Longevity.

I’ve heard that every 7 years, each cell in your body has been replaced. The physical bits of you that were here 7 years ago aren’t here now. For the sake of cosmic romance, I’ll skip the asterisks and echoing chasms of a tidy little statement and indulge…. 

We’re approaching 7 years since my diagnosis. 

I’ve said for the great majority of those years that if life could run parallel with cancer, I’d be incredibly happy and we could consider that victory.  The reality with sarcomas is they’re very rare, so to have a rare type of of a rare type of cancer has added an extra layer bushwhack health care that, while working acceptably and gratefully well, can feel a bit like chasing marathon finishes over and over. And over. As long as I keep going, I can keep going, but sometimes, the idea of sitting down in the shade for a minute and having a chocolate milk and a glop of peanut butter sounds nothing beneath heavenly.

Choosing parallel success meant choosing management not cure, which was the most realistic choice since “cure” and “sarcoma” very rarely bump into each other with any sort of friendliness. I accepted (maybe not as well as I thought) I was hitched to my own varietal of a chronic disease sidecar. Also, this is your occasional reminder shouted from the clifftops of someone with a healthcare punch card: you are a real life, squishy, soulful, loveful, precious darling human being, not a statistic. *flips soapbox* Wait no, I’m back, also, please please please always have your blood pressure taken manually by a real live human, not by a machine. The difference is always a bit appalling (she says as she goes around the block again) and nurses/MAs are always happy to do BP manually. (If they’re not, there’s a bigger problem there and it's not your BP) *kicks soapbox at blood pressure machine*

Shade, tree, chocolate milk, butt on grass, peanut butter glop.

This squishful body of mine is a champ. It tries SO hard to be right and let me do what I want and need to do. Save for the every 2 or 3 weeks when it gets a touch poisoned for the sake of the greater good (shrug?), it Humpty Dumpty’s back together in a handful days time to so-much-better-than-reasonable-wellness and continues on with a smile (with an occasional choice of side effect roulette) and life is so, so incredibly delicious again. But what was once an occasional thought has become a proper nag—is there not a better way than this? There has to be a better way, right?

I had an appointment with Dr C this week—sarcoma expert, half time show cheerleader, and generally quite jovial person that I’d choose first to be on my team every time. He moved to a new clinic, so for reasons and logistics, this was the first time I’d seen him since the end of last year. My scans are looking stable, including an A+ on my first ever bone scan, thank you very much. While that’s 100% cause for celebration, I still can’t help but feel like we’ve reached a stalemate. My body is trying so hard to be right. Without exception, it's acing every single test, every single time. There has to be a better way. 

We looked at my images and looked at the two masses sitting under the right side of my liver that do have significant signs of unwell (an unwell cancer is a good thing), then also the entirety of the rest of my liver that is a total stunner. Wait. The entirety of the rest of my liver is a stunner. The cancer is only on the right side, not the left. It used to be on the left. I wasn’t a surgical candidate because it was on both sides and surgery would make Swiss cheese of my liver and livers don’t like that, but now that’s not the case because maybe two years of drinking cyanide while being struck by lightning (thank you, Andrea Gibson) has actually done more than we thought and maybe, *gasp* just maybe, I’m a surgical candidate now after all of this time…???!!!

????

!!!!!!

?!?!?!?!

*ahem* I humbly ask to borrow a cup of thought from you. 

There’s a chance I’m a surgical candidate. This is the surest option for pushing back the tide. It’s the best option for longevity. For disease control and getting to put my butt in the grass for a moment and have as many peanut butter glops and chocolate milks as a want without the feeling of being chased…and if I want to run it’s because I love the wind in my face so much, and seeing the places that only feet can go, and especially for the squelchy noise wet shoes make after crossing creeks. Dearest whomever is reading this, to whichever power of the collective is your favorite, could you send it a thought or energy or prayers or hopes or wishes that if surgery is the better way to helping my body be the right thing, that it become the way? 

PS Hi, by the way. 

PPS Planting trees that take 100 years to reach maturity is Stage 4 Brazen.