Typos, vegetables, and spoiler alert -- how I DO NOT have cancer

I am a writer. I write. I write to make sense of the world. To make sense of my world. To make sense of what's happening to me. To those around me. I use my words. I hand write lists. I write letters and cards the old fashioned way. I write. I am a writer.

And yet, for the past few months, I've been at a loss for the words. The right words. No, really, any words. I've been at a loss of how to process something that happened to me this spring.

It was Monday, March 18th. I was just getting into the groove of being back at my desk, I was deep into what I hoped would be my last rewrite of my SEAL team drama pilot. I'd had to deal with just one health thing since I'd been back from my extended winter in Michigan helping Mom recuperate from her hip replacement: an ultrasound of my liver, gallbladder, abdomen, all that good stuff there right in the middle of my body. I was supposed to get this test back in the late fall but insurance was being difficult and my doctor wasn't hurrying them or me up so I pushed it.

And then March 18th happened. I dropped Angela at school and headed up to Alahambra. This drive takes anywhere from 25 minutes to two hours. That day it was quick and I got to my appointment early. But I had to wait. And then when I got into the exam room my doctor was a little distracted. She had to find my test results. She had to read them. And then she turned to me and said, we need to do a few more tests.

I didn't like the sound of that but I wasn't concerned. Over the past few years I've gotten used to tests. Ultrasounds, blood draws, etcetera. She said she'd order more extensive blood work and an MRI. Ooh, that's new I thought. Alright. So we ended the appointment rather quickly and I went out to wait for the orders.

I grabbed the paperwork from smiley Becky at reception who always is so sweet even when harried and I was on my way. And as I stepped into the elevator I realized something.

The blood work orders were for an ancreatic cancer test. First, the paper had the word cancer right there at the top. CANCER. Second, what was ancreatic cancer?!?!

I don't think I cried. Maybe tears sprang to my eyes. I realize this now mostly because the man standing outside the (oncologist) office smoking gave me a double take and then a really sad look. I moved on to my car.

I vowed to myself not to Google anything. But I broke that vow after getting home, after talking to Mom who was Googling as we talked, after deciding I would only Goggle 'ancreatic'. There's no such thing I quickly confirmed. It was a typo. The code of the blood test was in fact for pancreatic cancer. I shut my laptop. I vowed to myself again.

It took about seven hours to get all the way through my brain, the idea that I might, just maybe, have pancreatic cancer. I was relatively fine all afternoon. I worked a little, putzed around, and didn't know what to think. But by that evening it had sunk in. There was a bit of screaming, really loud screaming, and lots of tears. And then the reminder that I wouldn't know anything for six weeks, when my next appointment back at the hemo-oncologist's office was.

What followed was four weeks of life. Four weeks of worry. Four weeks of normalcy mixed in with periods of complete dread. Utter paralysis. I would lie in bed at night and contemplate what this meant. And I couldn't even figure that out. I couldn't wrap my brain around anything related to actually dealing with cancer. The furthest I got that first night was the idea that I might not be around to see the next season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I don't know why that particular thought stuck in my brain but it sure did. And every night I'd lie down, exhausted after a full day, after a late night reading, and I would not sleep. I could not sleep. An hour here, an hour there but rarely much more strung together. That was a new phenomenon all in itself.

And then here's a twist to it all -- I was about to have an MRI done. It was scheduled for 10 days after my initial test order. So Angela and I talked with our beloved Trace and decided the best course of action leading up to the scan was a vegetable reset to clear the abdomen for the scan. This meant that beginning the very next morning I would eat vegetables for every meal. And then once a day I would have a small portion of lean protein and one serving of fruit. No carbs. No oils. Lemon juice and some salt for seasoning. Because I NEED SALT. (In fact I did not ask Trace about the salt. I just decided.) No sugar. Nothing but water to drink. VEGETABLES. FOR EVERY MEAL.

I started on Thursday morning. After a whirlwind grocery store trip the night before I cooked myself some spinach, mushrooms, onions, and asparagus. I added some cherry tomatoes and lemon juice. It was light and lovely. I started my day. For lunch I made myself a bit of a taco salad - but just the vegetables. There wasn't much to do except chew. And chew and chew. And chop. Vegetables require so much chopping. A lot of prep. But alas, we were in this.

