“Nothing lasts forever. Even cold November rain.”
- W.A. Rose, esq.
Our family has an unkind history with the month of November. Ever since about 2005, it seems November has brought with it not just the time change, not just the cold rains, and the frost, but a gloom upon this house. Some years it’s been financial catastrophe, other years emotional distress, sometimes illness. I say that just to put in perspective where I think I’m going with this, because I think we’re in a place right now where it’s hard to see the Spring ahead.
Last Thursday, I had CT scans at Cleveland Clinic. There are so many things I appreciate about my oncologist, not least of which is that he never leaves me hanging on my scans. Good, bad, indifferent, before he even says “How ya doin’?”, he gives it to me straight – knowing full well that no cancer patient even has heard anything before you give them the results.
As most of you know, the results were static. My metastatic kidney cancer tumors in the lungs neither measurably grew, nor measurably shrank. I know, in deep parts of my heart and brain, that it’s fine news from one perspective – the disease is not progressing at a rapid rate. And that’s great. I know it’s great.
But it’s November.
In February, when I found out I had made it onto this nivolumab trial, I was sure that the stars had aligned, God had smiled, LeBron had come back, Dr. Smooth had crushed a walk-off in Game 7, and Haden had returned an interception with .06 on the clock for a Lombardi Trophy. It had all come together! At long last, it had all come together! I knew deep in my soul that this was it; this was the cure! Where surgery, placebo votrient, and Interleukin-2 had failed, THIS trial was going to succeed. In Campbell’s monomyth, we were passing through apotheosis and toward the ultimate boon. And after scans in July showed measurable shrinkage of three of the four tumors, I was more sure than ever. Last week was the first time I have walked into scans without the paralyzing fear that normally accompanies these trips.
And that’s probably why the news was such a blow. Long and short of it is this: A number of the other people in the cohort at the Clinic had significant shrinkage by now. A sizable minority had their disease progress. My doctor believes that if it was going to just out-and-out WORK, it would have worked by now. Nivolumab, as it turns out, most likely IS the miracle drug they’ve been looking for. Maybe a few years down the road, they’ll figure out exactly why it’s working for many, and not working for others. I pray with all my heart that they figure that out in time for me. But I’m also fully, painfully aware that they might not. Not to get excessively morbid, but this is the fourth Thanksgiving and Christmas season that I’ve had to wonder if it’s my last. As a side note here, to those greeting card writers suggesting we ‘live every day as if it’s our last,’ that’s pretty exhausting!
I still know, deep in my soul, that things are going to workout - hopefully, in the way that I want! I feel fine - my worst tangible physical problem right now is a metatarsal I hurt running the other night. When I look hard, I can find the green shoots of the future. One of them was yesterday’s levy vote. Another, I hope to be able to share a little later this week. Hope isn’t lost. It’s never lost. Just sometimes a little hard to see through the November rain.
Our family has an unkind history with the month of November. Ever since about 2005, it seems November has brought with it not just the time change, not just the cold rains, and the frost, but a gloom upon this house. Some years it’s been financial catastrophe, other years emotional distress, sometimes illness. I say that just to put in perspective where I think I’m going with this, because I think we’re in a place right now where it’s hard to see the Spring ahead.
Last Thursday, I had CT scans at Cleveland Clinic. There are so many things I appreciate about my oncologist, not least of which is that he never leaves me hanging on my scans. Good, bad, indifferent, before he even says “How ya doin’?”, he gives it to me straight – knowing full well that no cancer patient even has heard anything before you give them the results.
As most of you know, the results were static. My metastatic kidney cancer tumors in the lungs neither measurably grew, nor measurably shrank. I know, in deep parts of my heart and brain, that it’s fine news from one perspective – the disease is not progressing at a rapid rate. And that’s great. I know it’s great.
But it’s November.
In February, when I found out I had made it onto this nivolumab trial, I was sure that the stars had aligned, God had smiled, LeBron had come back, Dr. Smooth had crushed a walk-off in Game 7, and Haden had returned an interception with .06 on the clock for a Lombardi Trophy. It had all come together! At long last, it had all come together! I knew deep in my soul that this was it; this was the cure! Where surgery, placebo votrient, and Interleukin-2 had failed, THIS trial was going to succeed. In Campbell’s monomyth, we were passing through apotheosis and toward the ultimate boon. And after scans in July showed measurable shrinkage of three of the four tumors, I was more sure than ever. Last week was the first time I have walked into scans without the paralyzing fear that normally accompanies these trips.
And that’s probably why the news was such a blow. Long and short of it is this: A number of the other people in the cohort at the Clinic had significant shrinkage by now. A sizable minority had their disease progress. My doctor believes that if it was going to just out-and-out WORK, it would have worked by now. Nivolumab, as it turns out, most likely IS the miracle drug they’ve been looking for. Maybe a few years down the road, they’ll figure out exactly why it’s working for many, and not working for others. I pray with all my heart that they figure that out in time for me. But I’m also fully, painfully aware that they might not. Not to get excessively morbid, but this is the fourth Thanksgiving and Christmas season that I’ve had to wonder if it’s my last. As a side note here, to those greeting card writers suggesting we ‘live every day as if it’s our last,’ that’s pretty exhausting!
I still know, deep in my soul, that things are going to workout - hopefully, in the way that I want! I feel fine - my worst tangible physical problem right now is a metatarsal I hurt running the other night. When I look hard, I can find the green shoots of the future. One of them was yesterday’s levy vote. Another, I hope to be able to share a little later this week. Hope isn’t lost. It’s never lost. Just sometimes a little hard to see through the November rain.
we will certainly keep you all in our prayers. (((((HUGS)))))!!! God is always in control and he will see you through this. Sometimes the clouds are to thick to see through but he is always there.
ReplyDeleteThe fact that you share your story is an inspiration to all of us. We all are sick or broken in some way and your story truly reminds us that we can have November's at any time. You can't see the HOPE sometimes because you are our living HOPE. May God continue to wrap His arms around you and make you well. Hugs and continued prayers.
ReplyDeleteHmmmmm, I don't think I like November. And I don;t like telling people to smile and all will be well when it might not be. I can and will pray. I can place confidence in the Cleveland Clinic docs that they are scratching their heads and looking for the very best way ahead, I can pt my own personal hex on those misplaced tumors and tell them to get the heck out of Dodge. And,,,, maybe I'll think of something else....
ReplyDelete