The bees don't want me to have chemo

In the morning, I do sun salutations. Greeting the day with snaps and crackles like all the fun of bubble wrap, but…much, much older. The ritual always ends differently, but it’s consistently my moment to check-in with the universe. May today bring whatever I need to be in alignment with my greatest purpose. May today bring love, comfort, and strength to those in need. May today be exactly as it needs to be—I’m grateful to be witness. Etc. 

*crunches granola*

In August, I was over it. Up until then, I’d moan and groan about infusion day like the first day of school after vacation, but I knew it was helping me—a necessary detour of about 5 days in order to have the other 16. But that started to change. My body stopped being nice and finally said, “Why do you keep fucking doing this to me!?” On the way to the hospital for an infusion, I told Leannda, “I don’t want there to be anything wrong, but I need something to happen so that I don’t get chemo today.” I didn’t get chemo that day. It was a Wednesday and my appointment was on Thursday. Somewhere, the universe laughed.

That afternoon, my throat started to hurt a little bit. I didn’t think much of it since allergies and wildfire smoke were easy ways to explain it. Leannda and I went for a walk with Felix in the evening and I got stung in the leg by a bee. The irony being that I’ve been picking up fallen fruit from our apple and pear trees for *weeks* and the wasps who’ve been glutinously indulging have been kind to me. But going for a walk, minding the entirety of my whole damn business? Not allowed. Sting. Bite. Whatever. I didn’t ask it for its insurance information to know exactly its make and model. 

Thursday, *snap crackle stretch pop* Good morning, *actual* infusion day. We went to the hospital, though my sore throat was definitely more legit and my bloodwork suggested my immune system was a little too busy to add chemo to the equation. We rescheduled and I got sent home. My cold was just a cold, but I was very grateful to have not added chemo—beating up my immune system for its milk money. Somewhere, the universe nods.

The rescheduled infusion day arrived. My mood towards chemo hadn’t changed. We’d been talking to surgeons about if I was a surgical candidate since now only the right side of my liver is involved and the left is completely healthy. The payoff for 2 years of chemo. It felt like an end point might be possible. One surgeon said yes, which was the springboard to the liver specialists that would actually DO the surgery. Chemo and surgery need to be at least 4 weeks apart, so my oncologist suggested that we skip the infusion that day, so that if I was cleared for surgery that I’d not have to wait. Unreal. Infusion rescheduled.

Two different liver surgeons both said we're going in the right direction, but surgery would still be too risky. It’s possible, but it would be a big surgery and a difficult recovery and they didn’t feel the remaining liver would be a high enough proportion to recover well. Risk vs reward still tilts towards risk. Fair enough. I’m not a Hail Mary sort of lady, so all of my information was then sent to radiation oncology to review to see if they had any fun ideas.

Meanwhile, time for another infusion…? The day before the wrong day, then rescheduled, then rescheduled chemo day, my mom and I were on a walk and I kid you not, there I was, again minding the ENTIRETY of my WHOLE DAMN BUSINESS, and I got stung by a bee. AGAIN! I slapped it off of my hip and it’s little stinger landed in my hand. Complete carnage. I thought maybe I’d split it in half before it really stung me, but that wasn’t the case. By the evening, my hip swelled into what could only be called a third butt cheek. (I do wonder if I might be developing a bee allergy, but that’s a problem for a different day.)

The next day was infusion day, and I was looking forward to seeing what completely harmless, minor catastrophe would happen to derail this one. I first took my three butts to imaging for an MRI of my abdomen (not my butts, which was a disappointment), then went to the cancer center. Bloodwork suggested again that my immune system was occupied. This puzzled my oncologist as I was presenting completely healthy, feeling fine, and my bloodwork has pretty much always been perfect. As I rubbed my new butt, I had a hunch what was going on and figured I should make aware my accessory bedonkadonk. She was…*impressed* is probably the best word. Chemo rescheduled. 

The next day (today, hello, we’re in the present now), with very mild symptoms, I tested positive for covid. The bee sting cancelled chemo. Chemo with a touch of covid? ...I can only imagine would cause my immune system to throw in the towel all together. Somewhere, the universe winks. 

Where are we now? 

Consensus is no surgery for now. A consult with radiation oncology has given us a plan for the one small lesion in my lung and also bagel bite. Bagel bite has flown under the radar for a long time, but it’s actually the only met that actively bothers me, so…farewell little thing. Now I’m learning a lot about radiation and the many, many types. This treatment is called IMRT-whose description includes reassuring words like “precise,” “targeted,” “customized,” and my personal favorite, “linear accelerator.” 

My oncologist already did the leg work with interventional radiology who agree that I’m a candidate for Y90 for the liver lesions. Y90 takes teeny tiny radioactive beads and threads them into the blood supply of the tumors. They’re then left there to half-life away and radiate a very small area around themselves, ie, the tumor tissue. The recovery is reportedly quite easy, especially compared to an open abdominal surgery. 

Despite not having chemo for over 6 weeks now, my CT and MRI are remarkably and completely unchanged. 

If anyone is looking for a business opportunity, "0" and "5" birthday candles is where it's at.

PS I also turned 40, but that deserves it's own post.

PSS My butt has returned to normal and is no longer a trio. Thank you for your concern.