Anxiety, that tried and true thief of joy, is so often a bane for cancer patients in remission. As the holidays approach, we attempt to commit to various social plans knowing full well that at at any moment we could relapse, fall ill, or be admitted to the hospital. For our family, that anxiety is compounded by the ghosts of our Thanksgivings past.
September and October were busy this year, so there wasn't much time for worry. I reached several milestones (6 months post-transplant, first round of immunizations, attending a law school alumni luncheon where I received an award) and we celebrated two marriages. Caroline was a sweet little floral-crowned fox for Halloween, and she trick-or-treated in our neighborhood for the first time.
But when November rolled around, John and I thought about Thanksgiving with trepidation.
In November 2015, I was heavily pregnant with Caroline, and we'd been through quite a lot already during the pregnancy. C was a twin, and although we'd heard both heartbeats, we lost one twin just shy of twelve weeks. I had a scare around 19 weeks that turned out to be fine, but required a hospital visit. In October that year, our home was burglarized while we were both at work and our dogs were home. I also spent much of that fall trying anything and everything--yoga, acupuncture, a chiropractor, laying upside down on an ironing board (see spinningbabies.com)--to get my very stubborn daughter out of the breech position. Then my Grandfather passed away. The same Grandfather who got the TDAP vaccine so he could meet Caroline and not get her sick. His loss was devastating.
With so much going on, neither of us noticed subtle signs that our 9 year old westie, Bailey, was ill. When she flat out refused to eat anything on Thanksgiving, something completely out of character for her, we took her to the vet. Expecting some sort of stomach illness, we got the worst news--she had cancer. The tumor was so large that it covered almost the entire left lung. Chemo was unlikely to cure her and would extend her life by only a few months. With a new baby due in two weeks, and not wanting to see Bailey miserable, we put her down. We were crushed, again. She was my first canine "baby" and we still miss her daily.
Fast forward to fall 2016. With a nine month old, we were hitting our stride as new parents. I just made partner at my law firm. And I had enough breathing room in my schedule to finally see a doctor about that pesky, painful "bruise" on my forearm I'd had since Caroline was only a few weeks old.
I was referred to a plastic surgeon who biopsied the spot in early November. The results came back the week before Thanksgiving, and the surgeon referred me to a hematologist for "some sort of blood disorder." When he asked if I preferred to go to the Brown Cancer Center or the Norton Cancer Institute, I said -- "wait a minute, is it cancer?" To which he replied, "no, that's not what I'm saying, the hematologist should be able to tell you more." He had my diagnosis in hand at the time.
Not one to have much patience, I went to the doctor that could see me first. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving last year, I saw a local hematologist (by myself thanks to the plastic surgeon) thinking I was going to get some sort of diagnosis like anemia. John waited at home with Caroline for my return so we could head straight to Columbus for Thanksgiving with my side of the family.
When I entered the exam room, the first person I saw was a social worker. She began the conversation by discussing wig options, despite claiming she knew nothing about my diagnosis. I immediately started tearing up and asked her to leave until I saw a doctor.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, a senior physician finally entered the room and looked at my arm. When I asked if it was cancer, he patted me on the shoulder and simply said, "it's treatable, it's treatable." He then sent in a younger physician, and I demanded to know what they knew. I was given my chart with the paperwork faxed over from the plastic surgeon's office. The biopsy results read something like: Blastic Plasmacytoid Dendritic Cell Neoplasm. Rare, aggressive leukemia with extremely poor prognosis.
I was shocked and devastated. I tried to ask as many questions as possible, but the gist was that I was probably going to die because this cancer didn't respond well enough or at all to traditional chemotherapy. So the chances of making it to a bone marrow transplant--the only shot at a cure--were slim to none.
I don't know how, but I drove myself home. The worst thing I've ever had to do in my life was walk in the door and tell John. In the fourteen years I'd known him, I'd never seen him heartbroken until that moment. Somehow, he still drove us to Columbus for Thanksgiving. The weekend was anything but joyful as we slowly broke the news to a few family and friends.
Given that history, you can imagine our fears about the other shoe dropping again this year. Choosing hope over fear, we made a decision to make our Thanksgiving plans with abandon: cooking part of dinner for the Weis family Thanksgiving; visiting with friends on Friday night; and watching the OSU v. TTUN and UofL v. UK games on Saturday.
I also decided to reclaim my diagnosis day and signed up for a night before Thanksgiving floral arranging class with Forage. I wanted to create something beautiful on the same day that was so dark for our family last year.
Like all best-laid plans, however, ours went a bit awry.
On Monday, I suddenly came down with a 103 degree fever. Anything over 100.4 constitutes a medical emergency for me because of my suppressed immune system. John came home from work and we spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening in the ER. As it turned out, I had pneumonia. My pneumonia was caused by both RSV (a common virus seen in children) and streptococcus pneumoniae (the most common cause of pneumonia).
I was admitted to the hospital locally (no trip to Columbus in the ambulance this time, yay!). My docs immediately began a course of IV antibiotics and fluids. After two days, the fever was gone, and I was allowed to return home on oral antibiotics and a promise that I would stay home and rest for several days. No cooking, no meal with the extended family, no time with friends, no floral arranging class.
We adjusted our sails accordingly. John made two of the three dishes I planned to take to his parents' house for Thanksgiving. We spent most of Thanksgiving day at home as a family of three, watching the Macy's parade and calling loved ones near and far to wish them a happy day.
Thanksgiving isn't about where you are...
it's about who is with you!
That evening, John and Caroline brought home a huge plate full of all of the Thanksgiving goodies I could dream of, and topped it off with TWO slices of pumpkin pie (my favorite!).
We also got to watch our football rivalry games yesterday, with great results. My Buckeyes and his Cardinals both took the day.
I also created something beautiful by decorating this year's Christmas tree! Following my doctor's orders to rest, decorating took me over three days. But, it's finally done and we love it!
Although this year's Thanksgiving didn't turn out to be the celebration we imagined, we took the pneumonia much more in stride than other setbacks and had a great holiday weekend.
Ultimately, I got everything I really needed for Thanksgiving: time at home with John and Caroline; a Buckeye win (yes, this is a need and not a want!); and a reminder to slow down and not let expectations, stress, or anxiety ruin our time together.
Wishing you and yours a joyous holiday season!
