If you need to get caught up, read the last post. It will give you the abbridged version of a really hectic couple of weeks. 

When we showed up to Dr. Moore’s office today, we figured we’d be starting chemo in several weeks. But, if we have learned anything in this process, it is that we have no control over the timeline. Truly, I can’t plan past tomorrow because I have no idea what appointments or treatment change we’ll be having. 

They presented his case to the “team” yesterday. They want to go with aggressive systemic chemo ASAP. Since he’s healing well, that means next week.

*insert record scratch sound here* say what?

Yeah. It is all happening really, really quickly. It’s a good thing ot be starting chemo soon, but it’s just another surprise that takes a minute to wrap our heads around. Tomorrow we’ll spend the morning learning about what to expect from chemo – side effects, clinic tour, etc. He will go every 2 weeks for 6 months. At about the halfway point, they will redo the scans to see if the chemo is working.

Please, please pray that it works.

I wondered why they didn’t just go in and try to take the rest of the cancer out – they got the big tumor, with clean margins, so why not get the rest? Turns out, once the cancer has spread from the source, it could just be in there floating around waiting for someplace to land. So, if you go in and get the stuff, you might just have 3 new spots next time. And surgery, it turns out, is tough. 

Hence the systemic chemo. They go in, try to obliterate any little spots or floaters, shrink the ones we can see on the scan (P has one in his liver and 4 tiny ones in his lungs) and then yank out the rest when we know the chemo is working. (say that prayer again, please.)

It’s all kind of interesting really. Shitty, but interesting.

We have several reasons to feel very optimistic:

1. Preston is young and is in very good health (this is actually quite annoying when for the 50th time some nurse or doctor takes vitals or health history and muses, “you’re stats are perfect!” Except for that whole, “cancer” thing.)

2. Because he tolerated the surgery very well, we get to start chemo more or less on schedule from the original plan. This is a good thing.

3. There are a whole slew of doctors that are plugged in and are fighting hard. They are willing to be aggressive, and so are we. 

4.  We have the best village around. Truly. We feel loved and embraced more than you can even understand. I know everyone is chomping at the bit to help. Thank you. We will absolutely take you up on it, but it might be down the road when we know a little bit more. Our heads are still spinning and our hearts haven’t really caught up. We promise to ask for help when we figure out what it is we need. Thank you for having our backs.

You’re probably wondering about Conor. I won’t dwell, because it will make me sad. He is too little to really comprehend what is going on, but he senses that something is wrong and it’s manifesting in lots of ways. We want him to feel as “normal” as possible, but that is going to be tough. He’s been a good sport being gentle with dada during recovery, and understands that he doesn’t feel well. He has had several “sleepovers” with Granna and Grandaddy (and will probably have plenty more with them and with Jim and Erin when the chemo starts.) 

We’ve been hooked up with the social work team at Rex to get some tools on how to engage him in the process without being overwhelming. 

This concept, in and of itself, overwhelms me. But onward.

I think because we’ve been so busy, we haven’t had full time to process. And maybe it won’t ever feel real. It feels like some strange nightmare from which we’ve yet to awaken, or a really long episode of Grey’s Anatomy. We just keep trudging through to the next procedure/appointment/surgery/consultation and trying not to completely lose our shit.