In Which the Lens Breaks.

Bad news.

The chemotherapy didn’t work, and the tumor has grown. Nearly doubled in size. “Suspect lesions” are on my lungs, three of them, and indicate possible metastases. We are meeting with the doctor on Monday to discuss next steps.

The whole goal of this last round of chemotherapy was to shrink the tumor in order to make it operable. But it’s not. And the aggressive regimen,  Taxotere and Xeloda, didn’t work. This tumor, it is wily. It is a fist that wants to gain strength, knock me out.

man couple people woman
Fuck you back, cancer. Fuck to the fuck to the fuckety fuck you. 

I am trying to breathe. Trying not to weep. Trying to go through the motions of going through the day, coffee and dishes and laundry and errands – but it’s all clouded with: How much time do I have left? And grief. An undertow of grief that wipes my vision, causes my muscles to fail. When I think of my daughter, I cannot – cannot –

We haven’t yet told her. We’re waiting for a plan.

Already I’m feeling the physical losses: nerve pressure and pain under my arm, fatigue, an inability to stand for more than 10 minutes at a time. I know, from friends who’ve passed, how quickly things can go. One month, six weeks, six months, a year? And how much pain will this body have to endure?

I am trying to keep calm. Trying to make coffee. Trying to think of tomorrow’s dinner, the next home project, the next writing piece.

How much time left?

Fracture. Breaking glass.

Shards and shards and shards.