Moxie on the Move

Turns out she's hitting more than just my nose

Dear Friends —

The cover photo here is of my sweet girlie, Lucy, taken years ago, when I can only imagine she was standing in line at Disneyland. Someone maybe pointed out that after that ride she’d be seeing Tinkerbell, or maybe Sleeping Beauty’s castle, and that photo captured her sweet elation. All I know is that girl — in that moment — was fully alive, and brimming with joy.

Today, happily, I could relate.

Today was scan day, which is something I do now every 90 days, and I promise you it’s never not a daylong nail biter. Imagine a day where you wake up, cruise over to Stanford medical center, greet the nurses, get set up with a little contrast that pumps through you likkity split, and then move in and out of this sleek, white tube. Sometimes moving in and out this tube I imagine I’m shuttling through space to Mars, and this scanner is like a sleeping compartment, a cocoon for a journey to another planet.

But unlike a trip to Mars, the scan is relatively quick. And then the waiting for time with Dr V, dressed always in his very handsome suit, begins.

The waiting today was extra long. Over an hour in the little exam room to ponder all things big and small. The wait was worth it.

The good news headline is this: Ms Moxie is doing fine work. All the small and scattered activity in my lung is quite smaller. And there is no new activity anywhere else. Is she obliterating my nose in the meantime? Why, yes. A little collateral damage for her heroic work in my lungs seems more than worth it.

If you heard a rather dramatic exhale from Menlo Park this afternoon, that was me an my dear friend Patti (such a good sport for the extra wait time!), breathing a sigh of relief.

So what’s next? The trek continues, but it’s time now to study the map and sort out the right path. I’ve only had five rounds of Moxie and I’m tolerating it better than most, so there’s a case to make to keep going for a few more rounds. There’s also a case to ease up a bit, pause, recover, and carve out a healthy and fully vaccinated summer.

My mighty oncologists — Dr C and Dr K — will weigh in next, and so will I. Here’s something I didn’t know about cancer when this whole adventure began: some patients find themselves in this extended and deeply subjective dance with the disease. There will be seasons where I’ll need to be aggressive, and seasons for maintenance, and seasons for pausing and recovery. And it turns out I get to help design the pace. It’s equal parts thrilling, and also a tad nerve wracking.

So we’ll find our way. What I learned today is that I’ll be able to plan out a good part of my summer for all its delights. And that had me beaming like a little Lucy at Disneyland.

But the more enchanting delight of this recent Moxie chapter is the inevitable awakening that happens when moving through prolonged uncertainty, which is to say, those mysterious days before a scan. I wish that this kind of living didn’t have to exact such an exhausting price. But it is a wondrous and rare vantage point. It’s a way of seeing, of hearing, and appreciating the breathtaking whenever it appears, mainly because there’s a yearning to bear witness, in awe, while you still can.

Maybe it’s the one thing that Stage IV cancer people and preschoolers at Disneyland have in common: unbridled joy for what’s about to come next. It’s bound to be marvelous, because we’ve never been so alive.

xoxo