Countdown to Surgery

Today I met with Dr. Biggers, my surgeon. He went over the game plan again and clarified other points. After an anuscope, he determined that the tumor had indeed shrunk significantly after chemoradiation. So, all the torture of treatment did result in some measure of success. Instead of the 4cm lump that was there before, he felt "puckered tissue" where the tumor had been. This news is hopeful because that means the surgical procedure will be much more manageable since the tumor has receded, and there's a chance that he can cut out the diseased section of my colon without sacrificing any part of the rectum- which would have necessitated a permanent colostomy. However, only on the day of surgery can he determine with the greatest amount of accuracy whether or not he can adequately remove the tumor site, 2cm on each side, any involved lymph nodes, and the watershed area that feeds it without losing permanent use of my normal bowel functions. If he discovers that there is not enough room, or if the cancer has spread beyond the original site, then he will do whatever is necessary to save my life and ensure that there is no recurrence of the cancer. At that point, he will also be able to "stage" my cancer to determine the extent of the tumor's penetration into the tissue wall. The section to be cut out will be sent for biopsy and testing as well. My white and red blood cell counts are within normal range now, and my CEA level has dropped from 4.3 at the start of treatment to -0.5 as of today, a vast improvement and a hopeful sign. The carcinoembryonic antigen (CEA) test measures the amount of this protein that may appear in the blood. CEA levels may be measured both before and after surgery to evaluate both the success of the treatment and the chances of recovery.

I listened intently, asked all the right questions, took copious notes, but still felt a kind of weary resignation peppered with cautious optimism that I might actually come out of this ok. I thought again of my sons and how I will be around to spend years and years with them to come. A kind of calm and warmth spread through me like an opiate. I saw myself hovering above my own body on the operating table; an observer in a dream. Or it might have been an involuntary flashback to the hazy memory of my C-section when the twins were born. Someone will be digging their hands into my guts again; cutting, removing, rearranging my innards. Of course the thought of major abdominal surgery is creating some measure of calm hysteria, but I must fight the first instinct of fear and accept that serenity and composure will benefit me most as I prepare myself psychologically, rather than physically, for my operation. It could really be possible that I will be cancer-free by year's end. As a mother, and as someone who desperately wants to live for my young sons, I let the idea take root even as I process the fact that any of this is happening at all. When hope is offered, you feel the fight rising in you again, battling the morbid thoughts that run rampant, each taking its turn for possession. I will prevail, I will survive. But if I don't, please make sure my sons know that I fought for the chance to be with them for a lifetime.