1 down – 11 to go.

P had his first chemo treatment this morning. He’s sleeping it off. He’s got a pump for 46 hours with a drug called 5-FU. I like to think someone working in pharmaceuticals had a sense of humor.

It’s really early, but not too many side effects yet. Had a nice big lunch and has been sleeping since. We’ll be able to tell more in a couple of days.

Take a moment to say a little prayer that the drugs are doing their job and that that cancer is taking a beating worse than the one the rest of P’s system is getting.

Chemo itself was uneventful. Rex wifi is pretty dern slow, but he listened to the podcast “My Dad Wrote a Porno” so he basically giggled his way through the treatment (thanks, Brendan and Lauren for the recommendation!)

Sweet volunteers stopped by – one sang some songs and played guitar. Ok, it was a little weird, but his heart was in the right place.

The nutritionist stopped by to check in. P’s supposed to eat 110 g of protein every day. In case you’re wondering, that’s like an entire chicken. But, if it helps his white blood cell count stay high, then I’m cool with it.

Not that interesting. I’m OK with that, too.

We’re home with a fancy new port in P’s neck. The procedure was pretty easy – much more waiting around and prep time than actual surgery.

Dr. Altom put the port in – she is so great. The very first thing she told me when she came to the waiting room was that the leprechaun tattoo was in tact… the incision went right along the top of the hat and the port is in the faded spot in the hat. She was very pleased with herself.

And since P was on versed and kept forgetting everything, every time he looked at it, it made him laugh. It was rather entertaining.

It looks a little wonky – the port has a catheter that feeds up through his jugular. On an older person, you can’t really see it, but right now it’s kinda obvious. Good thing I can crochet and his new scarf is almost finished.

We’re getting to know the lay of the land at the hospital – we knew the intake nurse from last time, I can give directions to lost looking patients, and the discharge instructions are old hat. We even had two extra familiar faces – the nurse anesthetist is married to an old friend of mine. Even though we hadn’t met before, he and his wife have been friends on Facebook for a long time, and were good friends back in high school (she was my prom date. 🙂 ) There was something very comfortable about sending him off with a friend.

OH! And the anesthesiologist… oh we knew him, too. He was the one that did my first epidural when I had Conor. Yeah, first, meaning it didn’t work. And when he checked on me the next day he was all, “So you’re the one that screwed up my batting average.”

It’s a good thing he took care of my husband and that he really truly remembers nothing because I was about to let him have it! 🙂

Anyways, all is well. We’re fully stocked on delicious food and baked goods – thanks to everyone involved in that effort (especially my sister who is an angel for coordinating it all.) The plan is still to start chemo on Wednesday. He’s in good spirits and the fact that he let me take a picture before the procedure proves it.

I’ll keep you posted.

Preston will get his chemo port on Monday. It will go in his right shoulder – for those of you concerned, the leprechaun tattoo should remain unscathed. I suppose that is a good thing. 🙂

We’re going to take this weekend to relax a bit and visit our friends in Wilmington. Chemo will start Wednesday.

Thanks for all of the support.

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. 

So, they don’t just think it is cancer anymore. It is. 

Let me catch you up. 

On Sept. 29, P went to urgent care because he had some abdominal pain. CT. Bloodwork.

Hmm. Let’s do another CT.

Hmm. Let’s do more bloodwork, and a PET scan.

Shit. Looks like cancer. See an oncologist.

Yup. Probably cancer. But we need a biopsy. In 2 days. Start the colonoscopy cleanse.

Welp. That’s not working. Must be a blockage.

ER.

Surgery? Nah, let’s try a stent first.

It is hard, but the stent works. (All hail Dr. Schwartz!)

Liquids for 5 days – then surgery to take out the main tumor and biopsy the one on the liver. 

Tuesday, Nov. 1 – Surgery. It is long. My sister distracts me with pumpkin pancakes and mimosas. Lauren sends funny videos. They don’t give us one update in 5 hours.

Doc comes out. (Did I mention she is my age?) Surgery a success. No colostomy bag. All hail Dr. Altom!

P heals better than just about anyone. 2 days in the hospital – one tough morning – but overall, pretty swell. His and Hers c-section scars!

Two mile walk on Friday. Doc is impressed. Also has biopsy results.

Metestatic colon cancer. (That means stage IV, which is sorta scary sounding). Not quite as widespread as feared, so optimism.

Onward.

They think Preston has cancer. Not just any cancer – stage IV colon cancer. They say there are metastases in his liver and lungs. They told him this over the phone.

Two weeks ago, he was having some stomach cramps and pain, so he went to the urgent care. I was proud of him – docs aren’t his favorite.

They thought it was diverticulitis. No biggie. Kind of a pain. They’ll do a CT just to make sure those little things on his lungs are pneumonia scars…

Hmm. Not diverticulitis. Let’s do another scan. This time with radiation. That will tell us.

“I hate to tell you this over the phone… you’re already an anomaly…you’re meeting with the oncologist next week…”

It’s basically horrifying. Not enough information to be optimistic – just enough to be dangerous. For the record, you should never, never turn to Dr. Google when you get this kind of information.

I’ve basically been living in a fog for 3 days – toggling between calm and determined, hysterical and terrified, and quietly devastated. I want my full 60 years from him. I feel like I’m supposed to get that. We have plans. We have Conor. He should get to see what he turns out to be.

On top of that, P feels crappy. Which sucks. Because he is so fun and wonderful. And I’m worried that he’ll be uncomfortable for a long time.

I am going to go to work tomorrow. I’m hoping I can hold it together, but it’s far from guaranteed. I really love my job, so maybe the distraction will be a good thing.

My family is incredible – only a couple of them know at this moment – I don’t know if I’ll ever make this public, either, but they’ve already been huge help. And they will continue to be. And I know that together, we’ll all make the best of this incredibly shitty situation.

It’s incredible how quickly your life can be turned upside down. I mean, you know on some level that it can happen at any moment. Nothing in life is guaranteed. It’s cliché. But. Still true.

But, god damn it, I still want my 60 years. So we’re going to fight for them.