Progression
The Scan
On May 15th, I went in for a CT scan. I didn’t want to. I hated everything about the experience. But I did it. And I told myself I was doing it so that the people in my life who wanted to know more details about my health could have current information. The truth is that there was a tiny part of myself who wanted to know, too. Like a super infinitesimal, miniscule, almost microscopic part. A small enough part to ignore if I didn’t end up going through with the imaging.
When I went in for the scan, everything was fine. The staff was super sweet and supportive. I have nothing against them at all. They do their jobs the best they know how.
As I was laying there on the scanning bed, the IV stinging my arm, I felt the weight of the medical system sitting heavy on my chest. I felt agitated and out of place. As much as I tried to force my mind into a meditative and calm state so my body would show that scan how healthy it is, I couldn’t quite get there. I felt the tears trembling in my eyes, and I let them fall.
It’s not an easy experience to describe, but everything I’ve been through over the last two and a half years has brought me here. It still feels like limbo. My body is healing. And it still has cancer. I’ve come a long way. And I have such a long, long way to go.
The Results
On Thursday, May 21, I left work early to have blood work done and meet with the oncologist. The day before, I saw the CT results post to MyChart. And from what I could decipher, it didn’t look great. It didn’t look terrible, but it didn’t look great.
Enlargement of the affected lymph nodes. More than last time.
It’s been a year since my last scan.
A roller coaster year of trying to balance healing and hustling. Household bills and healthcare expenses. A year of putting myself aside while simultaneously attempting to make myself a priority.
And after last year’s scan, the oncologist expressed surprise that the lymphoma had not progressed as much as she would have expected “without treatment.”
This year, I think I heard the word “progression” 27 times in the 20 minutes she talked with us.
She was more concerned this year.
Because not only have the nodes enlarged. Progression. My platelet count came back concerningly low.
The precise concern she talked about during the appointment was bleeding. She gave us the symptoms to watch for and all the usual instructions. She ordered follow up labs for next week to make sure that the platelet number is actually accurate.
So there is a chance the number might not be as concerning as it appears to be right now.
My thought is to do whatever I can to boost my platelets before the next blood draw.
Low platelets can be common with lymphomas when the spleen or bone marrow is affected. But my spleen was normal, so I wanted to know why else my numbers might be low and what support my body might be asking for with this signal.
I couldn’t articulate much of this kind of inquiry in the moment with the oncologist. My brain needs time to process and to consider what I really want to know or do, and since the hospital keeps you waiting for an hour and a half before seeing a doctor, by the time she even came in, many of my usual cognitive resources were already pretty tapped. So I sat with the information she gave us, and I dug in more on my own when I got home. I researched. I looked at articles and lymphoma websites. I consulted my AI chatbot of choice to break down the implications.
Then I disassociated for a while and played some games on my phone, scrolled reels and took my kid to karate class. I stopped at Half Price Books for 10 minutes on my way home, and passed out, feeling discouraged.
Implications
I’m allowing myself to feel discouraged. Despair. Heavy. I’m allowing my eyes to cry.
I’m being gentle with my self.
I wrote in my journal about how dark and low I’m feeling because of the scan, this spring cold I’m still getting over, some business drama and my platelet count. I put my current blood panel results into my spreadsheet this morning and the research I had done, consulted my care team at Brookfield Health and Wellness, and I learned that I need to balance all of the detox I’m doing with better nourishment.
The low platelets indicate that my body is depleted. That’s what I felt on Tuesday when I actually took a sick day from work because my body was begging for more rest than I was allowing her. I even used the word, “depleted” when I texted my manager.
So today, I am reminding myself to go back to basics — Food. Rest. Movement. Sunlight. Creativity. Prayer. Love.
James and I are working on making meals that support my healing instead of merely filling the family’s bellies. Meal preparation on Sundays. Finding recipes with whole, nourishing, healing foods that sound appetizing to me. Plans to include the boys in cooking some of those meals this summer.
I’ve been feeling a nudge to return to creative pursuits I’ve abandoned for years. Art. Song. Poetry. And a call to retreat for deeper healing purposes. I’m opening myself to find opportunities where bodily healing, spiritual growth and art might collide.
Even though my nodes have grown. Even though my platelets are low. Even though there has been progression, I’m still committed to navigating cancer my way.
Kind vs Nice
I keep thinking about my resistance to even getting this CT scan in the first place. I think about whether it would be better not to know what I now know about the progression.
The truth is, I’m glad I have the information that I have.
I’m feeling stressed out and annoyed and frustrated that I had to go through the scan, the blood draws and the appointment at the cancer center. And if this was only about me, if I was alone in this, I probably would have ended my relationship with oncology long ago.
It would be nice not to know.
It wouldn’t be kind.
Nice would be making myself believe that all was going well. Continuing on in ignorant bliss until some random symptom showed me otherwise. Something that might be more catastrophic or critical. Nice would let me think that cancer was shrinking. That eating the occasional bag of Cheez-Its was fine.
Nice doesn’t help me heal.
Knowing — even when it sucks and causes discomfort — is kinder. Truth is kind — even if it hurts when it hits you.
With the information I have now, I can move forward with commitment and clarity. I can continue walking my chosen path with the confidence to choose based on both intuition AND information.
I tell patients at the chiropractic office where I work all the time that the body knows what it needs in order to heal. The body’s innate intelligence guides its resources. Our job is to support the body so it has the capacity do what it knows how to do. So the nervous system can adapt and get out of “fight or flight” mode, where it’s often stuck, and address the dysfunction at play.
And healing doesn’t always happen in the order that we want it to. The body addresses what it needs to address. It has its own agenda. It’s own perfect timeline.
And sometimes, things have to get worse before they can get better. The body is learning a new way, and it’s not always cool with that at first.
I trust that even though there’s been “progression” with the cancer in my body, it’s still on a healing course. I trust that there may be more in my terrain that needs cleaning and clearing before the cancer can be addressed directly. I trust my body.
And I can’t help but notice that the word “progression” has the word “progress” in it.
I can work with that.
If you’re interested in supporting my healing, you can donate through the GoFundMe below or visit saradeacon.com/support for other options.