A while back, Jennica suggested that I post to my Caring Bridge site.  “Mom, it has been a long time since you wrote anything about how you are doing and there are many of your family and friends that might want to know.”

“But isn’t “no news” good news?” I asked.

But she prevailed, as she often does with me…..

February 2022:

As I was sitting in the exam room of the clinic, the door opened, “Hello Dr. Slattery.  I am the fellow working with your doctor today.”  Then he proceeded to take a seat by the computer.

Trying to impress me that he had read my chart before walking in, this oncologist-in-training said, “I see that your Multiple Myeloma has 2 of those nasty genetic mutations. Wow!” he exclaimed, “You are doing… very good.”

Every mother knows that “very good” is a code word, as if you were sitting across the desk from the teacher who describes your child as a “very good student”.  Not excellent and definitely not outstanding.  Just plain very good.

He continued: “It has been almost 4 years since your transplant!  And generally, these mutations come back with a vengeance less than 2 years after the transplant.” Again, he said, “You are doing… very good.”

Annoyed, I said, “I think I am doing better than very good; don’t you think?”  Then I flippantly added just to irritate him, “I think I have been cured.”

(I knew that technically, in medical verbiage, Multiple Myeloma is a uniquely “incurable” cancer because it cannot be fully eradicated from the bone marrow….it always pops back up again later.)

Quickly he jumped on my statement, “Oh NO, you will never be cured.” 

“Have you seen my last bone marrow biopsy?” I challenged him. I felt in the mood to be obstinate.

I caught him off guard.  Clearly, he had not read my chart completely, although no one could hardly expect him to read the volumes of information the size of “War and Peace” stored under my name.

With hand on the mouse, he glared at the screen looking for proof.  Then my Oncologist walked in…

But let me back up 5 months earlier.

September 2021:

Terry and I went on a road trip to Yellowstone, hitting state and national parks along the way.  Towards the end of the trip in Montana, the clinic called, ominously asking me to come in.

My doctor was concerned about cancer markers that had been steadily rising in my monthly bloodwork over the last 3 months.  She was deeply worried I had relapsed and wanted to start a new drug regimen immediately. 

As soon as I got home, I underwent another bone marrow biopsy to launch the deeper testing needed to identify just how bad this relapse might be.  And, since every day counts in chemotherapy’s offensive against blossoming cancer cells, I also immediately started treatment for relapsing Multiple Myeloma, even while awaiting the results of the biopsy.    

The new treatment was utterly wicked.  Within 5 hours I lost most of my sight.  I could see 12 inches in front of my face, but beyond that everything was blurred. I couldn’t drive.  I couldn’t identify people unless they were inches from my face.  And the high dose steroids, prescribed in partnership with the chemo, made me crazy, and I couldn’t sleep.    

After a few days, I said to my doctor, “I can’t do this.”

I dug into the medical research (I can’t help myself!) and found only 2 published articles about loss of vision with this new drug. There was no report of vision problems reported as an adverse drug effect in the literature.  No one knew anything about it.  I guess I was making history in a bad sort of way.

“Wendy, I am trying to get you to 99 years old.  Please, try the drug one more time.  It is the best we have to offer you now.”

I agreed reluctantly, only because I trusted her, and because with my medical knowledge, I knew our treatment options were limited to a narrow arsenal of powerful drugs that might – just might – buy some time in these new circumstances. 

The vision mostly recovered after 5 days, and the 2nd dose fortunately did not have the same affect.  But between it and the high dose steroids and the frequent weekly dosing, the accumulated side effects (which were more than I shall detail here, the most profound of which were cratering painful despair, and insufferable sleepless hours), it was too much to continue. 

I knew I could not do it anymore.

So, I decided to stop it all.  I had carefully thought it through; it wasn’t a frivolous or an impulsive decision.  Terry, my sisters, close family, and friends were there for support but couldn’t encourage me to change my mind.

Relapsing Multiple Myeloma is truly dismal.

