Diagnosis: Afterparty

My rock-solid cocoon of optimism took a gut punch yesterday after meeting with the surgical oncologist.

It was my first directly-cancer-related-in-person appointment so far. As I was trying not to internalize his pessimistic demeanor while he described possible treatment options, he noted “I’m the person you want to be the most pessimistic about this.” Which makes sense. I am fully aware I lived last week in blissful ignorance, just focusing on the slew of cancer-adjacent appointments & the outpouring love and support I was receiving. But my optimism can’t live in a vacuum, it needs a foil. This is cancer, after all. And best it be the most educated person in the room. He went on to explain that my medical oncologist will be presenting my case to the board on Wednesday; meaning a group of specialists are getting together to discuss my case to agree on what they think will be the best course of action. And while I won’t know for sure until after this meeting of the minds happens, it’s looking like we’re going to start with a couple rounds of chemotherapy first, before surgically removing Krang (and his bevy of liver spawn). Krang must have taken offense when I described how awful a bouncer he is, because I’ve been having some of the most regular bowel movements of my life. (Or, more likely, that I figured out how to best eat and fuel myself knowing exactly what the issue is now). And because of that regularity, it’s more important to stop the spread of Krang’s spawn, because removing him first would delay chemotherapy for at least a month- and allow the spawn to flourish. So, Krang is spared from eviction– for now.

All of this made complete sense to me, and up until this point, the appointment was averaging net neutral. It wasn’t until we were about to leave, and I asked the question “So what exactly is my official diagnosis?” that my world came crashing down.

“Without a doubt, Stage IV Colon Cancer.”

I had just come to terms and wrapped my head around Stage 3, and hearing the number 4 felt like I was hearing I had cancer all over again. I suddenly felt like such a fool who’d merely built a house of cards; bits and pieces of exploded & fragmented optimism laying around me like debris after a bomb. It was the same feeling after the initial CT scan in the ER; hopeless, adrift, and without any semblance of an appetite. I had only slept 2 hours the night before in anticipation for this appointment, but I felt like I just drank 100 shots of espresso. It was a quiet ride home with my parents, as I silently texted Jimmy to meet me there, lest I repeat this information out loud in front of them to have to relive it. The next couple hours were tearful, dark, and I knew my superpower had taken a critical hit.

Cancer used to be such an abstract concept to me. It’s really something you don’t understand the entire weight of until you’re personally affected. My Pappou died when I was 15, and while I was old enough to understand death, I was still young enough to not fully grasp the density of cancer. And honestly, I wish that kind of ignorance on everybody. Admittedly, this ignorance continued up until and including Monday, incorporating an airtight barrier I had created to keep myself from Googling anything cancer related. Even though I love educating myself about things I don’t know much about (ironically, like cancer) I knew it would be a slippery slope into doom-Googling; so best to wait until I had some more answers.

Well, I had an official answer. So, I decided to google what the different stages of cancer truly mean. Immediately, my findings took the teeth out of my anxiety and deflated the number 4. I had done such a good job shielding myself from looking things up, that I would’ve been able to self-diagnose myself as Stage IV over last weekend, had I looked up its definition. I knew my cancer was metastatic- it’s gone from my sigmoid colon up to my liver. While the stages do obviously get worse the higher you go, and yes 4 is the max, it’s also simply a clinical category for when the cancer takes a road trip to another organ. A new (to me) number doesn’t change what’s going on inside of me- it’s exactly the same information, and nothing has gotten worse. It can’t be both Stage 3 AND metastatic. Same cancer, different (and now correct) label.

But damn, if that didn’t take a solid 5 hours to work through. That’s when it truly dawned on me: THIS is the part that’s not going to be easy. I thought designing and constructing my optimism cocoon was a one and done project. I thought I was fully prepared to take cancer head on (because I already know my pain threshold can weather all the physical stuff.) I couldn’t have been more mistaken. The “not easy” is the psychological stuff. There’s comfort in reminding myself that THIS; the digging for my optimism, searching for the mental breakthroughs, THIS is the work. Watching my optimism shatter around me, picking up the pieces, and rebuilding my optimism cocoon– time after time. Knowing it WILL shatter again. That’s where true strength lies. The mental battle is uphill (up a huge mountain no less) and so far, all I’ve done is build a base camp at the bottom of the mountain.

Cancer, I finally understand you.