On July 1, 2020, in what I have to assume was a fit of optimism, Jill Vedder (wife of Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder) made a “Happy New Year!” post on Instagram. The first half of 2020 had been rough, and she wanted to re-set and reboot the year. I shared that feeling, and, while lacking in optimism, I still had some hope at that point that the year could turn around.
We all know how 2020 went.
2024 has been a tough one for our family, so, yesterday, in a desperate bid for hopefulness, if not optimism, I made my own “Happy New Year!” post on Instagram. My hopes were blown up in short order.
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For much of my life, I have had a “snakebit” feeling: every time I try to take a step forward, I get pushed back two or three steps. I first decided to train for a half-marathon about 29 years ago. After a month or two of trying to increase my mileage and fitness, I found that each run was a struggle, my legs were slow and heavy. The cause of my fatigue was born eight months later. Resume ice skating? Second (surprise) pregnancy. Find a suitable degree program? Time to move (Repeat this cycle as needed)! Learn ballet? How about a pandemic to scrap that plan?
So, last fall, when we stumbled upon a house that worked well for us, in a location we liked, with breathtaking views, we bought it. And I woke up there one morning, jumped on my treadmill, watched the sun rise over Mt. Hood, and struggled for a bit to realize that the emotion I was experiencing was happiness. Happiness stops by for a five or ten minute visit every few years, so it takes me some time to recognize it. But I was happy. For a few minutes. And then I started to worry: when was the other shoe going to drop? What curse would that moment of happiness bring?
The answer arrived a few days later in the form of a leaking roof. So we replaced the roof, I tried to count my blessings (we could pay for a new roof!), and we moved forward into 2024. I went for my mammogram on January 2nd, and the year quickly unraveled from there.
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Sitting on the sidelines watching everyone else live life is a shitty way to live, I can assure you. So I resolved to focus on positives, pushed through the birthday vacation that wasn’t; the frozen pipes; the ice storm that left me trapped, alone, in my house for five days; the illness that befell a dear friend; the random call from the hospital for a follow-up mammogram because there was an ambiguous result. I stumbled into remodeling the kitchen in my new home, a year earlier than I had planned to do so. I went back to my other home for the follow-up mammogram. I had the “You don’t have cancer!” conversation with Dr. Awkward. I cried; I sought options in other locations. I pushed forward with the kitchen remodel.
The kitchen remodel morphed into a whole-house remodel, complete with floor refinishing, somewhere around the same time that I had my first biopsy and that my friend passed away. The month of March is a haze for me and I don’t think I can reconstruct it. I decided to tempt fate and move forward with the remodel, despite the bad news from the biopsy, using the — still valid! — argument that the house project would be a welcome distraction from, you know, cancer.
April was a jumble of change and travel — so was May, I think. My schedule was changing by the hour. At one point, I took four flights in a single week, which is unheard of for me. I was taking day trips up and down the coast. We saw seven Pearl Jam concerts in May.
Staying busy was good for me. And yet: I have slept in my own bed just three nights since Easter. I happen to like both of my houses and the (identical) mattresses in each of them, but here I am in a Residence Inn. Again.
I knew I would be in this Residence Inn for about three weeks this time, for pre-surgery appointments and the two-week post-op period. And I knew that I would be back for about five weeks for radiation therapy and preparation for that. But I am also eager to move forward, past this phase of life. I’ve been eyeing fall half-marathons, despite that snakebit feeling, and I’ve been counting down the days until I can get on the elliptical and resume cardio. So I was… upset… when the nurse called me yesterday and said that the surgeon wants to see me on Wednesday.
Apparently, my margins weren’t clean. This means that there was not the desired 2mm malignancy-free border around the excised tissue. So now we have to discuss the merits of a second surgery vs. radiation (which I will need anyway). We did some research and found that the standard of care in what appears to be my situation (since we haven’t talked to the surgeon or seen the pathology report, the actual status of the margin is a little vague) is the second surgery, followed by radiation. Without surgery, the chance of recurrence is about 15%; my luck thus far has been such that, if there is a 15-20% chance of something happening, it happens. So, for now, at least, it sounds like my recovery will be delayed by, I don’t know, a month, perhaps.
That starts to really cut into the argument for doing a lumpectomy and radiation vs. mastectomy (longer recovery time, lower recurrence rate). It also affects my odds of getting to Pearl Jam’s fall concerts (a priority for me, if not for others). And it means more time in hotels.
“I’m going to die in this f—king Residence Inn, aren’t I??” I growled last night. My poor overwhelmed husband tried to assure me that that won’t happen. But I am starting to wonder why I am remodeling a house that I never get to see, and if I’ll ever live in a house again or if I’m just going to be bouncing from one Residence Inn to another until I just can’t take it anymore.
I’m sorry to say that was not the only bad news dumped on us yesterday — and I’m not even talking about the political news.