For those of you who know me, my faith has carried me through some rough times in these last 4 years, but by and large I have felt amazingly well.  I always felt that God had promised me an extra 20 years early on in my journey so I could watch my grandchildren grow up and be part of their life, and my healed physical state had bolstered that faith. 

But now, facing a relapse and the high cost of those years with this horrific treatment…  I didn’t want those years anymore.  God could have them all back – every one of them – in spite of the fact that He had promised them to me.  I would prefer heaven to this.     

I couldn’t endure the treatment.  And I didn’t want to anymore.

It was incongruent.  None of the past 4 years matched up with what I was seeing now.   And my disappointment had reached an all-time low. 

It didn’t matter anymore.  I was giving up. 

How could it be that most of the last 4 years, (not counting the 100 days post-transplant), were spent feeling in great energetic health? I’d believed that was proof enough that He had healed me sufficiently to live out my days in the peace and strength and wellbeing that His Word declared, and even for another 20 years.  Wasn’t that His promise to me?  I believed it – I really did.

My faith was actually at a high point in spite of the fact that life didn’t look (from the outside that is) as if there was any hope now.  But even with that comforting faith, I was in a deep, dark valley, wondering what on earth had happened to God’s promises and what was to become of my life after this relapse.

Then something happened one day, around this time of earnest inventory in my deep dark valley.  When I was ready to throw in the towel, I realized…. I had no fear of dying. It was okay.  Is this the ultimate trust?  I knew that no matter what happened to me, I was in the hands of a sovereign God who was good and had my best interests at heart.  I would be okay.

But… what about His promise to heal me?  Had He recanted it?  He couldn’t do that, could He?  And what about the 20 years?  Was He going to take them away from me just because I was not strong enough to suffer through this relentless horrible treatment?  I wondered if people could wrestle with God.

That was the day of victory for me.  Deep in that valley, I decided to remind Him that I believed in His promises, and He needed to fulfill them.  I thought that was a fair argument I had come to the end of my rope, and now I would package up my concerns and arguments and boldly dump them near the shadow of a long-believed Lutheran-professed Cross with a challenge: for Him to be Who He said He was. 

I had nothing to lose.  He could either give me what He had promised, or He could take me to heaven.  Either would work for me.  I truly knew that He was a sovereign God who was good, and I would be okay.  Trust in Him was all I had left. There wasn’t anything else that I could think to pray or do. 

In this deep, dark valley, I was still awaiting the results of the Bone Marrow test to determine exactly how bad of a relapse I was looking at, what other horrible treatments my oncologist might recommend, and contemplating how short my remaining days might be.

Why were these test results taking so long?  Didn’t the lab know that my life was on the line?  I wanted information!

Two days later, the final results of the long-awaited bone marrow biopsy returned.  

The results were perfect…. No cancer seen at any of the 3 deep levels of examination. 

• The biopsy smear showed no cancer. 
• A deeper look (called the Flow Cytology looking at 100,000 cells,) showed no cancer.
• And the deepest level of cellular examination looking at a bunch of Plasma Cells (the notorious victim of cancer) called the FISH report, was also negative for cancer.

There before me was the visible evidence, shaped to match God’s Promises, but only after I was willing to give it all up – which was exactly the place God was waiting for me to be – in His perfect trust.  The evidence proved out that God’s promises had been standing all along. They had never changed.  I had to change.

Had I really been in relapse, as my worsening and climbing cancer labs had indicated when we were in Yellowstone, or did the relapse mysteriously disappear?

A miracle, perhaps?  Of course; as that oncologist-in-training will tell you, everyone knows that those 2 nasty mutations are real killers, and here I am.

And on that February day in the clinic, at the moment he was glaring at his computer screen, trying to support his claim that I was doing “very good,” my wonderful oncologist walked in and addressed me brightly: “Hi Wendy!  Should we reduce your treatment even further?”

“Yes!”

So now, I am on an infrequently-scheduled, reduced-dosage maintenance regimen (just to be safe, 4 years after transplant), which my body is tolerating well…. in other words…. I remain in continued remission. With the intent to go another 20 years.  

Someday they will confirm my “cure.” 

In the meantime, I will simply call it “outstanding.”