Yesterday marked exactly three weeks since my liver resection surgery. Just to recap--the surgeon removed 50% of my liver which included the entire left lobe (plus falciform ligament), part of the right lobe, the caudate lobe, and a 5cm sliver of my diaphragm due to an unexpected metastasis. Three tumors in the liver were removed--one was deemed "viable" by the pathologist.

Recovery has been difficult. It is expected that after this surgery, the body will fill with fluid. I awoke with both a chest drain (thoracostomy tube) and a Jackson-Pratt Drain (JP drain), and a 20 cm incision across my upper abdomen. At 10 days post op, the fluid build up had added 18 pounds to my petite frame, which meant none of my clothes fit, but also brought with it intense pain. Thankfully it is all gone now, but that was a wild ride! At this point, the incision itself is sore, and my side (where my liver is) feels like I've been punched.

Cool fact: the liver regenerates back to nearly 80% in size within 6 weeks of surgery. That is some crazy sci-fi stuff right there!! 

Yesterday I saw my oncologist, Dr. Jacobs, for my first post-op follow-up with him. Some VERY good news came out of this appointment. The first is that my bloodwork has improved (as I've also recovered from the recent chemo), my CEA (tumor marker) is now at the lowest it's ever been since this misadventure began, and the mack-daddy of all great news: he concurs with the surgeon and pathologist that there is no disease present!! 

After nearly 2 1/2 years of "living with cancer," this statement has been the hardest to wrap my brain around. When we get our diagnosis, it's nearly impossible to accept that we have cancer. The same is true now--it's nearly impossible to accept that there is no cancer.

But, my spidey senses have been tingling ever since I heard the surgeon speak these words for the first time three weeks ago at my bedside post-op. There is no way anyone hears this news and then is just sent on their way to live their life as if nothing happened. Especially not someone who has just been fighting metastatic cancer. The 5 year survival rate for Stage-4 colon cancer (that's what I had) is only 10%. That means, that on the day I was diagnosed, for every 10 people with the same diagnosis, only one had a chance of survival. If that doesn't scare a person, I don't know what will.

So what would come next? I avoided theorizing, because what do I know? I'm not an oncologist or trained in any sort of medical capacity. Well, the answer is that I will be having 4-6 more rounds of chemo, beginning in 2 weeks. This is basically to poison the body just in case there are any rogue cancer cells floating around. Remember that "viable" tumor I mentioned above? These are exactly the kinds of tumors that throw out last ditch clumps of cells in an effort to save itself. Those cells are the target of this next chemo.

How do I feel about it? Well, that's hard to say. I allowed myself to spend yesterday mourning the fact that my summer is effectively canceled. No hiking or running with the dogs, no yoga out in the sun, we had to cancel two trips, and I canceled a "Meet the Author" event scheduled for July. I feel a little deflated, and have been questioning if I have the courage to get through more of these drugs. The silver lining is that Dr. Jacobs said that I can say "stop" at any time, but he wants me to really try to get to #4 before making that decision.

This is the first time I will be having chemo when there is no cancer in my body. Will my body react differently now that it doesn't have to compete with parasitic cancer for calories and energy? Will this be harder since I just finished the last bit of chemo a mere 8 weeks ago? 

I've decided that I'm not going to make any assumptions. I plan to continue on like I have before--practicing yoga when I can, playing my cello when inspired, walking and hiking to continue my connection to nature, and of course working on the final book in the series. I hope that the books demonstrate two important things to readers:

1. Not every person with Stage-4 Colon Cancer (or any late stage, metastatic, terminal cancer) has the same outcome as me. No one should say to their friend/family member to read my book because it will help them beat their cancer. It is meant to inspire, not cure, and to remind people that with all statistics, there is a survival rate for a reason.
2. Fighting cancer is not a short process. It drags on for years with bumps in the road along the way. Calculating from my diagnosis (not from the start of symptoms), I've been actively treating my cancer for 2 1/2 years, and I still have another 3-4 months to go. I'm on track to hit the 3-year mark. Incredible. 

A close friend of mine once said, "The only thing certain about cancer is that things change quickly and unexpectedly." She was right. Just when I think I've got a handle on things, the steering wheel gets yanked in the other direction. 

I have been incredibly lucky to be surrounded by a medical team that seems to genuinely like me, I am hugged by every doctor and nurse that treats me--in fact, I was even hugged by the receptionist in Dr. Jacobs' office yesterday. There is magic in human connection.  

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Please continue to send your donations to Anna's Wish, an incredible non-profit that provides toys, gifts, and adventures to children with cancer. They bring some joy into a world otherwise filled with fear and uncertainty.