By Friday I decided a soup might be good. I make delicious soups. I make stews and chilis and they are what Angela and I eat for almost every lunch during the school year. I make them by the gallons and I freeze them and they smell so good and taste even better.

This soup was horrific. It was really almost so bad that I couldn't taste it. I got down maybe a cup full and it was thrown away. No soup. I ate some strawberries that day like they were the most expensive and best meal on the planet. I barely ate anything else.

Saturday morning we volunteered at the Ronald McDonald House in Pasedena. It was a lovely morning spent preparing a BBQ for the families, playing with the kids and socializing with other church members. But when lunch rolled around and I was only nibbling on raw onion slices wrapped in lettuce leaves Angela was beginning to see a problem. When a friend wanted to know why I wasn't eating we told her what was happening. And that made it more real somehow, we'd only told a tiny handful of people up to that point and I was having a harder and harder time coming to terms with the tests, the diet and the what ifs. Seeing the reality of saying this thing out loud was almost too much to bear.

I hadn't eaten much in twenty four hours. And my body sensed that something was amiss. By the time we got in the car and left the volunteer event I was crying. After the hour drive home I was sobbing. I couldn't do this. I was so deep down hungry. So physically hungry. But that wasn't all. I was scared. So it wasn't just a diet change. It was an emotional change. A potential life change. It was too much.

We called Trace. We made a new plan. And I set off to the grocery store determined to do better by this body I still had. Thoughts can go dark quickly, I realized, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to deal with some mental illnesses on such a moment-by-moment basis. Here I was a week into my newest health crisis and I was not handling things well at all.

But at the store that afternoon I got some of the newly added items Trace suggested: sweet potatoes, other potatoes, more chicken, more fruit, avocado. She explained that I could not fail the test by eating. See, in the past twenty four hours I had convinced myself that if a vegetable reset was going to help the doctors get a better picture on the MRI, a no food diet might be an even better bet. Somehow I had decided that in order to pass this test, something I realize now I couldn't do, it wasn't pass or fail, it was simply a photograph of my insides, I needed to stop eating. I was starting to realize how me, and people who suffer from eating disorders view the world, and how it affects our every thought. If I just ate less, I would be better. I wouldn't be sick. I wouldn't get sick. I would be fine. But that's not true...I also started to realize what it means to be physically very hungry. A sensation I don't think I've ever really experienced before.

And so I went home that night and I made myself a meal of red potatoes, chicken and broccoli. And I ate until I felt stuffed. And then I had some strawberries. And some blueberries. And then I felt clear-headed. I felt like a weight had been lifted even though weight had actually been added.

The next day we cooked butternut squash. We made more chicken. I snacked on fruit all day. I ate chicken. I ate avocados. I ate more potatoes. And I felt so much better. And yet -- still scared. That didn't go away with the change of diet. I stayed awake each night and read the same short passage over and over in my worn Bible.

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." - Jeremiah 29:11

This was one of my favorite verses before that Monday in March. But during those four weeks I held onto these words as if they were the only life raft I would ever receive. A future. God is giving me a future. I held on to that. I breathed that. I knew God had plans for me. Has plans for me. I knew He wouldn't let me go. And then I would feel guilt believing in that too...

I've seen so many people in my life and the lives of people I know and love believe those same words and experience very different outcomes. Who am I to believe that I deserve a future when others do not. Those middle of the night questions plagued me morning, noon, and night.

The weekend before my MRI I had to change my diet yet again. Very few vegetables. More restrictions. I ate chicken mostly. A little fruit. A lot of water. I began eating chicken and mashed sweet potato for breakfast and not hating it. It's very filling and I felt oh so grateful it wasn't spinach and asparagus with lemon juice and tomatoes.

And then, two weeks later, I spent an hour on a Monday morning getting stuck five times by four different nurses and I finally got my IV. And then I got my MRI. And then I waited two more weeks.

You know how on TV or in the movies, when a character is waiting for test results and the doctor herself calls with good news, or texts the findings or calls them in that afternoon?

That's all movie BS. That's not real. After the MRI I had to wait exactly two more weeks for my test results. And I was lucky. My appointment was scheduled for four weeks later but I called and there was a cancellation and I could move my day up.

