Bernie always reminds me: start where your feet are. 
Today is my 6th and last chemotherapy treatment which will be followed every three weeks with  IV maintenance using a targeted autoimmune drug called bevacizumab (or Avastin). 

After my last journal entry, my friend Melissa said, “Silence isn’t a good look on you.” It made me chuckle, an effect she always has on me. There was an underlying message and seriousness to this statement which gave me pause. I am usually a wide-open book, but perhaps this gap of quiet is an indication that my shadow-self is warring with my lightness of being, inside the invisible book of My Existential Crisis. 

We humans are incredibly adaptable when we are faced with a non-negotiable truth. When we are driving along and BAM! You find yourself in a fender bender. Every single thing that we had in our minds, our current reality, the place we were heading and why, all comes down to this very moment when nothing- nothing can change the fact that You. Are. Here. Now.
Your well-planned and understood timeline is out the window. You may have calls to make, insurance cards to exchange, a visit to urgent care, and financial implications. Whatever caused the BAM is undeniable and within seconds - we get it. And nothing we say or do is going to change it. During the moments that follow we might cry, scream, and curse. It's all very natural and understandable. But we adapt to the new reality with incredible speed. Most of the time. We might stutter saying the new words that are required to stay in the truth of it.  We might spend days, weeks, months, or even years trying to negotiate a different outcome - a miracle even. 

Dec. 9, 2024
The day we met my new gynecological oncologist was a moment such as this. I was three months into the “standard of care” for my disease: 6 rounds of chemo followed by 12-15 months of maintenance.  l had high expectations when meeting this excellent gyn onc physician because he would be replacing my former, highly trusted surgeon who had hand-selected him for my continued care.  After our introductions, updates, and small talk, I asked him for clarity on the total number of months of maintenance that would be needed, as I had heard everything from 8 -15 months.

He looked me in the eyes and said without any doubt:
“For the rest of your life.”
BAM!

What followed was a slippery slope with both me and Gus hanging on for purchase. 
“The day you go off maintenance, your cancer will come back.”
Stunned into silence. 

By now, I am looking for something, anything I can hang a sliver of hope on... Like a crinkle at the edges of his eyes above the mask that covers his face, but instead he stares, unblinking, as if to punctuate this reality. I glance over at the intern who is radiating empathy in his corner of the room, and then I see my husband who is looking at me with all the same fears and questions.

I pull in a deep breath and plant my feet on the ground in front of me and proceed to remind him that I am his patient, and in his role as my physician, he needs to find a way to offer me hope.

I volley random statistics and practices at him like: What about the 30% of survivors who live beyond 10 or 20 years… what about them? And what about all the hype around changing diets, exercising, lowering stress, what then? Why even bother? Again, he stares with a deep knowing pause, then indicates that those things can certainly improve your quality of life, but those who live that long are “extremely rare,” and they have all the surgeries and scars to prove it. 
Bam!

Another long pause. My heart pounds in my chest. With only my eyes I plead with him to meet me here in a place where miracles can happen or acknowledge that I am a unique vessel that is responding beautifully to treatment and a life story that is unfolding with potential. I need to know that my belief in the healing powers of body, mind, energy, and science can be in collaboration with him as my physician, who holds deep knowledge and expertise in science and the practice of medicine.

The silence gets louder while I gather my things and leave the room under the heaviness of the moment and dark edges of certain realities, including the one where I no longer have the medical team I revered and trusted. I. Am. Here. Now.

For three years now I have been told over and over again that I have to learn to be comfortable with “uncertainty.” We really can not know how, when, why, and with whom this wicked disease will continue to present itself. And yet, my future in his hands was a very solid certainty.  So I had to let him go.

I am not in denial about the information he laid out, and I am not sticking my head in the sand to avoid knowing the dire realities that face advanced-stage ovarian cancer survivors. I know that I need a care team that will meet me in the middle. Healers who can see me as a feisty, loving, badass artist who has a lot of joy and wisdom to still deliver into this world. I met my new (female) gynecological oncologist two weeks ago, and together we will move forward collaborating with my local, beloved medical oncologist and my ever-important palliative care physician and psychologist.  This is what self-advocacy looks like.  And here I am learning to adapt, again.

Many thanks to you for your love and attention while I go through another transition.

May 2024 be a year of golden sunshine spreading peace and wellness to all. 

Denese