Fragility 2

All day today I’ve been grappling. I guess I’ve been grappling for a week now. Finally I stood still and formed the question I’m grappling with: “How long after the last treatment do you know it’s the last treatment?”

I’m looking forward to my next oncology appointment on November 30. I am completely convinced that my CA-125 will be below 35 and that combined with the scan after my surgery will make me officially “cancer free.” After one round of chemotherapy the CA-125 had dropped from 118 to 43. So, after the second round, I expect it to be in line. Nevertheless, my oncologist has scheduled chemotherapy afterwards, just in case.

And if I am declared free and clear, my oncologist tells me, we will enter a phase of “watchful waiting.” He looked me in the eye when he used that phase, and I knew he meant: You are stage IV. We will be watching for when it comes back. My oncologist is a straight-talking realist. And though I know all this is in God’s hands, and I know I can do nothing but submit to my inability to control my future, I believe in my heart that it is gone. If not forever, for at least ten years. It is beat back good.

Still, I am waiting to know in my brain and heart that it is over.

One sign of it being over will be removal of the port. The port was installed in late February to facilitate the chemotherapy. I’ve been asking my mentors, two women who also have survived ovarian cancer, how long after chemotherapy they had their ports out. Neither of them had ports, even one woman who two years ago went through the same chemotherapy regimen I just completed. Basically, I will press to have the port removed before the end of the year. In part, the “rush” is about insurance, but also if I keep the port I have to go in every month to have it flushed. And I have to have it. In my body. Which I don’t want.

So when the port is out, will I know it is over?

When I heard about Gwen Ifill’s death on Monday, I immediately went looking for the cause. Cancer. But I had trouble– it took me another day– finding the type of cancer. Diagnosed less than a year ago. In treatment all through the conventions, right up to the election. I’d noticed her absence that night but not thought too much about it. I had not gone looking to see if she was ill. But once I heard of her death I went looking for cancer, and then the type. Endometrial.

Tonight I learned that Sharon Jones died today. I knew it was coming, but it was still a shock. Only a few weeks ago I looked to see if she was still touring and saw a long, long line of dates. I knew she had been performing all summer despite neuropathy and flying back and forth from New York to get chemotherapy. I hoped the tour dates were a good sign. Pancreatic.

Everyone seems more fragile to me. Everything seems fragile. I’ve been thinking about cooking over Christmas. I’ve been hoping my tastebuds will be well enough to enjoy pie.

I know my tastebuds may or may not give me the pleasure of chocolate back. But I hope they give me back the joy of pie. Pie!

When I can taste pie, or almost every other thing, will I know it is over? When I have back the feeling in my feet? I don’t know. But every day I move toward that knowing.