Today was Trevor's first CT scan post-chemoradiation, and the first time he has been back to NMH since chemoradiation ended. He had the pleasure of downing some lovely banana flavored barium concoction, waiting for an hour, then being scanned for five minutes. We had a quick lunch together then met with the medical oncologist.
The news was great: the tumor has gotten smaller and nothing has spread. YAY doesn't even begin to describe how happy we were. Things are progressing as they should, and it looks as though surgery will be scheduled for sometime within the next four weeks. He'll have a month of recovery time post-surgery, and then he'll do a second round of chemo for about four and a half months. He won't have to go into NMH every day like he did for the first round, so that is already a big improvement. Plus, think how awesome it would be if he could keep the hospital gown and dress like an escaped mental hospital patient for Halloween! Right?
Having a better idea of when the surgery will happen has been, I think, a relief to both of us. The last month of normalcy in our lives has been fantastic, but we both know it is just a holding pattern until the next step in the plan to kick this cancer's booty. We are trying to enjoy spending time together, spending time with the kids, and doing typical family activities. In the back of our minds, though, we know it's only a matter of time before it will all come to a screeching halt yet again. It's difficult to live with the mentality that we need to get a certain amount of things done "before." First we wanted to do things before chemoradiation, and now we want to fit in as much as we can before surgery. Sometimes it feels like we're living at a far more frenetic pace than we were pre-cancer, and we really should be slowing down to enjoy the quiet, unexpected moments.
I'm trying to take the time each day to stop and be mindful of the small things that make a life a life: Trevor making me laugh until I cry in the middle of a quiet exam room, Dallas holding my hand as we snuggle at night, Lottie's enormous, beautiful blue eyes watching me as we read _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ together. These are the things that truly have meaning, and these are the things I need to learn to appreciate. If this stupid, horrible, ruthless cancer has taught me anything so far, it's that all I really need to be happy can usually be found within my reach. If that doesn't make me one damn lucky gal, I don't know what does. Well, that and a big lottery win. I could make the Mega-Millions have a great deal of meaning if given the chance.