We're not done

On May 24, 2010, we talked with Sandy's oncologist to learn the results of the biopsy they'd done of the lump in her neck. The lump that had made it difficult for her to swallow turned out to be a tumor in a lymph gland, and that was the easiest place to biopsy. By that point, scans had shown suspicious areas in lymph glands in various parts of her body, her adrenal gland, her lungs, and her bones. We were grateful to have an accessible area to biopsy; it was a pretty quick procedure, and I was able to sit with her and even hold her hand throughout it.

We'd known that this was probably metastatic breast cancer. 98% certain. And we knew that was a grim diagnosis. So I continued to hope against hope that it was tuberculosis, which can present in all the ways the scans showed, but which was much more treatable.

The oncologist's call came more than an hour later than scheduled; we were both jumpy and anxious as we waited. And, as everyone now knows, the biopsy was positive for breast cancer. We discussed the treatment plan, which we'd already been moving on, assuming it was cancer. And then Sandy asked a question I hadn't been expecting her to ask: "What does this mean for life expectancy?" He clearly wasn't expecting the question either, and he hesitated. Then he said, "We don't know. We only have averages." Sandy pressed him. He said, "The average is 18 months."

We'd known that metastatic breast cancer was terminal, but neither of us had expected that number. I hadn't wanted any number, really, because we were going to fight, regardless. But I knew how grim the 5-year survival rates were, and I'd purposely not shared them with Sandy.

Anticipating hair loss from chemo, Sandy asked our friend,
Tina, to take portraits of us in early June. Sandy was very
tired at the time, so she's leaning on me or lying down in
many of the photos, but we loved them. They've been a huge
source of comfort to me since she died.

We'd been in the TV room for the call, and we walked upstairs together, shaken and stunned. Sandy has always been fatalistic, and she was exhausted from all of her cancer symptoms and the emotional turmoil; she hadn't yet received any treatment, just oxycodone for her back pain. She moved directly to resignation.

I don't know what we'd said as we came upstairs, but when we'd settled in upstairs, she looked up from her computer and said, "I've had a good life. I found you." I interrupted her: "We're not done!"

We talked a little bit about all the things we needed to do. And she began crafting a LiveJournal entry to share her news, and then an email for family, as well. I had errands to run, so I left her to her tasks while I keened on the streets of our neighborhood. By the time I got home, I was calmer. We took turns that evening, only one of us freaking out at a time.

You know the rest of the story: she started treatment, which at first made things worse (radiation on her spine hit her bowels, too), but then made things radically better. We received good news for months and months on end, and cheered all the evidence of the cancer receding. Sandy had done her homework, and she'd found one woman online who had been living with metastatic triple-negative breast cancer for eight years, and that became our inspiration. If we could get to that point, we could get to a cure.

When everything changed so suddenly, I didn't have a lot of time for reflection. I stayed in the moment, both because I wanted to make sure Sandy got the best care possible and because I needed to ignore everything else for my own survival. There has been plenty of time for reflection since she died. And that evening, May 24th, has returned to me over and over again.

When I have doubts about our relationship, unable to seek a reality check in person, her reaction comes back to me. She counted finding me as proof of her having had a good life. That's powerful stuff for a griever.

But I also hear my own words, my emphatic refusal to assume the die was cast. "We're not done." I've read things about grief that claim that the journey is about severing the relationship with the deceased. I've known all along, intuitively, that that is incorrect. I embrace much more readily the texts that say the journey is about adjusting to the new reality of the relationship, and incorporating the loved one into a new future in a way that is not just about pain and regret. That's the journey I'm on. Because the cancer battle is over, but the love remains. We're not done.