And then that fateful Monday morning Angela and I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor. She was running behind. They didn't know if they had my MRI results. And I was on edge. I was not my patient, level-headed self. The nurse couldn't take my blood pressure because she didn't believe me when I told her there was a larger cuff somewhere in that office and I was ready to fight her. I was sleep deprived and terrified and sick to my stomach. I was sure I was going to throw up right there in the little hand washing sink if my doctor didn't come in soon. And we kept texting my parents that there still wasn't news. And then the doctor came in and she said my MRI looked good. And I remember asking her if that meant I didn't have cancer. Because I wasn't fucking around this time. I wanted to know the answer to the 'ancreatic' cancer question.

And she looked at me and smiled in her slight doctorly way and said no, I didn't have cancer.

Oh the relief that washed over me. The memories of people I've loved and lost washed over me. My life flashed before my eyes, in a good way. There were plans yet to be made. There was a future yet to be had.

And then we drove so far across the county and ate breakfast at our favorite restaurant by the ocean.

And I just kept smiling. And I just kept saying aloud, "Hey, guess what? I don't have cancer."

And I know I was bragging. I know I still am. I know that so many other people don't get to say that. I know people in my life don't get to or didn't get to say that. But for that moment, for this moment, it's my truth. And I feel it in every breath. I don't have cancer.

Just last week I was complaining about something and Angela said, hey but at least you don't have cancer and I stopped and smiled and agreed. It's a new mantra. A reminder. A weight. An experience I now carry.

I don't have cancer. I have some issues with my liver and my blood and nothing too terribly new or exciting, in medical terms. I'm managing my health. I'm working on keeping a lot more veggies in my diet. I was impressed that I could cut out some things from my diet immediately and not miss them. And I'm good with that. But that weight, that weight has stayed with me. That experience. That heaviness. That feeling of being hungry. So deep down hungry. And knowing that while I was feeling hungry I was actually craving something else.

I think back to that month, that month where I thought, maybe, where I didn't want to consider, that I might have cancer and I hold my breath. I'm still not sure how to process the whole experience. But I'm finding my way. I'm finding my words. I told a few friends in person. I thanked the people around me who hugged me and prayed for me and loved me when I didn't know how much I needed all of those things. And I am glad for everyone who kept me going that month without even knowing what I was going through. A friend told me I didn't show that anything was wrong and that's mostly because I had no idea how to show it. I couldn't show it. Because if I showed it, I shattered. And that happened a few times. Usually with Angela. Who was my rock. Who was my reminder of what reality was and what it wasn't and that we would be okay because we are always okay.

The day we got the good news, we celebrated with a friend who came way out of her way to check on us and spend some time with us. We opened an expensive bottle of champagne I'd received at the opening of The Couch and we smiled and laughed and smiled some more. We ate tacos and we marveled in mundane things like our favorite TV shows and the day's news.

And now, even a couple of months later, I still catch myself without the words to understand what happened. I think about it and can't quite believe that happened. I can see myself that first day, when I got the blood test orders and I know I stood in the hallway between the bedrooms and the bathroom in my house and I know I screamed. I screamed loudly. I screamed because I couldn't even yet cry. I was in a complete state of shock. I can see myself doing that. It runs on a loop through my brain. But I almost can't believe it was me. I can't quite comprehend that it's over. That I'm okay. Because I can still feel myself screaming. I can still feel that feeling.

It was a very long month. It was a scary month. And not just for me. I know that. And I know that is part of the weight I carry.

I made it through my first veggie cleanse and only had one major breakdown. I made it through my first MRI and only had the IV pulled out once and only lost some blood all over the machine and the floor and the sheets and my gown. I made it through my first cancer blood screening with good results.

I went back and had another blood draw this Saturday. Next Monday I'll go back to the hemo-oncologist and have my regular levels checked. I'm not so scared this time. I know that God's got me. I know my family's got me. I know my friends have got me. I know I've got me. I know that no matter what, I'll be okay. They're not eloquent words. They're not insightful words. Yet. But they're what I've got right now. They're how I'm processing right now. I'm okay, because hey, I don't have cancer.