Normal

I thought there was something wrong with me. While everyone was celebrating with high fives, tears, shouts of joy and exclamations of relief at the results of my surgery and my prognosis, my response has been cautiously happy.

I thought it was because I was so busy concentrating on physically healing from the surgery and chemotherapy treatments, I didn't have time to process it. But, my feelings haven't really changed as my physical condition improves. So I made an appointment with the social worker at the cancer clinic.

Yesterday, she assured me my response is perfectly normal. I've been presented with my own very real mortality. While everyone knows they'll die some day of something, my cancer diagnosis proclaimed I could die one day soon. Now luckily, the operation and chemo seem to be doing their jobs and my life span expectancy expands again.

She explained I still have a cloud of doubt hanging over my head - what if the treatment doesn't work and what about the very real possiblity the cancer returns? As a result, I don't feel ecstatic. I feel cautiously optimistic.

And she warned me I may always feel this way. In fact, she warned me my reactions could get worse before they improve, especially when my treatment ends. I may go through an emotional free fall period because my condition isn't monitored every three weeks. I guess I cross that bridge when I come to it.

I'm fortunate the cancer clinic provides the services of social workers for patients and their families to help deal with the emotional reaction to cancer and its treatments. It's reassuring to learn I'm normal, hear an explanation as to why I feel this way and learn what emotional reactions may happen in the future.

On a positive note, I'm healing nicely. My incision site and lymph nodes feel normal. And most importantly, my blood levels are sufficient for me to receive chemo again on Friday.

Speaking of chemotherapy, I asked if it's working and the resident gave me a great analogy. Papillary serous cells (my type of cancer cells) can be compared to a rough group of guys hanging out on your street. They look dangerous and menacing - sporting mohawks and evil looking tattoos - but when you confront them and ask them to leave, they do so willingly, without incident or trouble. They aren't the kind of cells that put up a fight, stay where they're not welcome and generally create havoc. The chemo is prompting the nasty gang of my type of cancer cells to leave the premises. Pretty cool.

I plan to enjoy the last couple of days before Friday when I once again issue the invitation for the cancer cells to vacate my body.

Tina