My oncologist gave me the best gift I could have asked for this Christmas. He released me from his care.
At almost 11 years since being diagnosed with stage-3b rectal cancer, Dr. David Chism said my annual surveillance visits are no longer necessary. The likelihood of recurrence is less than one percent, far down from the 95 percent likelihood during the first five years after diagnosis.
“Congratulations,” he said, further explaining that my primary care physician would take it from here and that I can always see him on an as-needed basis.
My CEA, the all-important Carcinoembryonic Antigen test, a blood test that measures proteins in the blood that indicate the presence of cancer, was 1.4 nanograms per milliliter of blood, down from 1.8 ng/ml last year. Normal range is anything below 2.5 ng/ml. CEA can indicate the presence of colorectal cancer at 8 ng/ml.
I got the CEA number the day after being set free from Dr. Chism’s care. All other aspects of my blood work looked great.
I walked the halls of Thompson Cancer Survival Center in a bit of a daze after Dr. Chism’s declaration. What just happened? It’s over? Is it over?
I rode the elevator down from his sixth floor office to the first floor. Passing patient registration I hoped to share the good news with Faye, the beautiful soul who meets every patient who comes into TCSC. She was with a patient.
In the hallway from registration to the parking garage, a jumble of emotions surfaced all at once.
Elation for reaching this huge milestone in my cancer journey. Concern that I would no longer have an oncologist watching over me, which was immediately allayed by knowledge that I have a new primary care physician whom I love.
As I slid behind the wheel, the tears came. I ugly cried as the entirety of my journey played like a movie in my mind. I sent my boss a note sharing the good news and then also explaining I would need more time before I came back to work. Thankfully, I have amazing support at work.
Here’s how the movie played out:
Scene 1: Dr. Sarkis Chobanian telling me I had cancer.
Scene 2: Feeling the tumor throbbing inside my ass after its presence was declared.
Scene 3, 80s montage style: The flurry of appointments, scopes and scans that led to meeting Dr. Greg Midis who mapped out the staging and treatment plan.
Scene 4: The sound Xyloda made in my head, like the continuous buzz of a bug zapper.
Scene 5: Being fitted for a mold that raised my backside to the exact place it needed to be for radiation treatment, and then moving my “junk” out of the way so it didn’t get burned during treatment.
Scene 6: Wandering into Walgreen’s to buy adult diapers because no one mentioned the anal leakage radiation would cause.
Scene 7: Dr. Midis drawing two circles on my abdomen minutes before surgery and for the first time ever raising the specter of a permanent colostomy.
Scene 8: The nurse inadvertently telling me the colostomy was permanent.
Scene 9, with ominous music: Waiting for the pathology report because Dr. Midis wasn’t sure he got all the cancer, then learning he in fact did get all the cancer.
Scene 10: Pastor Amy was on hand for the proclamation of the clear pathology report, following which there was much weeping and prayers of gratitude.
Scene 11, chemo montage: Halloween in the chemo chair. December 26 in the chemo chair, the overwhelming cumulative fatigue from chemo.
Scene 12: First time being declared No Evidence of Disease (NED) in May 2013.
Scene 13, love montage: The constant, reassuring and life-saving presence of the lovely Sarah, without whom I would have surely died.
Scene 14, social media montage a la Dear Evan Hansen without the horrible main character: The incredible love and support of family, friends and people I knew only through social media. A prayer flag flown in my name at a Buddhist monastery in the mountains of Tibet, my artist friend Steven creating a piece in honor of my love of cowbells. Cards and letters and, yes, cowbells that arrived from all over the country.
Scene 15, spinning headline montage. Because of my work in public relations, my story was told by several of my reporter friends. Lori Tucker, longtime friend and anchor at WATE-TV, letting me update my story even through to today.
Scene 16, platform building montage: Cancer advocacy, for which I was paid at the time of my diagnosis, became my avocation when I left ACS CAN and later returned as a volunteer. Plus, the Cancer Support Community of East Tennesee, Fight Colorectal Cancer, the National Coalition for Cancer Survivorship, etc.
Scene 17: The joyous/anxious walk out of Dr. Chism’s office into the waiting arms of my love who is waiting in front of the city Christmas tree before we head off together on a celebratory trip to the Great White North.
I’ve clearly watched too many Hallmark Christmas movies, as that last scene didn’t actually happen. If only, and maybe someday.
In the meantime, here’s to life!
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