Shock and worry

Michael and I headed to Hamilton on Tuesday, loaded with food and distractions to amuse us for the 10-hour day. The clinical trial portion of the day went fine. I took the Avandia and submitted my arm for the required seven blood draws (and even went back yesterday morning for the 24-hour one). I didn't feel any side effects, except for perhaps a stiff body, some tenderness in the crook of my arm and a numb bum. But those weren't from the drug.

The unexpected - and shocking - information came when I learned the results of my CT scan last Tuesday. Michael and I are still trying to process the news. My abdominal cavity now has six measurable masses (not just the one we were hoping to grow to 1 cm when we though we needed a "measurable lesion" to participate in this clinical trial). Dr. H says most of them are cystic masses, which means fluid-filled. But from what I understand, there are solid pieces in there too (by the fluid, surrounding the fluid, etc.). These cystic lesions are big. Holy crap, they're big!

They measure: 1.5 cm, 5.1 cm, 7 cm, 3 cm, 2.3 cm and 7.1 cm. This last, giant one is like a balloon-filled sac that's sitting in my upper left abdominal cavity. Because of its lining, the fluid in it can't drain, even though my pigtail is just below it. It's the lining on this 7 cm balloon that's worrisome, because it's the cancer, so it needs to go.

One of these lesions is on the surface of my liver. But when I asked if it was in the liver, the doc said no. He confirmed all the cancer is still contained in my abdominal cavity and hadn't spread anywhere - which as he put it, would be a whole different story. So that's good news.

When I learned about all these growths, I got teary. I asked Dr. H if he believed the clinical trial was still the best course of action considering the aggressive cancer activity in my abdomen. I wondered if waiting the two months to get into the trial was detrimental. I asked if I should be starting chemo right away. He believes this trial is still my best option, with chemo as a back-up plan. He said if the Regorafinib does its job in me, the fluid will dissipate and the tumours may shrink.

Once the fluid is gone, we'll have a better understanding of the solid masses present. The balloon mass may take longer to go away or may even require a needle aspiration to get rid of it, if the Regorafinib doesn't work on its outer layer.

Dr. H seemed calm and certain. I'm sure as an oncologist, he's seen it all, but Michael and I felt better after talking to him; less panicked. He even came to ambulatory care, where I was located most of the day, to show us the photos of my CT scan, point out the concerning areas and answer all my questions. He seems confident in this course of action and suggested I give it a try, and that's what I'm going to do.

In the meantime, he's given me a couple of medications to try to help me. I can't eat very much these days, and often when I eat, its painful, pressing against my abdomen and ribs. When I do manage to eat a regular-sized meal, the food seems to sit in my stomach. As a result, I threw up on Friday and Monday nights.

I've also had acid crawl up into my throat and sit there. It's an upleasant feeling and makes me feel as if I'm going to vomit. So Dr. H prescribed an antacid and a drug to get the food I do eat moving through my system more quickly. That way, it shouldn't try to come up and out instead of down through the usual systems.

Learning about all those cystic tumours in my abdomen explains why I can't eat much (my poor squished stomach), the pain, the bloating, the general unwell feelings. But the explanation has Michael and I feeling shell-shocked and worried. We hold hands a little tighter, we hug a little more often.

But I'm ready for action. I'm angry the cancer attacked me this much while I was not-so-patiently waiting. I feel it launched a sneak attack during the lull. Well forget that. It's time to bring out the guns and start blasting away. And in the carnage of what's left of the cancer, we'll be able to see just how settled in the strongholds have become. Hopefully, they'll all shrink and retreat, leaving only pathetic hulls of the blustery soldiers they're currently attempting to be.

I get the Regorafinib on Tuesday. I pray it works - and quickly - to attack those cancer cells, drain that fluid and get me back on the track to wellness; whatever that means for me now.

Thank you all for your good wishes as I start this clinical trial. Knowing you're out there, rooting me on, gives me strength as I face invasive procedures and learn bad news. Your supportive presence makes me excited to share good news and success stories.

Whatever the situation, you're there. Thank you for sharing this journey, with all its ups and downs.

Tina