My second-line treatment of fulvestrant and palbociclib stopped working. I didn’t need the test results to find out. The truth is in my chest, in that lumpen foreign mass prodding my right lung with each inhale, prickling my mind when I lie in bed at night.
Do you have asthma? You know how, with asthma, when you breathe in it feels like everything’s full already and you can’t get more oxygen? A lung met is a little like that: an uncanny something taking up space where the air would like to be.
It’s a very weird feeling.
I think I also have a new small met in my throat which says “hello there” when I swallow. Gotta wait on the next scan to confirm that one.
I’m at the crest of the roller coaster. When I gaze around I can see for decades. But right now my hands are gripping the harness and I’m focused on the track ahead: there are corkscrews and a 360 in front of me.
When I went to Disneyland with Katie in 2017 we rode California Screamin’ for hours, heading back down to the ‘single rider’ queue again and again.
There’s no do-over this time.
I have more medication options. Not as many as I’d like. I am waiting on next steps.
I have to finish the story I’m working on. That’s priority. I have to prune everything else and focus on rest, on writing, on pulling in a paycheck to pay the bills, on the people I care about. When I have confirmed there’s less than 6 months left I can cash in my retirement fund and stop work and just focus on three out of those four. Ain’t that a double-edged sword.
I can make five years, surely? I can make five. March 2023. That’s nine more months. Wow, that feels like a big fucking ask right now.
Still, I’m asking, Universe. Give me the five.