Salut!

I bought a bottle of champagne several months ago while I was visiting friends in Birmingham, AL. It’s a nice rose champagne. I bought it with one intention; to open it the day my doctors tell me I am cancer free. It’s still sitting here. Unopened.

I met with my oncologist a couple of days ago. The two liver ablation procedures I had done were successful. There are no more spots on my liver. Everything looks good there. It’s the spots on my lungs that are cause for concern. The problem is, based on the latest PET/CT scan I had done, it would appear I have developed new spots. But maybe not. It may be that the previous CT scan didn’t catch them all. The other problem is they are too small to biopsy. To put it in laymen terms, they are baffled about what to do about it or what exactly they are. They are not growing or shrinking as would be expected for typical metastatic cancerous lesions. But then again, it seems there’s a high probability that’s exactly what they are. One option is to undergo another round of chemo and see how they react. Another option is to do nothing and wait to see if they present themselves in such a way that we know for sure what they are. The risk is of course that it could spread. My oncologist was very clear, however, that even if they do multiply or enlarge, the chemo treatment would do it’s job and eradicate all of it, whether it’s five spots or fifty. That’s assuming of course, they respond to the chemo. It seems they have not responded to the chemo or tumor starving drugs I was on previously. Based on whatever information she had, she determined there were certain drugs we could rule out. Which according to her is one of those double edged swords - on the one hand, it’s good to know that because it saves us from wasting time on drugs that aren’t going to work. The bad news is that it eliminates half the drugs available to me.

I can honestly say the last thing on earth I want to do is endure more chemo. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I can. I was pretty sure the last bout would kill me. And I am only now getting to the point where I feel good on a regular basis, physically speaking anyway, and not looking like I have one foot in the grave. The idea of being that sick again, and losing all the progress I have made, makes me want to sit in a corner and cry my eyes out. For days. I have chosen the let’s wait and see option. My oncologist is presenting my case at the next council meeting among other oncologists and surgeons to get their opinions, in the meantime, I am praying.

God does speak to me at times. Sunday night, knowing I had a week full of doctor appointments, I prayed and asked God for clarity and healing and as always, for help. And he answered. In the form of television, no less, starting with a marathon of Bear Grylls talking about survival in the wild, and a movie called The Martian. Good movie, by the way, if you haven’t seen it, and the entire theme of the movie is survival. Imagine that. And it all started to click. And while that might not sound like a divine message from heaven, you have to understand my mindset.

When I was first diagnosed, I could see an end in the future. I could foresee a day when all of this would be behind me, nothing but a memory. As hard as it was, I knew if I could just grit my teeth and deal with the pain, I could get through it. That thought kept me going on the really hard days, through radiation, and surgery, and chemo - through all of it. I thought one day, this would all be over. The kick in the stomach is that I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. Actually, I’m not sure that was necessarily ever the case; I just refused to believe it. My oncologist, God love her, has been dropping subtle hints for awhile now, using terms like “incurable” and phrases such as “this doesn’t change the prognosis” and “maintenance drugs”. But as we’ve already established, the mind is willfully stubborn at times. And so am I.

It’s as if I am just now grasping a new truth. That bottle may forever remain unopened. I’m not saying the cancer will eventually kill me. Granted, it’s true that it might. But I am gradually coming to a new realization, that there may very well be no “end". This is my new life. And as long as I’m living, I will have to fight for it. Which brings me to my new modus operandi: surviving. I have been in survival mode for so long now, I’m not sure I remember how to not be. And just when I start to think I may have this disease whipped, I get another dose of not-so-fast-my-dear. I met with a psychologist for the first time this past week as well. Of the hour long session, I would say I cried for about fifty minutes of it. It felt good. I’m seeing her again next week. And probably the week after if I have my way. In many ways I feel like I’m in limbo land. And in many ways I am. But I’m trying to survive another day, and hopefully for many more days after that. That’s the message I think God was sending me. It's not about beating cancer, but surviving it, every single day, for the rest of my life.  

So I have a new plan. I will be opening that bottle of champagne on January 26, 2016 on the one year anniversary of my surgery. It seems like as good a time as any. I may not have yet won the war, but I will celebrate all of the battles I can claim victory over. And there are many.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Dees Whitten
Cancer Survivor