Spring and the Moon of Liberation
Friday gratefuls: The Trans Lunar Injection Burn. Artemis II moving toward the moon. Clinical trial. Samantha. Arjan, Vincent, Tara, Eleanor
Rene Good. Alex Pretti. Say their names.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Artemis II
Kavannah: Wonder. Malchut. Shadow
Tarot: paused
One brief shining: When my latest PET scan showed a jump in metastases. After my PSA shot up to 92. Not panic. Regret. Sadness. Resignation. A downward trough.
My oncologist, Dr. Buphati, and his team wanted me in a particular arm of the study. After randomization, I am.
I’ve had a year of gliding into scanners and back out. Having bloodwork often. I’m ready to lean into a treatment plan. Act rather than diagnose.
Samantha’s e-mail: “Good news on the study. You were selected for the group receiving Actinium + ARPI. That is the most desirable group to be in btw.”
The universe has thrown me a bone. The combination of a radioactive attack on my tumors–Actinium–and an androgen pathway receptor inhibitor–ARPI– gives me the best chance of shrinking tumors and getting.some energy back.
Good news and bad news. My clinical trial position could not be better. A high point. A place to start treatment. No matter what the trial does for my cancer, I’ll know I’ve given myself the best chance available.
When I got the PET scan and PSA results. Banged me up pretty good. My cancer was on the move. These results came in the midst of yet more trips for imaging, blood work, consultations. I was tired. Exhausted.
Not the best circumstances to absorb and frame tough information. Didn’t realize until yesterday that melancholy had been dominant. In spite of my efforts. Or, I could say, I took in difficult news and managed it well enough to avoid depression.
Cancer gives me many opportunities to practice resilience. I’m no Zen master. I don’t sit and calm myself. I do assess the context. Will my fatigue make me less able to maintain equilibrium. Yes. Less able to handle things day-to day. Yes. I watch for crankiness, low energy.
Even so. Melancholy fits like a heavy, dark cape. I become more quiet in conversation. I might jump from a 92 PSA to the cemetery. I slow down, thinking is harder. Will the trial help? I shrug.
Living with a chronic, terminal disease means making appointments, traveling from home a lot, making choices about drugs and treatments.
We know neither the day nor the hour. Not for Jesus’s return, but for our own death. I find comfort in not knowing.
Starting the trial.
Actinium drips.
I hope.