ends up. Grace to you.
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