Sucker punch.

Posted: October 8, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland.
And sometimes you are in the ring fighting your fight and the unknown sneaks up behind you and pulls your trunks down in front of the entire pay per view audience…
We went to the Doctor this morning, it was a routine scheduled check up and check in kind of deal. My blood pressure was good, I’ve lost a pound, they took some blood and my labs came back good. We met with the good Doctor, exchanged bear hugs and addressed a couple of issues. Everything was fine and it seemed like we were done.
Then the Doctor looked at a partial CAT scan from a few weeks ago…
and his tone changed…
and that is when the unknown bit us on the butt.
He is concerned that the belly bully might not be responding to the chemo.
What??? We thought it was shrinking?!
The belly bully MIGHT be putting up more of a fight than we thought.
We just don’t know.
He immediately called in for a full CAT scan.
So we waited for an hour in the waiting room, both fighting back tears.
I drunk a milkshake that tasted like drywall and I got a IV with “contrast” plugged into my chest that makes me feel like I wet my pants in a metal tube.
I just love that feeling.
Then I went into the big tube.
They took some pictures of my insides.
The results should be back tomorrow.
Hopefully we will know something.
If the tumors are the same size or bigger we go to plan B, which evidently involves words like stem cell transplant and a four week hospital stay.
We are on pins and needles and the uncertainty has sucker punched us.
We have cried some ugly tears.
A dear friend came over this afternoon and I bawled and talked in a squeaky voice that sounds like a muppet going through puberty.
She wasn’t scared or disturbed.
She’s a good friend.
In the midst of not knowing much, I have two observations:
1. X-rays of my body honestly crack me up!
It’s just funny to see my freaky little body as a shiny black and white image.
My short legs and portly torso, my junk that seems to be too close to my trunk.
All of the body parts that are supposed to be there make me giggle.
The blobblish trespassing masses don’t make me giggle.
2. My prognosis might change, my treatment might change, the doctor’s report might change.
Here is what will NOT change:
My God, His goodness, grace, power, and love for me.
The fact that the joy of the Lord is my strength.
The fact that when I don’t know much, I still know hope. Maybe that’s when I especially know hope.
These unchangeables are the anchor we cling to tonight as we wrestle with the uncertainty.
We believe the report of the Lord.

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