Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about a book I used to read to Miko when she was little. It was called Zen Shorts, and it was basically a series of Zen-inspired short stories, and an easy way to introduce philosophical questions in an accessible way for her (and maybe me). The story that stands out the most is about a man who experiences a series of events, some seemingly fortunate, and some seemingly unfortunate. After each event (I don’t remember the details, but let’s say, for example, injuring his leg), someone would invariably comment on whether said event was fortunate or unfortunate, to which he would always reply, “We’ll see.” The lesson, of course, is that even something that seems horribly tragic can end up being fortunate, if you just open your eyes. You injur your leg, so you have to miss something you’ve been looking forward to. So you stay home, and someone you haven’t seen for ages drops by unexpectedly, and you reconnect. That kind of thing. I keep thinking of this lesson, trying to remember that when I look back on all of this, I might see it through a “I didn’t know at the time that this was a good thing” kind of lens. But it’s getting harder.
I was told last week by a doctor that my cancer (he actually said cancers, since there are two tumors. I have decided that he is being awfully literal, and that’s just depressing, so will continue to refer to it in the singular) is highly aggressive, and will need to be treated accordingly. However (good news!) he also said that high-grade (scale of 1-3, the higher = more aggressive) cancer tends to respond better to chemotherapy. So, while it is more dangerous, it also may be more treatable. Unfortunately, more aggressive treatment might also mean longer treatment. So it seems as if my assumption that I could squeeze all of my treatment into this summer, and go back to normal life when school started was unrealistic. I mean, admittedly, it wasn’t an evidence-based assumption. It was a wish-based assumption, maintained by avoiding any type of research that might disconfirm it. This means that when I told him I was planning on applying to internships in the Fall, he looked at me pityingly and said, “Um, no. Probably not.” Then went on and described an average treatment process that takes the better part of a year, maybe longer, because of my aggressive cancer. I guess the good news here is that I don’t have to propose my dissertation by October 15, like I would if I were applying to internships? But really, I’d rather just do the dissertation, if I had the choice. Maybe I don’t know the good news yet. And maybe, there just isn’t any for this part.
Tomorrow, I go back to Spokane for a PET/CT. This will show us where, if anywhere, the cancer has spread to in my body. So far, every bit of testing has painted an uglier picture. I would really love for the PET/CT results to be the exception, because I’m having a really hard time believing that finding out that it has spread elsewhere could ever turn out to be a good thing. So while I am normally comforted by patterns, predictability, continuitiy, I’m really hoping for an aberration here. In a big way.
The last thing that is testing my optimism is the waiting. Waiting for results, waiting for referrals, waiting for availability. I used to think I was a patient person, but the older I get, the less I think this is true. Waiting for anything is hard, but waiting to find out something that absolutely affects the rest of my life feels like torture. The soonest appointment I could get to see a medical oncologist, the doctor who will administer and manage my chemotherapy, is May 30th. Having worked in oncology, I remember giving patients that kind of turn-around time, and not giving it a lot of thought, because it truly was the best I could offer. Now, being on the other side of the desk, knowing my cancer is aggressive, May 30th seems impossibly far away, and I am filled with regret for not offering enough empathy to all of those patients in my past. But maybe, this timing will end up being a good thing. Maybe it will give her time to read the latest research, or she will have just had a refreshing vacation. Here’s hoping for the silver lining.
nopinkribbonsplease 
So first of all, you stopped me with “Miko, when she was little.” I know I have seen pictures and all, but I STILL think of Miko as a little girl…clearly I have trouble with reality and the passage of time on multiple levels. I also still think it was not that long ago that I was throwing notes to you across the classroom, and since we are both still technically in school, I think that lapse in time management is acceptable. I won’t give you sappy platitudes about silver linings, but I will tell you that a bad PET/CT scan doesn’t necessarily mean anything either! I said something like this to you already, but… Please remember:
You are not defined by any diagnosis. You are much more than some combination of letters and Latin words on a page. You are more even than the sum or your physical parts, however well they may or may not be working. You have strength and courage that has nothing to do with your backbone. You have an amazing creative mind that has nothing to do with neurology. You have a generous and compassionate spirit that can’t be seen on any scan. And remember also that HOPE is a CHOICE. Doctors don’t give it to you. And they can’t take it away from you either. Nobody can.
Well, I guess little is a relative term — I still consider her my little girl. She’s only 10, after all! But I was referring to when she was about 3 or 4. Thanks for the words about hope, Sara. I know you know what you’re talking about, and I suspect some days are easier than others. I’ll keep trying!
Wish I could give you a big hug–miss you!
Dear Lauri, I enjoyed all your blogs, particularly the last one. You have a great writing voice and are a gifted writer. You express yourself so well, both factually and emotionally. I have always prided myself on being a good writer but my work is very amaturish compared to yours. I have never learned or had the confidence, I guess, to express myself emotionally as you do. It is a gift.
I agree with Sara K comments on hope. It gives the strength to cope in a difficult time and is a promise for a better future. I have great confidence that you will survive this difficult set of circumstances. The result will be even more capacity to share and give to your family, friends and those you will work with as a profesional. You are such a caring person and this experience will only enhance that attribute.
We get this life a day at a time and that is how we need to spend it. Regretting the past or trying to predict the future are exercises in futility and nothing we can control. Mom and will look forward to your next set of news. You are constantly in our thought s as are Brian and Miko. I hope the net set of news you get from Spokane is settling and directional. Love, Dad