Hi Friends --
Earlier this week I had my first scans since starting Foxy back in July, the first of what I imagine will be dozens of looksies in the months ahead. I was cautioned by all kinds of smart friends (especially those who have climbed similar mountains) to know that a first scan is really meant to make sure that the chemo is essentially working, and it's even more about making sure nothing worse is in motion. So it's less about gearing up for big progress, and more about a reassurance that I'm on the right path.
So with that smart low bar advice, there are some encouraging signs to share. The big headlines:
The tumor on my liver appears to have shrunk by about 25%, which is terrific given that I've only had four Foxy rounds.
My CEA number -- the most important marker from my blood that more or less tells us if the cancer cells are still super active and finding ways to grow and spread -- has dropped from 325 to 67. I know. What on earth do these numbers mean. Welcome to my world.
We could all spend our afternoon googling CEA, but probably the best way to sort out the data here is to know that my oncologist, the ever fabulous Dr. C, really ought to spend all of her weekends in Vegas or Reno given her most excellent poker face. She's a key member of my team and deeply supportive, but she holds her cancer cards close when we chat about how I'm doing and all that comes next. With that, Dr. C sent me a message with the news about 67 with in fact two exclamation points celebrating the drop. So I think a provisional group hug is in order.
And maybe best of all, the scans didn't reveal any indication that cancer is spreading.
Lots to celebrate here. But it's also so very early on the climb -- I'm forever aware that future scans will likely show many twists and turns. But I'm deeply encouraged to know that I appear to be on the right path.
That's the good news. And here's the kicker. Dr C apparently thinks I'm a chemo over-achiever, so she indicated that she'd like me to go to as many as 12 rounds before we transition to a break, and then surgery. Holy cow. That's a lot of Foxy.
So. Rather than take this news with a sense of dread, today I'm focused on celebrating that Foxy's fighter jets are mighty powerful, and hitting their targets. And that a big part of my climb is to dig in and enable her jets to keep working, which will set me up for a better place for surgery, and a path to full recovery.
My fall now will include even more naps, a slower pace, lots of times for dear friends to be my feet and hands, and the deep confidence that this miracle drip currently by my side is absolute magic.
Thanks again to all for your lovely comments on this site, for the notes and texts that always seem to arrive at just the right time, and for keeping me so very close to your hearts. We have a long trek ahead, but I've never felt so loved or supported as I make my way up this mountain, one miraculous step at a time.
xoxo
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